I want to talk about time and space, but I’m not going to try and reconcile quantum theory with relativity. I’m interested, but incapable. My cousin Bill and his wife Sue are over from Canada, and we gave them a tour of Oxford and Bath. Bill’s knee was giving him some trouble, so we sat a while in the Turf Tavern.
The Turf Tavern has been serving ale and indulging various nefarious activities since 1381. If its walls had ears they would have witnessed Wat Tyler’s peasants’ revolt in the reign of Richard II. Those who have imbibed there include Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, C.S. Lewis, Tony Blair, Stephen Hawking, and Margaret Thatcher. It claims to be the place where Bill Clinton may have smoked marijuana, without inhaling.
In Bath we visited the Roman Baths and Bath Abbey. Bill found it incredible to be walking where the romans had. They have projections on the walls, showing ghostly romans going through their bathing and exercise regimes. It’s really well done and provides a glimpse into times past.
Bath Abbey is the site where the first king of all England was crowned, King Edgar in the year 973. One thousand and fifty years later we prepare for the coronation of King Charles III.
As I opened the front door the day before yesterday, to take our recycling out to the blue bin, there were two old ladies facing me. They were admiring our front garden. We started chatting, and one of them told me that she and her late husband had bought our house sixty years ago. They had raised their two sons in our house, well it was their’s then. I checked with Claire then invited them in. She enjoyed looking around, seeing what had changed and what hadn’t. It must have brought back many memories for her.
If only walls had ears. We’re thinking of revisiting Edinburgh later this year. I must return to Holyrood Palace and ask the walls about the time Sir Anthony Standen saved the life of Mary Queen of Scots, when his master, Lord Darnley and Darnley’s uncle set about the murder of her secretary, David Rizzio. The last time I visited Holyrood I knew nothing about my 10th great-granduncle, Sir Anthony Standen, The Spy who Sank the Armada. Nor had I written his adventures.