My guidebook didn’t do justice to Lyme Regis on the Jurassic Coast of England, and I didn’t plan to spend enough time in this cute little town with a gorgeous pebble beach.

And then there’s the historic Cobb, the dramatic stone jetty that was featured in The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Knowles and Persuasion by Jane Austen.

Almost 400 years ago my ancestors departed from England, boarding the tiny ship Mayflower from these steps, risking death at sea and who-knows-what perils in the New World for a better life. And here I am, come back to visit their launching-off point.

What is it about remote spots that compel me to visit them? Southernmost, westernmost, northeasternmost…. I am drawn to them all. When we were in Portugal two years ago, I just knew that the southwesternmost tip of Europe would be wild and exciting. It was. The photo in the header on my homepage was taken from Cabo de São Vicente, looking up the west coast of Europe. Fantastic!

When I started researching Scotland, I read about John o’ Groats, the northernmost town on the mainland of Scotland – well, on Great Britain, for that matter. I wanted to go. I read about the cold, desolate landscape, the sparse population. Yes! A friend told us of visiting the area and staying in a friend’s castle. He said he was so cold in summer, he had to pull the rug up off the floor and wrap himself in it to stay warm at night. Yes! Yes!

But wait! There are also the Orkney Islands off of the northern coast of Scotland. And then the Shetland Islands are even farther north than the Orkneys, and they have those wild ponies. But then I read that the ferry from John o’ Groats was a bit rough after July. And a woman (hi, Shannon!) we met on Skye had just been and confirmed it. Never mind. I don’t want to see the islands that badly.

So we had the opportunity to see the southwesternmost point of England – Land’s End in Cornwall. That will have to satisfy me. There’s something about that suffix “-most”….

My friend Laura introduced us to this fantastic British comedy, Doc Martin, about a brilliant but cantankerous (a la Dr. House) London surgeon who develops a phobia for blood and has to take a job as a general practitioner in a little village in Cornwall.

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We’ve seen all six seasons, and have grown to love the quirky characters who drive the doc crazy, but we also love the picturesque village of Port Isaac (fictitious Port Wenn on the show). We found it on the Cornish coast – just as pretty as it is on camera. I thought it would be weird seeing it in real life, but it was just as if I’d been there before.

Two days before we were supposed to check in to a flat we had rented in Plymouth, I went to the listing for it to remind myself of its features and amenities. I happened to see a review that wasn’t posted at the time I reserved the flat back in April. It was a terrible review.

When traveling, or even in our own backyard, I rely heavily on reviews posted by people who have visited the places I am considering. I’ve learned to scrutinize the information; some is honest and constructive, other is petty and mean-spirited. This particular review had some very real concerns: neighbor blasting music at all hours of the day and night and – even worse – singing along, and the police showing up three times looking for two men who had been living in one of the neighboring flats. Then there was the more typical stuff about dirty flat, no cable TV, etc. But when I saw there was no coffee maker – well, that just ripped it for me.

Seriously though, sounded like a rough neighborhood – nothing I wanted to get into for a full week. I tried to get in touch with the property manager on three different phone numbers. No answer; no voice mail. We had less than 12 hours to cancel if we wanted a refund, so we bailed. Then we had less than 24 hours to find a new place to stay.

Long story short, we found this adorable cottage in Cornwall, which is really where I wanted to be anyway. It is relatively new, beautifully built and decorated, and was in the middle of the woods. Lovely!

When I was 14, my sister Nancy got me hooked on Gothic romance novels by Victoria Holt (one of a multitude of pen names for author Eleanor Hibbert). Although Holt’s books were set in various exotic locations, my favorites were set in Cornwall. The heroine would often eat
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Cornish pasties (pronounced pass-tees). I had never heard of a pasty before, but Holt took great care to describe these flavorful folded pies chockfull of meat, potatoes, and onion coming straight from the oven, typically just as our heroine was about to pass out from hunger. (She always seemed to be running from someone, usually a handsome, misunderstood man, and had to spend her last shilling to fend off starvation.) Holt’s descriptions would make my mouth water, and I longed to try one. Today I got my chance. It was delicious! The pie crust was flaky and tasty, and the steak, potatoes, and onion were seasoned to perfection.

After reading The Once and Future King by T. H. White a few months ago, I want very much to believe that King Arthur is more than a legend. White wrote the character with such finesse and such pathos that I cried in the final scene. It wasn’t even his death scene; it was the scene leading up to the battle in which he would be killed by his illegitimate son, Mordred. But his words and actions summed up everything that he was. I had witnessed him grow from the unassuming innocent, Wart, to the just but tragically human ruler of Britain. A finer man has never lived.

Or did he live? No one knows for sure. There are many tales of Arthur beginning with preliterate stories told round the fire, perhaps based on some noble warrior who distinguished himself in battle. Maybe a beloved king’s deeds were exaggerated to heroic level, or maybe stories of two people, king and hero, merged into one. But myth or reality, they were perpetuated widely, mouth to ear, for centuries until someone with the ability to read and write thought to put them down on paper.

Although carefully referring to him to as a legend, historians place Arthur in the 5th or 6th century. And whether or not he lived, the Scots, Welsh, and Cornish all claim him as one of their own. But when I heard that a highly respected 12th-century Welsh historian placed Camelot in Cornwall, I felt there might be some truth to it. There is very little the Welsh will concede to anyone, least of all the British.

So when I heard that Tintagel Castle, on the north coast of Cornwall, was thought to be the birthplace of Arthur, I had to see it. We had arrived in Cornwall the day before our visit in the driving rain, and had to bypass Exmoor National Park because of the weather. Although the next day started out overcast, I would not be daunted. I had been looking forward to Cornwall for weeks, and I was determined to get out there and see it.

By the time we arrived at Tintagel, an hour after setting out, the sky was brilliantly blue and virtually cloudless. The Cornish countryside, dotted with sheep and rolling down to the sea in great green waves, was stunning against the turquoise sea. As we climbed down into a crevice between two rocky outcroppings towards the shore, we saw the rocky ruins of the castle on a hill above us. Rocks. Another of many ruined castles. But this one felt different. Maybe it was the way it was perched above us on the hill against the unfamiliar blue-sky backdrop, or maybe it was the way in which the weather had changed so dramatically as we approached, but the place felt otherworldly to me. I could imagine a twinkle in Merlin’s all-knowing eye. Such is the power of extraordinary literature.

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I had originally decided not to spend the $20 admission fee to go to Liverpool’s most popular museum, The Beatles’ Story, but then I talked to my son who had seen it eighteen months ago. “Mom,” he said, “if I liked it as much as I did, you would love it. Their music was such a big part of your childhood.” That’s an understatement, and I had forgotten just how much their music meant to me until I entered the museum and heard the first tune.

I haven’t listened to the Beatles much in the past few decades. My husband is not a big fan, and I don’t want their music to become intolerable to him. I’m at risk for musically overdosing as well; I listened to their music so often when I was young. I remember watching them on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was only seven years old. A year later my dad bought me the Beatles fourth album while he was away on a business trip. I treasured it – my very first vinyl at eight years old.

Despite listening to the Beatles almost exclusively as I was growing up, I didn’t know much about them. For example, I didn’t realize that they were only together about eight years (the start- and end-dates are a little fuzzy). I’m sure it seemed longer because they generated so many mega-hits. They were amazing songwriters, not only the Lennon-McCartney duo but George Harrison as well. I didn’t know how they all met. I had heard something about a drummer before Ringo, but didn’t know the details. I didn’t know their long struggles to get their first recording contract, or what an impact Brian Epstein had on their lives. His death may have been the beginning of the end for their life together as a band. I never fully understood why they broke up… until I went to the museum.

I can’t look at the Abbey Road image without feeling achingly nostalgic, and I’m not the only one. A 20-something-year-old woman I used to work with used it as her screensaver. When I approached her desk one day and saw it, I exclaimed, “Oh, are you a Beatles fan?” She rolled her eyes and said, “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I don’t know their music. I just like the picture.”

The Beatles were the soundtrack to my childhood. I know most of the lyrics to most of the songs, and every song seems to be tied to some vivid memory. I left the museum close to tears, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was nostalgia and the knowledge that you can never return to such simple times when memorizing the lyrics to a favorite song was all that mattered. But mostly I was awed by their talent and feel so fortunate to have lived when they were creating some of the best music ever written.

By the way, happy birthday John Lennon. He would have been 73 today. Very weird to be in Liverpool this morning when they mentioned it on the radio.

We have been in the UK for six weeks now, and we still don’t understand why most British sinks have two separate taps: one for hot water and the other for cold. I can’t figure out how to wash my face in a sink with two taps. In no time at all the hot water is scalding, and it’s not possible to pass your hands under the tap even long enough to wash hands. To wash my face, I’ve tried cupping cold water in my hands (from the cold tap, which is just above freezing temperature) and then quickly passing my hands under the hot water just enough to heat up the cold water, but not burn my hands – all this with my eyes closed, mind you. Did you see how far apart the two taps are? I have not been overly successful.

My only guess is that one is meant to plug up the basin and fill it with a mix of hot and cold water to the desired temperature, and then scoop warm water from the basin and splash it on one’s face. Hmmm. I would only do this if I knew the sink were clean and someone had not, for example, just spit toothpaste in it. Is one expected to clean the sink before washing one’s face, or anything else for that matter?

And another thing, whilst I have your attention: Why are the taps so short? Often the water will exit the tap and run down the back wall of the sink, making it almost impossible to wet your hands without scrubbing the sink while you’re at it. Which kind of defeats the purpose of washing your hands, doesn’t it? Rinsing a toothbrush can be a real challenge.

Almost every bathroom in every B&B and flat we have rented has been remodeled in the last few years with very modern fixtures. Why then do they continue to install two taps in sinks? Why not one of those newfangled one-tap faucets that actually mixes the hot and cold for you? Sometimes I wonder if the Brits are afraid to spoil themselves.

Since I was a teenager, I have been reading about the moors in British literature. At 13, I had no idea what a moor was, but after reading many novels I was able to put together a rough image in my head. It turns out I wasn’t too far wrong. It was a misty, foggy day when we were on the North Yorkshire moors. The Brontë sisters were smiling, I’m sure.