On April 9, my husband rolled into Hereford on the noon train. (He'd gotten the "wrinklie rate," a five-day, $400 round-trip ticket from Detroit to London. The office was Easter-closed, anyway, and it was his birthday.) After he'd cheered my flooded-out cottage renovations, we motored to Chester, not quite three hours away, just two miles from the Welsh border, along the tidal River Dee.
This ancient city of about 80,000 souls is a World Heritage site. More than 2,000 years ago, busy Romans built its (partially excavated) amphitheater (seating 8,000), pillared gardens (still there) and huge arches. Multiple medieval black-and-white timbered buildings sprang up later; restored, they're still stunning. Its ancient cathedral, with an intriguing mixture of styles, is the third most visited in Britain. But the two-mile-long stone/brick Roman wall nearly surrounding Chester is my favorite marvel.
Our arrival was marred by Dee-saster. Online I'd found an attractive-looking B&B, with a nice write-up, located close to the center of town, but the reality was shocking. The picture lied. Cement covered everything. A spindly, 15-story-high derrick dangled directly overhead; the walled parking area was girdle-tight. Bulging trash bags lined the garden wall's edges. Bad sign. We found the hidden key in the old outhouse, and climbed nervously up to our room. Horrors!
This bilious boudoir had two badly made beds crammed into an extremely narrow space. Joe quick-peeked at the bedsheets, flea-hunting. (We'd gotten a big dose, years ago, when I'd found us an awful room in Rome. I have mastered the art of booking badly.) The bathroom was the size of a canceled postage stamp. A desperately sad window looked out on — more cement. We shuddered. A look was exchanged. After stampeding out, I stopped traffic, he hastily backed out, I leaped in, and we were gone, fists punching air, shouting with relief.
That long-dead room wanted a decent burial.
Six blocks away we found The Pied Bull Pub/Inn, Chester's oldest coaching house, dating from 1144, and one block from everything. Two minutes later we'd secured its last enormous room, boasting a lovely four-poster bed, sofa, matching chairs, coffee table, armoire, generous bath, glorious window, breakfast — and cheap as dirt (off-season, ya' know). Only problem? I never wanted to leave!
Two ghosts haunt it. I questioned the very old front-desk lady. "Yes, indeed, I've seen the ruffled gentleman three times over the years, but, so far, not the parlor maid. Muriel has, though …" Looking thoughtful, she stared into space for a bit. Then, "He never speaks, just looks out yon window … He's no trouble …"
The fish-and-chips supper was yummy, but breakfast died on the vine from a crime: Instant coffee was served! The next morning we found a little shop a block away, with lace tablecloths and lovely cups, and savored the brewed beans. Ahhh! A full English breakfast, with unbuttered toast-in-a-rack-so-it-can-get-cold-quicker, were cheerfully downed.
In Britain, if you order coffee, you'll get one cup. Might be instant. Might not. (Ask, if you care.) Infrequently, at bigger hotel chains, a steaming carafe is set before you, but ordinary eateries offer ONE pour. So I order "Americano" (which is presented in a baseball-sized cup), and make it last. I love England, but this is a moan for me.
Fortified, we circumnavigated the Roman wall, peering down at the splendid, grandstanded racehorse-course and narrow, gaily painted houseboats navigating the Dee's hand-cranked locks. The light-flooded, panoramic Turner-landscape could never get old.
Chester's town crier shouts interesting news to delighted explorers and happy shoppers: touches like this guarantee many happy returns!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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