We woke in our cozy room in Bournemouth. A light rain fell outside,
which may have been a contributing factor to our laziness as we watched TV and
sipped tea. British hotels all have electric kettles in the room, along with a
basket of assorted teas, and sometimes even biscuits. This was part of the
vision I had entertained in Asia, crossing a room to prepare a cup of tea. It's
amazing how significant those little things can be.
In Search of My Ancestry
Now that I was leaving Britain, it was time to make a very personal trip. I've
always known that I have strong English roots. Ironically, more English blood
flows through my veins than Chris' (he's a mix of Russian Jew and Scottish).
Due to the Lane side of my family keeping accurate and detailed records, we
have a family tree which goes back to the 1630s, when my English ancestors
landed in New England and helped establish the town of Hingham outside of
Boston (my mother's side kept a family tree as well, though it doesn't go back
quite as far). My oldest ancestor is named William Lane who, according to the
family tree, hailed from Dorchester, England. So, it was time to pay Dorchester
a visit to see if I could dig up more information about this William character.
A rainbow greeted us upon arriving in Dorchester. This seemed an auspicious
sign; I felt a trove of treasure would be found at the end of that rainbow.
Indeed, Dorchester is geared for genealogy searches, mostly due to the
Dorchester Company and the Great Migration. Just to give a brief history lesson—when
Puritans came under persecution in England, certain preachers rounded up their
members with the view to set up colonies in the New World. Companies were
formed, such as the Plymouth Company and the Dorchester Company, which were
supported by landed gentry (landowners and prestigious members of the
community). There's a good chance that William Lane was on one of the first
boats over to America, under the guidance of John Winthrop. Though there's a
good chance this ancestor of mine was a Puritan twat (Greg Proops comically
pointed out in one of his acts that England was more than happy to kick these
fundamentalist weirdos out), there was also a good chance that he was of high
rank in society. After all, I've been raised with the Lane urban myth that we
are all somehow related to Ann Boleyn. Somewhere there is a royal link. I was
hoping to find that link in Dorchester.
Chris was more than happy to help me on this search. We started off at a
museum, but a helpful lady there pointed us in the direction of the History
Centre, just down the road. We hit the jackpot as far as records were
concerned. There was an archive library where we thumbed through books and
poured over microfilm. There were a lot of false starts, as Lane was a rather
popular name, and many Lanes had filtered through Dorchester on their way to
the New World. I did find a blurb in a book with the mention of a William Lane
from Dorchester, who, with his family, departed from Weymouth on the Hopewell
in 1635, to land in Massachusetts Bay.
I still searched for that royal connection. By some thorough digging, I found
that there was a Maud Lane, the daughter of Sir William Parr, a relation to
Catherine Parr (Henry the XIII's sixth and final wife). I was not able to link
Maud Lane to my ancestor, William Lane, but at least I found a royal
connection. It wasn't Ann Boleyn; it was Catherine Parr, who fared much better
than poor Ann. Ann had more notoriety, yes, but I'll settle for Catherine. But
the link isn't concrete. There were a lot of Lanes kicking around in southern
England in those days. Perhaps the most famous Lane was Sir Ralph Lane, husband
of Maud Lane (Parr). He was one of the first English explorers in America,
looking to colonize Raonoke Island in North Carolina (he didn't succeed).
Knighted by Queen Elizabeth, he held a position in Parliament for Higham
Ferrers. What's Higham Ferrers, you may ask? Why it was a small town in
Northhamptonshire. Maybe it's a stretch, but it certainly sounds familiar to
the town William Lane helped found in 1635. Higham, Hingham—see the similarity?
Ok, it is a stretch, I admit that. One may have nothing to do with the other.
But there's nothing to suggest that Ralph Lane isn't my ancestor. My
grandmother Lane used to speak about an ancestor of ours who founded a colony
in America. I'd like to believe it, even if I can't necessarily prove it. I'll
keep looking, as more information is available on the internet, and I find this
genealogy stuff so damn fascinating.
The British Seaside
We left Dorchester with a sense of accomplishment. Dorchester and the
surrounding countryside is gorgeous, especially when the sun is shining.
Between the white poofy clouds overhead, and the poofy clumps of sheep across
stretched green hills, England was looking very storybook again.
Chris had a hankering for fish n' chips. The best fish n' chips in the world,
so he said. As he's always going on about British fish n' chips being the best
on the planet (they'd better be, considering Britain doesn't have much else
going for it culinary-wise), I was looking forward to our lunch stop in Beer.
Beer—isn't that a great name for a town? Though we didn't consume any beer, we
ordered two servings of fish n' chips from a shack and sat on the beach in the
sun. British beaches aren't the best, since they mostly consist of pebbles or
cobbles. We didn't go running barefoot into the water; in fact, the wind was
quite brisk and we had to bundle up as we sat there. But it was still a perfect
moment. The fish n' chips were good, though a bit on the greasy side. I've
always found the British style (served in one huge battered fillet) is heavy.
When the breading flakes off, it comes off in one grease-laden piece. Also they
give you the tiniest of forks, like a fairy's pitchfork, to eat with. It makes
stabbing the chips (fat fries) easy, but is rather impractical for fillet of
fish. Still, with a bit of malt vinegar and a squeeze a lemon, maybe some
tarter sauce (and a side of mushy peas if you're lucky), British fish n' chips
are indeed the best, especially when consumed on a beach in the sunshine.
Our stop for the night was in Plymouth. We had booked a room at a hostel,
though we requested a private room. Located in a line of row houses by the Hoe
(yes, the Hoe), we were set for a night out. The Hoe is a seaside promenade,
elevated on a cliffside above the sea. This stretch of the city offers
fantastic views across the water, and also a bit of culture with monuments and
statues. The most famous person hailing from Plymouth is Sir Francis Drake, the
English navigator and sea captain commissioned by Queen Elizabeth to circumvent
the globe. As this was a day for ancestors, Chris proudly stood by the statue
of Drake, claiming his bloodline. Turns out his family has their own version of
the Ann Boleyn urban legend.
It wasn't a crazy night out in Plymouth (though if you stay out late enough
anywhere in Britain, a crazy night is almost always guaranteed). We revisited a
pub we had sat in on that legendary first road trip through southern England.
It's a nautical-themed pub right on the Barbican, the harbor area. The streets
in the Barbican are brick, narrow and sloping, and lined with quaint buildings
which date back to Mayflower days. This particular pub looked old enough to
entertain Pilgrims, or more likely, pirates. Old, leatherbound books adorned
the nook where we sat, the exact same spot we had sat back in 2008. We had
fallen in love back then with our flirting and conversation. This time, perhaps
there was less flirtation, but the conversation was flowing, despite having
spent the last six months together. It felt good to be back in Britain, for
both of us.
The next day we continued along the coast, heading to Cornwall. Cornwall is
like the Maine of England: farmers and fisherman, and the wild, wild sea. And
sheep. Lots of sheep. Cornwall can be considered its own country, as its
distinctly different from the rest of England. Though it's technically a
peninsula, with the Tamar River dividing most of Cornwall and neighboring
Devon, it can feel more like an island with its isolation. Culturally, Cornwall
has more in common with Wales than it does with London. This is because with
the Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Norman invasions, the Celts got pushed to the fringes
of the island. Like clans in Scotland, they have their own tartan (yellow with
black). They also have their own language (though not really in use), and more
importantly, the Cornish are the creators of the Cornish pasty.
We were dying for a pasty by the time we got to Marizion. This was a new place
for both of us. Even though Chris grew up in Liskeard, a mere 9 miles from the
coast, he had never been to the tip of his home county. The attraction in
Marizion is St. Michael's Mount, the counterpart to the more famous Mont
Saint-Michel across the English Channel in France. Though smaller, it's located
on a tidal island with a causeway. Having been to Mont Saint-Michel (one of the
wonders of the world, in my opinion), we were delighted to find the similarities.
We ate our pasties on the beach (the weather was on our side once again) and
jumped across the channels of water. We didn't bother to walk to the actual
Mount (which is a castle and a chapel, unlike the walled city of Mont
Saint-Michel); it was impressive enough from a distance.
Our next stop was Land's End, on the tippy tip of Britain. This is great place
to watch surf pounding cliffs and stare out across the giant blue stretch of
water, envisioning the Statue of Liberty thousands of miles away (though I
think we were looking more towards Spain). Land's End is popular for hikers
looking to walk England end-to-end, the other "end" being in John
O'Groats, Scotland. Chris and I have both entertained the idea of doing this
walk. It's approximately 1,200 miles in length and takes about 3 months to
complete. The tiny museum at Land's End features the profiles from some of these
hikers. There was the guy who ran it in 9 days, 2 hours and 2 minutes, the
world record. My favorite was the guy who hiked it naked (quite a feat
considering British weather). Looking at the photos and the smiles on their
faces, you think that it's a walk in the park. Britain is flat, right? Wrong. Dead
wrong. Britain has hills, which are really ancient mountain chains. Chris and I
attempted part of the Pennine Way back in the summer of 2009, and we found out
just how tough these "hills" can be (that was the trail we had to
abort when I sprained my ankle). You never know, maybe someday we will tackle
that end-to-end walk, but only when Britain undergoes a drought. (Hiking in
rain day-in and day-out, to me, is a form of torture.)
The sun was on our side. It's to be noted that Cornwall boasts the best weather
in all of Britain. If Chris and I decide to retire in the UK, we're retiring in
Cornwall (there are even palm trees!) St. Ives, our next stop, was drenched in
sunshine. Neither of us had been to St. Ives before. Perhaps we had avoided it
in the past because of the crowds. It seemed that the whole population of
Cornwall had gathered at this seaside artist enclave. But then again, Brits
sure do appreciate the sun when it's out. They go bonkers for it. As Chris and
I enjoyed another meal of pasties, we sat on a fine-sand beach and watched
locals and tourists alike soaking in the sun. Ice cream sales catapult on sunny
days in Britain, as it's an unspoken rule that everyone must buy a 99 Flake (a
vanilla ice cream cone with a Cadbury Flake jammed in). Oh, I do love the
British for this though, even when it's 40 degrees and blustery, they'll sit
there with ice cream cones. And their tea. Yes, in Britain they bring tea to
the beach. Crazy stuff.
Our stop for the night was in Newquay, Cornwall's party town. At least I was
led to believe it's a party town. I've never seen it for myself. It must be
some kind of myth. Chris and I hit the string of bars by the water's edge and
ate and drank with a subdued crowd. It was Saturday night and moms were out
sipping wine. Chris was a bit disappointed, as I think he wanted to relive old
times. He had gotten together with his brother earlier, driving to a midway
point between Newquay and Liskeard. I was glad that they had had a chance to
catch up. With Chris moving to the States, it was uncertain just how often he
would be seeing his family.
Everything was going so smoothly on this goodbye trip around Britain. The
travel gods were blessing us, though they were making it hard for me to be
leaving all this charm and beauty behind.
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