Flashback: England, June 2003

Six years ago, we took one of our best vacations. Unless you count a brief Canadian excursion at the end of our Alaska cruise, this was my last trip abroad.

As a rule, I subscribe to the adage about hoping for the best while expecting the worst. Though not the most original or courageous approach, it makes for few disappointments and frequent pleasant surprises.

For some reason, as I researched outings for our week in England, not only did that mindset slip away, I actually caught myself getting excited. Happily, this flagrant optimism went unpunished: The trip was even more fun than I expected, with nary a single real mishap. (Ask Dan about his fall!)

I’d never been to Devon before, but it was just as I’d pictured: a relentlessly hilly green patchwork of forest and open land dotted with sheep, horses, and cows.


After an overnight flight and a four-hour drive from London, Woolley Lodge could not have been more inviting. In the middle of nowhere, the little cottage appeared out of the mist, its garden in full bloom behind a massive wrought-iron fence. Warm light beckoned from a hallway lamp, and the key was under the mat. The place was freshly cleaned, and we were greeted by cut flowers and a tea tray set with biscuits. I thought I knew cozy, but this raised the standard to a completely new level. Quirky but charming, the lodge was a convenient base and a welcome place to come home to at night.

I thought it deliciously apt when we learned that Woolley Lodge is a remnant of a failed dream. The owner of the surrounding estate had grandiose plans to build a suspension bridge over his lake (you’d laugh if you saw it), to be approached by a stately avenue. Unfortunately, he fell in debt, died, and all that’s left of the scheme is an impressive pair of gates and the gatehouse: Woolley Lodge. It was occupied by an eccentric gardener and his Jack Russell terrier until the man died, and in the early 1970s the National Trust began renting it out to tourists. (The Trust has hundreds of unique properties, which are fun to browse through.)


We quickly learned that distances are far greater in reality than they seem on the map. Mostly this is because of the roads. I can only surmise that rural English road planners were paid by the number of hills and twists they included, with double credit for blind curves (triple if the road’s only wide enough for one car). Because this would not be challenging enough, most roads in Devon are hemmed in by steep, high banks. Covered in wildflowers, these are as beautiful as they are deadly. (The sense of confinement made it all the more striking when a break revealed a sudden panorama.) I won’t even address the dreaded “single track,” which requires pulling over whenever two cars meet, or the ubiquitous roundabout.


In the countryside, all driving is done at great speed, the theory apparently being that the less time one spends on the road, the fewer opportunities for an accident. Dan did all the driving, and it’s to his credit that I am here today to write this.


Once we’d adjusted our sense of distance, we fell into a comfortable rhythm of visiting one or two places a day, staying in Devon except for one foray into Cornwall. Most were National Trust-owned houses and gardens. (We’d bought a pass before the trip, and it paid for itself several times over.) All were beautiful, many spectacular, and they ranged from the 17th century to the 20th.


Although I’d done a lot of research beforehand, I was surprised by how much was physically accessible. (Hope for the best but expect the worst!) Each place we toured had ramps, some even an elevator—pardon me, a lift—and almost every garden had a designated route for wheelchairs. British Airways treated me like the queen that I am, whisking me past all sorts of lines. If you want to speed through an airport, get thee a wheelchair—or someone who uses one.


The trip was originally planned for last year, but we waited too long and the airfares shot up. This year things were cheaper—a silver lining on the cloud of global woes. And I’m glad we didn’t wait any longer, because you can do and see a great deal more when you can stand up and climb a few steps than when you can’t.


As refreshing as the sights was the change of mental scenery. I’ve been so disturbed lately by the Bush regime’s actions that it was good to get away, if only for a week. It was novel to watch news that wasn’t mindless cheerleading for the administration. Quite the contrary: They demanded accountability from their leaders, and no one cried treason. Imagine!


No matter how fun the vacation, it’s always nice to come home. In our absence, the Washington summer arrived with a sticky vengeance. The blow was softened, however, with a great diversion: the long-awaited delivery of Ingmar, my new Permobil power wheelchair. This Swedish-made conveyance is state of the art in comfort, flexibility, and performance. It’s even quite stylish.