17. Rural Britannia

With Gatwick airport receding in my rear view mirror….Wait a minute! Where is the rearview mirror? Oh, for Pete’s sake, I keep looking up and to my right. This is going to take some getting used to. So is shifting left-handed. So is just using a manual transmission regardless of where it’s located in the bloody car. I remind myself that the driver side stays closest to the centerline and I repeat my new mantra, “Keep on the left. Keep on the left.”

I no longer feel as though the car will careen violently out of control. Of course I’m still on the service road that leaves the rent-a-car place. I also haven’t had to deal with a car coming at me from the opposite direction yet. I should have asked my Catholic friends who the patron saint of driving on the left is. I’m guessing that St. Christopher handles those duties but it would be nice to know if there is someone else that more specifically looks after drivers in England. Now that I think about it; probably not. Maybe in Ireland….

Okay, let’s have a quick glance at these directions –

1. Slightly left onto Ring Road North. Check.
2. Enter roundabout - Take 1st exit onto M23. (Oh God. A roundabout to the left…) Got it.
3. Straight on the M23 for 1.3 miles.

And so it went for the rest of the first seven key instructions. Unfortunately there were twenty-four such steps on my map and by the time I got to….

Slightly left onto Old Hollow – 1.1 miles

….I was wonderfully, hopelessly lost. The wheels had come off: figuratively speaking.

Now don’t get me wrong. England is a beautiful, warm and welcoming country. It has a rich and glorious history full of tradition and pageantry, myth and majesty. What it does not have is one discernable street sign. I suppose that if you live on an island – albeit a really big island – you probably assume that everyone knows where they’re going. But seriously; it’s been 66 years since the last threat of invasion. Don’t you think you could put back all the street signs that the Home Guard took down when the Nazis were knocking at your door? Just a thought.

I’ve been driving up and down this one particular road for some time now without a literal sign of where to go next. Up ahead a see a parking lot for something called the World of Water. It’s the third time that I’ve passed it so that’s the charm. I pull in and park. I thought that maybe this was a local tourist destination, like Rock City or Chico’s Monkey Farm. There were more than several cars in the parking lot. More, I thought, than would be here on a Sunday afternoon.

As it turns out, is a garden centre for all things aquatic. Fountains, Koi ponds, aquariums, the works. If it’s wet, you’ll find it here. What would possess anyone to venture out in 3º C weather to their local World of Water is beyond me , but thankfully enough people do that the store felt compelled to be open for business.

Like that enduring Southern icon, Blanche DuBois, I have come to depend on the kindness of strangers. During my first foray upon European soil, two years ago, I often found myself (after getting lost) having to approach the locals by saying in their respective language, “I’m sorry I don’t speak (German, French, Czech…”). Obviously I couldn’t sail that tack here. Instead I approach one of the blue-aproned employees.

“Excuse me. I have a stupid American tourist question.”

“Yes sir?”

“Where am I?”
I explained my dilemma and showed him my handwritten directions. “I think I’m here…” I said, pointing to #8 on the page “…But how I got here is completely accidental.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got there.” Said the clerk confidently as he took the paper from my hand and pressed it flat on the counter.

“I’m coming from Gatwick if that’s of any help.”

He ran his fingers down the first seven steps of my map.

“Well, you’re here on Turners Hill Road….Hey Charlie! Do you know where Church Street is?”

Another employee walked behind the counter to see what was going on. “Where are you looking for?”

“Church Street.”

“Not sure. Let’s check the map.”

Before long, five employees were huddled behind the counter, each with his own map, as if it were a contest to see who could help me first. One of the problems I was having with Turners Hill Road was that I assumed that it ran basically east/west. Or north/south. Either way would have been helpful. Instead, it snaked through the whole of the area. It was finally decided, though by no means definitive, that if I went right, out of the parking lot I would come to Church Street. I had just come from that direction but now that I knew (or hoped) that Church Street was back that way I would be even more diligent in my search. I thanked the helpful staff and retraced my steps. Sure enough, a mile and a half up the road, there was a church on the corner and a small sign indicating Church Street. I veered onto it and continued through the little town of Turners Hill. I was now fixated on locating Selsfield Road; or B2025 as it is also designated.

I drove for miles before I realized that I shouldn’t have gone this far. I turn around - which is no small accomplishment on the narrow roads with blind curves. Trying to quickly regain my awareness of which direction other cars might be coming at me, I shoot back into the road and into the left lane. Sure enough, approaching from this angle of attack I now saw a small sign that read, Selsfield Road, painted on a brick wall, partially hidden by a bush.

What a surprise. Why didn’t I think to look behind shrubbery? Oh well, I’m on my way now. Back on track. Somehow I’ve jumped from #7, and passed through, over or around such landmarks as

Next roundabout – 1st exit – Copthone
Next roundabout – 4th exit – Copthone Road

There was also this great one…

Slightly left onto Old Hollow

It’s almost impossible to comprehend that less than 24 hours ago I was still in the Canary Islands and now I was sailing serenely down this lonely country lane. It hit me at that moment just how at peace I was. No angst. No fear. No sorrow. Sure, I had spent an hour trying to get back on course but there are worse things in life than being lost in the beautiful, wintry landscape of rural Britannia. I had been so pre-occupied and anxious about losing my way that I hadn’t given a recent thought to the fact that I was actually driving on the left side of the road. I still misplaced the rear view mirror occasionally but it didn’t surprise me anymore. There was the odd missed shift; throwing the car into second when I really wanted fourth, but aside from that I was rather having fun. I fly around the corner, sending dead leaves spinning in my wake. I hug a tight corner, shift into overdrive and before I realize it I’m humming the James Bond theme. Loudly. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a passenger-side ejector seat or at the very least a button in the gear knob that sprayed oil out the back of the car.

Another nice feature about England are all the wonderful names of the small towns and villages that I’ve skirted past. Pease Pottage, Duddlesgate, East Grinstead, Bells Yew Green, Tunbridge Wells (not to be confused with Tonbridge) and the ever popular Horney Common. It’s like being lost in a Dr. Seuss book. Speaking of literature, A.A. Milne had a vacation home in nearby Hartsfield. The area that I’m driving through was the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin played. Poohsticks bridge still exists. I had hoped to arrive early enough to visit but at the rate I’m going that doesn’t seem likely. It’s still very peaceful and soothing.

But as you know; in general, and in my case, specifically, all good things must come to an end. Reality once again reared its ugly head, as Reality is prone to do. I start to second guess myself. I’ve been on Seldfield Road for quite sometime now, waiting for…. Let’s see, uh, here it is…

14. Selsfield Road becomes Chapel Road

Only it didn’t. Or hasn’t. It’s pretty obvious to me that I’m heading in the opposite direction. Another challenging U-turn and it’s back from whence I came. Up ahead I see a roadside sign pointing to something called Sulley Farm. As I get closer it appears to be a combination farmer’s market, restaurant, working museum and petting zoo. The parking lot here is even fuller than the one at World of Water. I went into the restaurant but they were so busy, there was no one I could pin down. I wandered over to the market, housed inside a barn. It was freezing outside and little better inside. I waited my turn in the check out line behind dowdy women with baskets full of produce. When it was my turn I asked the cashier if she knew where Crowborough was. She had no idea. Even the potentially helpful folks eavesdropping on my conversation shook their heads.

As I walked back to my car I stopped a woman that was saying goodbye to a friend of hers. She looked at my directions and was equally ignorant of the specific roads that I was searching for – Chapel, The Hollow, Top Road and my personal favorite, Plaw Hatch. She did, however, know where Crowborough was.

“This is confusing.” She confirmed, handing the notes back to me.

“”That’s what I’m discovering.”

“Why didn’t you just take the A22 from the airport?”

“I didn’t know I had that option.”

She was very helpful in getting me sorted out, and although she didn’t know the specifics of the town she told me how to get to the Crowborough vicinity. I thanked her profusely for her trouble and hopped in my car with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. It was now 3:15 so I called the Doe’s to inform them of my progress; or lack thereof. Mrs. Doe said not to worry about running late as they were in for the night and for me to call again when I made it to Crowborough and they would talk me in the rest of the way. I said that I felt sure that I was close and that I’d see them in about 10 minutes.

Some how I found the A22 without the slightest incident. I never saw a hint of the Hollow or Plaw Hatch but miraculously, up ahead, like a vision of the Virgin Mary that suddenly appears on a freeway underpass in Tijuana, I see a small sign informing me that Crowborough is somewhere five miles down the road to the left. Hallelujah! I ring up Mrs. Doe with the good news. Surely I’ll be there within minutes.

Oh if life was only that simple.

About three miles down the road I come to a T-stop. There is no indication which way to go. I crane my neck to see where the sun is. I realize what a stupid gesture that was. My instincts say that I should go right, and since my instincts haven’t done a thing for me lately, I head to the left. Drive. Drive. Drive. I see people that have pulled off the road and are walking in the fields. Some are flying kites. If I didn’t have somewhere to be I would probably have joined them. It looked very refreshing to be all bundled up and frolicking in the fields and the nearby woods.

Another U-turn, another call to Mrs. Doe, who by this time has insisted that I call her Betty.

“I have no idea where I am…”

“Are you driving through the forest?” She asked. I could imagine her trying to get a mental picture of where I was.

“Well, there are a lot of trees….”

“Oh dear. This has been quite an adventure for you I’m afraid.”

I’ll say.

“Hold on… there’s a sign for Crowborough ahead.” (Obviously one that the Home Guard had missed during the war) “It says, Crowborough – 3 miles.”

Just then I lost my signal. No matter. This feels right. A little further along and there up ahead a village comes into view. If it isn’t a mirage, it must be Crowborough. It is. I did it! There’s a sign proclaiming that this is the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Who knew? It doesn’t matter now as of course I’m still essentially lost as I have long since thrown my notes in the back seat; like I was punishing them or something. As I entered the township my cell signal crept back. I called Betty; afraid that by this point the Doe’s were having second thoughts about inviting such an obviously mentally deficient person to their home.

“Hello John. How are you getting on?”

“I’m in Crowborough.”

“Good for you.” She sounded genuinely happy for me. “Where are you exactly?”

I described the buildings and landmarks around me.

“That doesn’t sound familiar… Bob dear…where is the White Elk’s Pub?”

“Well, actually, I’ve past that now. I’m coming up on the Police station.”

“Oh dear. I’m afraid I don’t know where that is either. Hold on: Bob is taking out a map.”

BEEP BEEP.

I look at my phone to see that the battery indicator is in the red and blinking. Oh Lord, not now. I’ve come too far to fail now.

“Betty,” I interrupted, “I hate to cut you off but my phone battery is dying. Could you give me a landmark to shoot for?”

BEEP BEEP. Please blurt out something big and obvious, I silently implored. She thought for a moment and then offered up a couple of pubs with colorful names and another civic landmark that would be impossible to miss. If I pass the old orphanage then I had gone too far.

“Thank you. I promise I’m almost there.”

I drive through what appears to be the center of town. I head down a hill a make my way around a long, gentle curve. Before I know it I’m back out in the countryside. There’s nowhere to turn around so I keep going. Up ahead I approach another township. How in the world do these people conduct commerce with all these convoluted towns and streets. I manage to get headed back toward Crowborough. I turn left at the town centre and see a pub that has cars parked at it.

I run inside and crash headlong into an undulating wall of blue/white cigarette smoke. Hacking my way asthmatically and physically to the bar I ask the barmaid if she can help me. She knocks a heavy ash off the end of her fag and exhales a column of smoke so rich and white that you could signal the election of a pope by it. She comes out from behind the bar and takes a few steps toward the door. Pointing to the street that runs in front of the pub she indicates that the equestrian centre is at the top of the hill. Just a short distance. Can’t miss it.

“Let me get this straight.” I hoped to clarify. “That’s my car in the parking lot there. I want to drive out of that and take this road to the top of the hill and the equestrian centre will be on my right?”

“Straight up the road.” She said with a confidence that only someone that doesn’t care can possess.

“This road right here?” I pointed to the street in front of the pub and made a back and forth motion with my arm as if I was physically marking it with my pointed finger.

“You can’t miss it.” She replied as she pulled a long drag on her cigarette.

Wanna bet? I thought.

Out the door and into the parking lot where I execute perhaps the worse three-point turn of my life. The misplaced rear view mirror doesn’t help. I finally get headed straight and peel out of the parking lot, spraying a cloud of crushed rocks behind me. Up the street. On my left I see the pub that Betty mentioned. So far, so good. Let’s not get cocky. Ah ha! There’s the equestrian centre. Right turn. I catch a glimpse of a street name and it matches #23 on my list. My heart is beating out of my chest. Their street should be here somewhere. I pass what appear to be narrow alleys or private drives. Up a little further and I come to the old orphanage. Too far. One last U-turn for good measure. I creep back down the street. It… should… be… right… about…THERE IT IS! I’m finally on the last street of my map.

Betty had mentioned which driveway was theirs as (and you’ll be shocked at this revelation) there are no street numbers. The houses were nestled behind ancient hedgerows and trees. Even with the lack of foliage it was nearly impossible to see them as they were tucked back at the end of long curving, gravel driveways. I pull up in front of the house. It’s very serene. Exactly what I’d expect from a small country estate. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing. I look around. I ring the bell again. Still no answer. I turn toward the car and notice the top of a flag pole sticking up above the wall of hedges in the property next door. I’m at the wrong house. Only on RAF pilot that flew in the Battle of Britain would have a regulation flag pole.

I back down the drive of the wrong house and into the drive of the Doe’s. I parked beside another car and get out. I had hoped to arrive at 3:00. It was now 5:30 and getting toward twilight.

Betty walks out to greet me. She gives me a hug and leads me toward the kitchen door at the side of the house.

“Oh you poor dear. Let’s get you inside and get a nice double brandy in you.”

God Bless the British.