Category: Travels – Kristine

A Couple In England – Day 7

I dragged myself awake on New Year’s Day to find Hubby already awake beside me.
“We’ve missed breakfast,” he said, blowing his nose. If possible, he looked even worse today. Had I looked that bad when I was in the throes of illness? Egad . . . . .
“What time is it?” I asked.
“After ten. Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten much in the past two days.”
I took stock. “Nope. Not hungry. You?”
“No, but juice would be nice.”
I got out of bed and padded over to the desk, where we had shoved a bottle of juice into an ice bucket the night before. It was still moderately cool and so I poured a glass each for Hubby and myself. “Here,” I said, handing him his glass. “You’d better take your cold medicine, too.”
“There’s hardly any left.”
“What?” I picked up the bottle of cough and cold syrup from the nightstand and shook it. It was almost empty. “Did you have friends in last night?”
“I needed it. I was sick.”
“You’re supposed to take two tablespoons at a time, not half the bottle. We’ve still got the pills, so take those and I’ll get you some more syrup when I go out.”
“Out? Where are you going? Aren’t you still sick?”
“If we were at home I’d be in bed, moaning and calling for a doctor. But as I’m in Bath, I’m going to the Fashion Museum.”
“You’re nuts. Stay in bed.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
 
On my way out, I met the owners of Duke’s Hotel, Chris and Carol Cameron. Neither had been in the hospitality business before, but had just weeks ago purchased the hotel and moved to Bath with their two daughters. They are the epitome of good innkeepers – helpful, warm, welcoming and full of concern for myself and Hubby. Upon hearing that Hubby was now down with the cholera, both assured me that we need only to ask for anything and they would provide it, no matter what time of day or night.
 
Thus assured, I went out the door and into the sunlight. Yes, it was mildly sunny, a nice change from grey skies and pouring rain. You’ll see that I was feeling a bit better by the fact that I actually took photos. Here’s one of Great Pulteney Street.
 
 
I even took an interest in the service areas, a particular favourite of mine. The area above had its very own mailbox and a cupboard – maybe for deliveries?
 
 
 
 
Looking down the next side street, I saw the sun shining over a green field. It was such a welcome sight that I took a picture for posterity.
 
 
 

 
 
Before long, I came to this set of stairs.
 
 
 
 I’m sorry now that I didn’t take them down to the River, but at the time I simply wasn’t up to the task. I continued over the Bridge and into town, where it became obvious that nothing, and I mean nothing, would be open today, it being New Year’s Day. I had done my homework and so knew that the Fashion Museum was open, but I hadn’t counted on the rest of the City being shut up tight. I walked to Boot’s Pharmacy (closed) and finally found a sort of discount store a few shops up that sold a little bit of everything. In their pharmacy section, I found something called Bells Cough Linctus, “For relief of colds, sore throats, irritating and chesty coughs.”

I handed it across to the girl at the register. “Is this stuff any good? I asked.
She peere
d at the label. “Don’t know, but I can’t see it doing any harm.”
With that ringing endorsement, I paid for the medicine and shoved it into my bag. It was only after we returned home that I went online to investigate it’s contents further. This is what I found – do try not to laugh when you bear in mind that I fed this muck to Hubby:  Ammonium chloride (a white crystalline salt found on burning coal clumps due to condensation of coal derived gases), sodium citrate (sometimes used as an emulsifier for oils when making cheese), menthol, extract of horehound  (popular as a cough and cold remedy; used by the ancient Egyptians as well as modern health providers. As an expectorant, it will promote mucus and ease the pain of a dry, non-productive or hacking cough. Horehound treats painful, chesty, non-productive coughs, colds, croup, asthma, bronchitis, sinusitis, earaches, glandular problems and infectious diseases. Horehound is a well known lung and throat remedy), tolu tincture (The resin is still used in certain cough syrup formulas. However its main use in the modern era is in perfumes, where it is valued for its warm, mellow yet somewhat spicy scent), squill tincture (In ancient Greece, Egypt and Arabia physicians used the squill bulb as the base of an expectorant, diuretic and remedy for cough. They were also aware of the fact that extra consumption of the chemicals contained in the squill bulb was harmful and led to rigorous vomiting), extract of tussilago (commonly known as coltsfoot, coltsfoot has been used for thousands of years as an herbal remedy in ancient Chinese medicine. It was primarily used as a cough suppressant. One recipe for a cough syrup involved mixing coltsfoot with brown sugar and water and boiling until it was half the original volume. A spoonful was consumed three or four times a day for two or three days to treat colds and headaches. To relieve other respiratory ailments such as shortness of breath, asthma and bronchitis, old folk recipes called for inhaling the vapors of fresh or dried coltsfoot leaves or flowers boiled in water).
 
Oblivious to my connection to Dr. Crippen, I headed uphill to the Fashion Museum and the day went downhill from there.
 
Part Two Coming Soon!
 
 
 
 

A Couple In England – Day Six – Part Three

After our two bus tours of the City of Bath I insisted that Hubby and I visit the Roman Baths.
 
“So we’re going to see the Roman part of Bath?” Hubby asked as we walked the few yards from the Abbey to the Baths.
 
“Well, they are Roman, but they’re actually baths.”
 
“Like bath tubs?”
 
“Like huge bath tubs. They’re underground hot springs that come to the surface. Bath was a popular place for invalids and people who were sick to come to take the waters in the late 18th and 19th centuries. And, no, they didn’t actually take the waters away with them. To take the waters meant to drink them and to soak in them. They hadn’t any real medicine back then, so the only alternatives were what we would call holistic or herbal remedies.”
 
“Huh.”
 
“Originally, wheelchairs were called Bath chairs. They were invented here since the invalids needed to be able to get around the City.”
 
“And the Wellington connection is what? I know it’s coming.”
 
“There is no Wellington connection to Bath. As far as I can make out. He did go to Cheltenham Spa with Kitty and the boys when he had that ear thing,” I said, blowing my nose on some loo paper.
 
“What ear thing?”
 
“He came down with a bad fever while he was in India and it settled in his left ear. He had pain in that ear ever after and sought out various cures, none of which worked. Then, when he was in Verona, a cannon went off very close to him and the Duke suffered a temporary hearing loss in both ears. Finally, in 1822, he went to a doctor who poured hot vinegar into the left ear, which only served to make him deaf.”
 
“The doctor made Wellington deaf?”
 
I nodded. I would have said who? who? at this juncture had I been with Victoria, but as I wasn’t, I left it alone.
 

 

In we went to the Roman Baths and Museum and, once again, we each picked up an audio guide. Hubby was becoming a dab hand at using them by this point. I must say, the Baths were very atmospheric when we visited, the day being cold and dreary, they had the torches going, as you’ll see my pictures below.
 
 

 
You can see a video tour of the Baths here and another which shows even more of the museum and its antiquities here. Hubby thoroughly enjoyed the tour and seemed inordinately interested in the mechanics of the plumbing, cisterns, etc. Go figure. However, by the end of our tour, he had started to look a tad peaked himself.
 
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
 
“I hate to say it, Hon, but I think I’m getting sick.” Oh the irony – for centuries, people had come to Bath in order to get well. We, on the other hand, had apparently come to Bath in order to meet our deaths. And have I mentioned that today was New Year’s Eve? Dinner at the Cote Brasserie? Fireworks over the Abbey? Oh, the best laid plans . . . . . . for which I had waited for months. Sigh.
 
“Let’s get back to the hotel. We can walk from here.” Hubby gave me a skeptical look. “Really, we can.”
 
So home we strolled, passing by chance the take-out place Hubby had discovered the day before.
 
“Look, Hon, it’s the place where I got the chicken wraps. Let’s get some.” I really had no appetite, but it was now close to five o’clock and, honestly, it didn’t look good for our keeping our dinner reservation. And seeing as I hadn’t eaten a meal for more than twenty-four hours, I agreed to a wrap. It really was a take-out place, with nothing inside but a counter to place one’s order at and, behind it, a kitchen. When our food was ready, I grabbed a couple of Coke’s out of the cooler and added them to our order. Strictly for medicinal purposes, you’ll understand.
 
From there, it was a short stroll to Duke’s Hotel and we went in and climbed the stairs to our room. I began to understand what Hubby meant when he said it seemed as if they kept moving the Wellington Suite up a flight. Each time we arrived at a landing, I was certain it would be ours. But it wasn’t.
 
“I told you,” Hubby said, as if reading my mind. “Just when you think you’re there, you’re not.” Finally, we arrived at our room, where I found an envelope on our bed. Opening it, I saw that it was invitation from the owners of the hotel, asking us to j
oin them and our fellow guests for a New Year’s Eve drink in the lounge. Reader, I truly could have cried. Instead, I made myself a rum and Coke.
 
“Drinking?” Hubby asked as he bit into his chicken wrap.
 
I nodded. “Do you want one?”
 
“God, no. I feel awful.” Come to think of it, I still felt awful myself, but as I said earlier, the rum and Coke was strictly for medicinal purposes. And it was New Year’s Eve, after all. Besides, a little rum never hurt the Royal Navy. Hubby urged the chicken wrap on me and I took a few bites, but I had no appetite.
 
Done now with his meal, Hubby lay down on the bed. “Would you be really disappointed if we didn’t go to dinner?”
 
“Yes. Very disappointed, but to tell  you the truth, the last thing I want to do is get all dolled up or eat anything or stay up until midnight. I feel like crap.”
 
“I’m sorry, Hon. I know how much you were looking forward to tonight.”
 
“S’okay,” I said, gathering up what was left of my cold syrup, ibuprofen and tissues. “Here,” I handed everything across to Hubby. “You’d better start dosing yourself now.” I finished my drink and then made another and took it with me as I went for a long, hot soak in the bath. It really was a gorgeous bath. In Bath. In England. Then I thought about how much I’d looked forward to being in the Wellington Suite on New Year’s Eve. I just hadn’t counted on seeing quite so much of the Wellington Suite. Sigh. Have I mentioned that I could have cried?
 
 

 
By the time I returned to the bedroom, Hubby looked the worse for wear and was soon asleep. I climbed into bed and watched Miss Marple for a while before I, too, fell asleep. Sometime later, I woke to the sound of cannon fire. Had I been dreaming about Wellington going deaf at Verona? Boom! . . . . Boom! . . . .Boom! What the Hell? You’ll understand that it took me a few moments to get my wits about me and to realize that what I was hearing were fireworks. Going off over the Abbey. Without me.
 
And a Happy New Year to you, too. Sigh.
 
Part Seven Coming Soon!


 

A Couple In England – Day Six – Part Two

 

 

Hubby and I left the Skyline Tour bus and walked over to the City Tour bus, climbed aboard and settled in. Here’s a view out of the bus window – still drizzly, grey and cold, but I had half a roll of loo paper left in my shoulder bag to use as tissues so I was good to go. Well, maybe not good, but I was still alive. Had you asked me the chances of that yesterday, I’d have said slim to none.
 
Before long, the bus pulled out and headed toward the Grand Parade.

Can you see the colonnades at the bottom of the photo above? Interestingly, there’s currently a scheme to re-open them to the public and to redevelop the surrounding area. You can read more about those plans here.  We traveled down Avon Street and past the Westgate Buildings until we reached Queen Square, developed by architect John Wood the Elder. Queen Square is a key component of Wood’s vision for Bath. Named in honour of George II’s queen, and was  intended to appear like a palace with wings and a forecourt to be viewed from the south side.
 
 
 
 
 
Although outside the city walls, Queen Square quickly became a popular residence for Bath’s Georgian society. It was away from the crowded streets of medieval Bath, but only a short walk to the Abbey, Pump Room, Assembly Rooms and baths. To the north, Wood’s vision continued with Gay Street where Jane Austen lived, – and the Circus which became home to Thomas Gainesborough.
 
 
 
 
During the raids, a 500 kilograms (1,100 lb) bomb landed on the east side of the Square, resulting in houses on the south side being damaged. The Francis Hotel (above) lost 24 metres (79 ft) of its hotel frontage, and most of the buildings on the square suffered some level of schrapnel damage. Casualties on the Square were low considering the devastation, with the majority of hotel guests and staff having taken shelter in the hotel’s basement. Today, all the buildings are listed as Grade I.

Before I realized it, we were passing the Jane Austen Centre. I took the photo above out of the bus window. If you look closely, you can see the mannequin dressed in blue Regency garb at the front door. The audio tour informed us that it was the JA Centre, prompting Hubby to groan aloud.
 
“What’s wrong with you?”
 
“Jane Austen. You’re going to want to get off the bus and go and look.”
 
“No I’m not,” I told him.
 
Hubby stared at me for a few beats. “Are you sure? Come on, I’ll go with you.”
 
I shook my head. “But it’s Jane Austen,” Hubby insisted.
 
Sigh. “Thanks, but I’m really not in the mood,” I told him while blowing my nose. And hacking.
 
Hubby gave me a searching look, probably trying to figure out where exactly along the route I’d been switched for a Stepford Wife. Before long, we were passing the Assembly Rooms and Fashion Museum. The audio guide told us that the Rooms had been at the centre of society in Georgian Bath, prompting Hubby to nudge me.
 
“Assembly Rooms, Hon.”
 
I nodded. “Beau Nash,” I said. I had been anticipating returning to the Assembly Rooms, and the Fashion Museum, for months and now that I was at them, now that I could simply step off the bus and visit them, I had no enthusiasm for them at all. I was still feeling awful and it was all I could do to watch Bath roll by through the bus window.
 
 
 
On our way to the Royal Crescent, we passed Number 1 Royal Crescent, below, which is currently closed. It’s a fabulous museum that illustrates upper class life as it was in Georgian and Regency times. Each room is furnished as it would have been then and it truly gives visitors a sense of what it was like to live in a gentleman’s townhouse of the day. Currently, the museum is expanding to incorporate servants quarters, which will also be open to the public, thus allowing visitors the full, upstairs/downstairs experience. Click here to visit the museum’s webs
ite and learn the story of it’s past and future.

 

 
 
 
Next we saw the Royal Crescent itself, designed by the architect John Wood the Younger and built between 1767 and 1774. Interestingly, each original purchaser bought a length of the façade, and then employed their own architect to build a house behind the façade to their own specifications; hence what can appear to be two houses is occasionally just one.
 
 
 
 
 
Traveling down Upper Bristol Road, we passed Royal Victoria Park and the Botanical Gardens. The Park was the first to be named for Princess Victoria, who opened it in 1830, when she was eleven years old. This all took place during that misguided press tour organized by her mother, the Duchess of Kent. Supposedly, a journalist made derogatory remarks at the time she opened the Park regarding Victoria’s choice of dress, prompting her to turn her face against Bath for the rest of her long life.
 
 
 
 
On our way to our final tour stop, we passed Sally Lunn’s house at Number 4 North Parade Passage. According to legend, Sally Lunn, a French refugee, arrived in Bath in1680 and established her bakery. The original ‘Bath Bun’ baked by Sally Lunn was a light, round bread similar to traditional French festival breads. The popularity of the Bath Buns was such that they were mass-produced for the Great Exhibition of 1851 in London. You can visit the Sally Lunn website here to read more about it’s history and traditions.
 
Hubby and I exited the tour bus and I walked us towards the Abbey.

“Do you want to go inside?” I asked him.
 
“Inside what?”
 
“The Abbey.”
 
“Not particularly.”
 
“Well then, we’re going to the Baths. You can’t make your first visit to Bath and not see the Baths.”
 
“Are you sure you feel up to it, Hon?” I really didn’t, but I wasn’t going let this cold/flu/cholera defeat me or make me miss any more of the City.
 
“Yes, I’m up to it,” I told Hubby, taking his arm while thinking about the fact that we were supposed to return here tonight in order to see the fireworks over the Abbey. Please, God, I silently prayed, send me a minor miracle. Sigh.
 
 
Part Three Coming Soon!

 

A Couple In England – Day Six – Part One

 
By the time I woke up the next morning, I felt marginally better, even though the flu/cold/cholera had now settled in my chest and head. I was alone and so I laid in bed for a bit taking stock of the day. It was New Year’s Eve – the New Year’s Eve I’d been planning for ages. We had dinner reservations tonight at Cote Brasserie restaurant for 8:30, with fireworks over the Abbey afterwards. Sigh. Thank goodness I hadn’t booked the horse and carriage drive I’d been contemplating for tonight.
 
Hubby came in the door. “You missed breakfast.”
 
“Don’t care,” I told him.
 
“How do you feel?”
 
“Like crap. What’s it doing outside?”
 
“Rainy, cold and grey. Typical English weather. There’s something fishy about this hotel.”
 
I stared at him. “It’s like they keep moving the Wellington Suite,” he went on. I stared at him some more. “Every time I climb those stairs and think our room is just one more flight up, it isn’t. It’s like they add a flight of stairs whenever I leave the hotel.”
 
“They don’t move the room. You’re just old. What do you want to do today?”
 
“Are you well enough to do anything?”

That was an excellent question. Was I well enough? Had I been this ill at home, I’d have either stayed in bed all day or checked myself into a hospital. As it was, we were in Bath and I was determined to see it.
 

“Well, I’m not dead. That’s something. And if I’m not dead, I’m not losing another whole day in Bath. Let’s start with the bus tour.”
 
“They have a bus tour here? Like in London?” Hubby asked with enthusiasm.
 
On that happy note I got myself washed and dressed and we trundled down the stairs, where we met Eliza.
 
“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
 
“I’m no longer convinced that I’m going to die, so I suppose it’s an improvement.” Eliza then told us that the tour bus made a stop one block away, in front of the Holburne Museum, which I’d wanted to visit anyway. So Hubby and I headed out into the drizzle.
We arrived at the Museum and spent a few minutes looking at the exhibits before Hubby parked himself on a bench and refused to budge. “You go look around. Take your time,” he told me. So I strolled about a bit, without really taking much in. I was simply too sick to appreciate the fabulous displays properly. Do check the Museum’s link above to properly view their permanent collections.
Before long, I put Hubby out of his misery and suggested that we wait for the tour bus in the shelter in front of the Museum. You can see the bus shelter in the bottom right of the photo above. By this time, it was raining a bit harder, so we huddled together and looked out at Great Pulteney Street.

After a while, I dug into my shoulder bag, found the roll of loo paper I’d put in there before leaving the room and blew my nose.
 
“We’ve been sitting here for more than fifteen minutes, haven’t we?” Hubby asked.
 
“I think so.”
 
“Eliza said the tour bus stopped here every fifteen minutes.” We waited another fifteen minutes in the misty cold. Still no bus.
 
“The main tour bus stop is by the Abbey. We can walk there.” I said, taking my travel umbrella out of the shoulder bag. So Hubby and I trudged up Great Pulteney Street towards Laura Place.
And we arrived at Bridge Street and crossed the bridge.
No sooner had we gotten properly into town than what did we spy but a Cafe Nero. Our spirits soared as Hubby and I shouldered one another out of the way in an effort to be first in the door.
 
 
 
 
Hubby used our loyalty card to get us two free coffees and we sat at a table and gratefully drank our brews. There is a God, I thought as I blew my nose again.
“Do you want some food?” Hubby asked. “You didn’t eat anything yesterday. Aren’t you starving?”
The thought of food was repulsive. I shook my head. I finally knew how Daphne “I’ll eat when I’m dead”
Guinness feels.
“Cigarette?”
Even that didn’t sound appealing, but I accompanied Hubby into the alley at the side of Café Nero’s that leads to a quaint shopping street.  If anyone knows it’s name, let me know.

 

 
 
 
From here, I led us to the bus stop at the Abbey, where we found the errant tour bus.

Bath City Tours offer two routes, the Skyline Tour and the City Tour. We began with the Skyline tour, boarded the bus and settled into front row seats on the top.
“This is great, Hon.”
We adjusted our earphones as the bus pulled away from the kerb and headed towards Manvers Street and North Parade, a terrace of Grade I listed buildings built by John Wood the Elder circa 1741 as a summer promenade, ending with a viewpoint high above the river.
In the distance, we could see Sham Castle, a folly that appears to be the entrance gate to an impressive baronial hall, but which is nothing more than a single wall. It was built at the direction of  Ralph Allen “to charm all visitors to Bath.”
 

Then we arrived at Great Pulteney Street. “Look, Hon, there’s our hotel!” I nodded. “And the Holburne Museum.”
Before long we arrived at Cleveland Bridge and the toll house.

The bridge, the third across the River Avon and the most northerly, was built by a private company at a cost of some £10,000 for the Earl of Darlington, owner of the Bathwick estate, who was created Marquess of Cleveland in 1827. One of the finest late Georgian bridges in the Greek Revival style anywhere, the bridge opened up the Bathwick Estate to considerably more traffic, and provided a new, and more dignified approach to the City by bypassing Walcot Street.
Leaving the City, we meandered along country lanes and were treated to gorgeous views of both the countryside and the City of Bath.
We passed the American Museum and  the National Trust Landscape Gardens before we returned to the City centre, where we left the bus, hand in hand. The weather was still bleak, but we had both enjoyed the tour, which had lifted our spirits. Somewhat.
 
“Do you want to do the other tour?” Hubby asked.
 
“Sure, do you?”
 
“Yeah. I love these tours, Hon.”
 
I smiled at Hubby. “I love you. Sorry I’m sick and ruining your time in Bath.”
“You’re not ruining it! We’re having fun, aren’t we?”
 
“Yes,” I said determinedly. “We are.”
 
 
Part Two Coming Soon!

 

A Couple In England – Day Five – Part Three

Finally, and all at once, taxi’s drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It’s all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke’s Hotel – the place I had been longing to be for months.
I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I’d imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.
“Look,” I told him, “If you want me out of this cab, you’re going to have to pull me out. I haven’t got  the strength to do it myself.”
 
Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke’s Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman’s townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke’s was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.
 
“Are you not feeling well?” Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.
 
“I’m not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon.”
 
“You came on the train?” Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? “Perhaps some tea would help?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded.
 
“What kind of tea would you like?”
 
“Hot.” I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.
 
Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead.
 
“You don’t look so good, Hon. And you have a fever.”
 
I nodded, expressionless.
 
“This is a nice place, huh?”
 
I nodded again.
 
Hubby went to peer out of a window. “Looks like there’s a nice garden back here.”
 
I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me.
 
Eliza came back with the tea tray. “Shall I pour it for you?”
 
More nodding.
 
“Sugar?”
 
Nod.
 
“Milk?”
 
A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.

 
 
 
 
“Thank you.”
 
“My pleasure. We’ve all been looking forward to your stay with us. We’ve been reading and enjoying your blog.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
“I’m amazed at how much you know about British history.”
 
Nod.
 
“And the content. It’s excellent.”
 
“Thank you,” I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria’s equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn’t up to the task. Sorry, Vic.
 
“And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn’t he?”
 
Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.
 
“Let’s get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel!
 
“This is a listed building and I’m afraid there’s no lift,” Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four tre
ads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.
 
We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.
 
“Give me your bag,” Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked “Wellington.”
 
We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom.
 

The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.
After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza’s voice. “Is she gone?”
“Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It’s huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room.”
“Are there bath robes in the bathroom?” I asked. “There are supposed to be bathrobes.”
“You feel like crap and you’re worried about the amenities?”
“Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please.” Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.
“Can you cover me with them?”
“You’re under all the covers already.”
“Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please.”
I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that’s all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.

Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He’d gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!
“They didn’t have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it’s orange and mango.”
I drank some more and looked at my surroundings – huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.
“Medicine,” . . . croaked I, and passed out again.
The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.
“Where’d you find that? I croaked.
“There’s this great take-out place over that bridge up the street.”
Pulteney Bridge, I thought.
“I’ve been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London.”  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby’s personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, “Medicine.”
The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.

Day Six Coming Soon!