A TRIP TO SALISBURY

March of 2000. I had just turned 21 and was now sitting on a bus from London to Salisbury.

It wasn’t my first time out of the United States, but this… this was something special.

Three friends from the States, getting a chance to see England and visit their friend that was going to school there. Felt like a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Still does.

I watched the exquisite green of grass streak by, backdropped by the gray, overcast skies. I looked at the cars and a few military vehicles and chuckled as I rubbed at the knot just above my forehead.

All three of us had similar injuries from the ceiling of our bed and breakfast.

Our room was in the tiny attic with an exceptionally low ceiling at the top of very narrow stairs.

I was the shortest of the three at six feet tall, which made for a lot of ducking to get around the room, not the least awkward was the shower. Having to hunch over while the weakest of dribbles of water dropped down made for long bathing time.

“What took you so long?” Two of us made fun of the third who was the first to have the experience.

“Oh. You’ll see,” he replied.

As I basically crouched in the tub while water faintly blessed me with its presence like a ghost I nodded and said “oh.”

But the knots.

The window in our room that looked out over London was nested in a cut away, one person space that one had to duck to get into. There was enough clearance to stand straight, thankfully, making it much easier to enjoy the view.

Perhaps it was London’s charm, or just our own buffoonery, but, without fail, every single time any one of us was done looking out the window, we would turn, forget to duck, slam our head against the ceiling, and express, quite emphatically, our personal go to expletive.

I can’t help but laugh now like I did on that bus at the absolute absurdity of it all.

I shifted in my seat, adjusted my blue Adidas hoodie, and let recent memories play through my mind.

There was, of course, the Jack the Ripper tour we had gone on where all we learned was that people think things at that time were all “tickety-boo” but things were, in fact, “not tickety-boo.” Not sure how you make a Jack the Ripper walking tour uninteresting, but our guide somehow had it down to an artform.

We left the tour about halfway through.

Wandering around by ourselves at night with some guide to haunted London in our hands was a much better experience.

Toss in what I would assume would be the usual tourist in London activities like the changing of the guard, the London Eye, the Tower of London, trying to get a picture for one of the guy’s mom of the Notting Hill door which was painted a different color to avoid the over crowding of tourists and actually getting the door right next to it, walking by Pete Townshend’s house and learning later from a cabbie that if a Porsche is parked outside that means Pete Townshend is home and there was, indeed, a Porsche parked outside the night we walked past it, being called a “Sunshine Mick” by a bobby, museums, and other historical sites.

But here we were, on a bus to Salisbury to see Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral. Something I think we had all been looking forward to on this trip.

We stepped off the bus into the cold and windy weather.

It had been unseasonably warm the first leg of our visit, something some of the locals we talked to were actually happy about, jokingly thanking us for bringing warm weather from Florida with us.

We, of course, had been looking forward to getting away from the Florida spring heat, so having a more typical English day was a treat for us, and the wind and cold and overcast sky was perfect for walking around the monument.

We circled the stones in silence, taking a few pictures, but mostly just taking it all in.

Afterward, we continued on to Salisbury Cathedral and slowly and silently walked that majestic building.

In both places there was an overwhelming sense of peace that overcame me.

Pondering it now, perhaps there was just something about that area in and of itself, and that’s why two fascinating places were constructed there.

I don’t really have an answer.

I know it seems I am brushing over the most important part of this story, but there isn’t much else to say.

There was no profound event. No revelation. No discovery of purpose or “and that’s when I realized I would go on to do _______.”

There’s no real ending either. Life goes on. We all ended up where we ended up, and that’s how it goes.

I, thankfully, located my box of old photographs to find a few for this story. I found the relevant pictures. An unrelated one of me and Amy Allen. Some others from various trips and stages of life. Some sparked good memories. Some stirred up sadness.

At least a version of me will always live there in that moment of peace.

And that will have to be enough.