June 8, 2022. I woke at 7am after three hours of sleep and felt miserable—my cold was worse, and my body protested every movement. We left late, at 7:30, and had to speed like maniacs to Roscoff ferry, knowing we wouldn’t arrive until 10 minutes before the ferry departure (rather than 1 hour as suggested). Anxiety levels were through the roof. Tension between Shawn and I was running high, making it a rough day for us. I found myself questioning the relationship more than once.

At the ferry, customs made us get out and check the vehicle papers because of the red license plate. They were clearly interested. They asked me questions in French, and I did my best to answer, explaining I was from the U.S. and would be leaving France on August 26, at which point I’d return the car. I made the mistake of calling the program “bizarre,” which prompted an eyebrow raise and a “What do you mean?” from the officer. I quickly backpedaled, explaining myself, and he softened up once I clarified I was just a tourist and not working. Crisis averted.

The ferry ride was awful—long, rough, and stomach-churning. Breakfast was a disaster: a stereotypically terrible British meal, barely edible. I nibbled at it and left the rest. Shawn and I fought a lot on the boat about everything from him not wanting to watch my computer to not wanting to be tied down. Needed an escape, I spent some time on deck chatting with a naturalist who specialized in whales and cetaceans. We talked about marine life in the Strait of Dover and the English Channel. Meanwhile, I did my best to avoid the clusters of French smokers. Eventually, I managed a nap, which helped somewhat.

Before I knew it, we had docked. I was nervous about driving in England, and was worried Shawn would be critical, but I managed fine. First stop: Plymouth. We visited a chapel there before heading to a couple of coastal spots on the way to Michael’s. Polperro, a historic fishing village, was charming, while Looe wasn’t as impressive and charged for parking—so I skipped it. Next was Bodmin, which had a beautiful old church and chapel ruins from the time of Thomas Becket. Wadebridge, aside from its historic bridge, didn’t have much going for it. Fun fact: the town has an ancient pigeon house built like a beehive oratory because, apparently, pigeon meat was once a delicacy.

We arrived at Michael’s around 7:00 pm. I took a sunset walk along the cliffs before settling in for a lovely duck dinner in Shawn’s honor. Michael’s dad, Tom, was delightful—kind, intelligent, and endlessly curious. We had long conversations about books, politics, Shakespeare, and travel. He had a habit of asking the same questions repeatedly, but I didn’t mind. Exhausted, I crashed by 11:00.

June 9. My alarm woke me at 7:10, but for the first time in a while, I felt well-rested. Something about being in such a beautiful place settled me. Shawn and I took a morning walk along the cliffs to the next beach—an overrun surfer spot I didn’t care for—before heading back for breakfast. Michael, as usual, was cooking, though we distracted him with talk of his time in Japan, causing him to burn the pancakes. His dad just chuckled and said a little charcoal was good for digestion.

Later, Michael suggested a walk to the ranch—a stunning peninsula with breathtaking coastal views. The weather threatened rain, but it held off long enough for us to enjoy the trek. I walked alone and took countless photos of wildflowers. Michael’s dad opted for an easier path and met us at the car.

Afterward, we went into town to pick up vegetables. Tom got sidetracked looking for a newspaper receipt before finally giving up and just buying another one. Back home, we had a solid lunch before I decided to walk to Saint Enoch Church. It was lovely but left me thoroughly soaked—shoes included. Spent the next few hours trying to dry my clothes. Later, Michael, Shawn, and I walked back to the church, where I learned that all the Cornish churches were founded by Welsh saints. I wondered if they had been missionaries who came to convert the locals. Apparently there was also an oratory near the church. The church had been buried under the sand for hundreds of years. A skylight was built so it could be blessed every year until a huge storm removed the sand in 1860 at which point people started attending again.

I had debated taking the ferry to Padstow but decided against braving the rain. Instead, I soaked up the comfort of a quiet, restful day. An unusually lazy one for me. We played Scrabble by the fire, which frustrated me—I used complex words, yet everyone else racked up points with two and three letter words that are never spoken in common parlance. The curse of the Scrabble dictionary. I came in last but consoled myself with the fact that my words were used in everyday speech and complex. Need to change the game rules.

Dinner was a fragrant lamb couscous, and Shawn and I mapped out our next stops along the Cornish coast and up into the Cotswolds, even managing to book a hotel. Before dinner, we played boule on Michael’s oddly sloped driveway, which made the trajectory of the ball impossible to predict. Like pool on a warped table. game almost impossible for me. But I was getting used to losing, so I rolled with it.

Tom and I had more great conversations—he waxed on about the writings of Shakespeare, George Eliot, and Orwell, the latter of whom he particularly admired.

June 10. I could tell that Shawn didn’t want to leave Michael’s. Neither did I for that matter. He agreed to leave after breakfast, then resisted my suggestion to be on the road by 11. He was petulant, and I finally joked that we should have a “public Friday” where he treated me as well as he did strangers. His response? “I’m just comfortable with you.” My response? “Get less comfortable.”

First stop: Port Isaac, a charming fishing village that reminded me of Polperro. With no coins for parking and Shawn’s insistence that we didn’t need them, we risked it. I threw up my handicap placard and said, “Let’s make it quick.” We rushed down to the quaint port, taking in the gorgeous seawall and stormy beauty of the town. I was enamored with the beautiful white building where shellfish was sold and the historic homes. I walked up the hill a fair bit and wanted to do the walkabout on the green path near a hotel and manor house but decided I didn’t have time.

Next was Camelford, a quaint inland town with a scenic river and impressive environmental conservation efforts. I found a quirky consignment shop, the crazy store, where the owner, a sweet but staunch conservative, gifted me a pair of flip flops. I was impressed by the plentitude of green spaces for pollinators and the like in town. Wildflowers overflowed and I had a nice hike to the park overlooking the town. All the towns I’d seen thus far in England seemed to share this value of leaving wild spaces wild.

From here we headed to Tintagel where Michael and Tom had been invited by the historic society to look at the castle. The village which was pure chaos—too crowded, no parking, and Shawn’s stubborn belief that he could pay via an app (he couldn’t). We skipped it after a quick drive-by of the stunning post office, oldest building in England, and the castle. Both looked lovely but there was nowhere to park.

We briefly stopped in Boscastle, another picturesque port town. I walked down to the port Shawn was hungry and settled for some truly awful fish and chips. I picked at the fish, ditching the soggy batter. The town had a fascinating Museum of Witchcraft, but, as always, no time to linger. I was tempted to check out a lovely café connected to a hostel down at the port. But Bristol called.

I wanted to check out Bude, but Shawn was worried that we wouldn’t have enough time in Bristol, so we drove straight there. As it was we still had two plus hours to go because of the small winding roads. I headed first to Clifton College, where Michael and had been a student and his father had been headmaster. I imagined the pranks that Michael had got up to there. Apparently his dad Tom was rather lenient and let the boys be rambunctious. I asked a cricket coach we might be able to enter, but he said reception was closed for the day. The college and surrounding neighborhood sat across a stunning suspension bridge over a deep canyon. I wandered to a viewpoint overlooking the bridge and a nearby tower.

From there we drove to downtown to Wills Memorial building, where there appeared to be some sort of black tie event. Shawn was hungry again, I found a fantastic falafel place—Eat a Pitta. Easily the best, healthiest meal of the trip so far. For 8 GBD I got enough food to last few days. I wanted to explore Cabot Tower and Brandon Hill but also wanted to see the recently re-opened river harbor. Decisions decisions. With only one hour of sunlight left, I opted for the latter. I was intrigued by some of the ships in the small harbor and checked out Corn Street where Bristol’s wealth had historically flourished, and soaked in the lively street scene—college students, tattooed artists, and a general progressive vibe. A local later told me Bristol is often compared to San Francisco. I learned that St. Nicholas Market had been a corn and general trade exchange built in 1741-43 by John Wood the Elder.  I strolled through the old town, admiring historic buildings, and caved to my gelato cravings at Swoon. The gelato was decent, but the long wait cut into my exploring time. I wanted to visit Bristol Cathedral, but it was closed. Nearby was a statue of Edmund Burke, MP of Bristol from 1774 to 1780. The pedestal is inscribed with a quote from Burke’s speech in 1780 saying that he wanted to do good and resist evil.

Finally, we drove to our hotel en route to Bath. It turned out to be a charming place with a friendly young man running everything. He even lent us a USB adapter, which was a lifesaver. After a long day, I settled in, feeling comfortable for the first time in a while. Slept like a rock.