My history with England

My personal history with England goes back more than fifty years, and it started with Ed, a navigator in a B-29 in the Eighth Air Force, 1944-45, based in Norwich, in Norfolk, England. At least that's the best I can recollect.

In high school, I used to pour over Ed's navigational maps from his training in Louisiana. I have a blood-stained silk scarf map of France from his flight days. My first significant research paper was a study of the European air theater in World War II for a history class in my sophomore or junior year in Eden high school, for Ed Sappelt, who was -- as I recall -- a bit disappointed in my choice of such a mundane, overstudied period of American history. In any case, blame Ed, not me, for the inspiration if not the selection of a topic.

In spring 1964, Ed took Al, Tom, Ted and me on an Easter trip to Italy and England. After experiencing Rome, Florence, Sorrento and Pompeii, we ensconced in the Cadogan Place hotel in London for a few bleak, late winter-like days, with a trip to Norwich included, to review his history, a bit like the opening of the film, "Twelve O'Clock High." Ed had been there just twenty years earlier, barely twenty years of age. Now, just past forty, he must have had some very strong memories twenty years later, none of which I really appreciated at that age. I was twelve. War was just a curiosity, nothing lethal, perhaps a bit sentimental. Ed had two huge WW II books from Time-Life at home, coffee table books that didn't really fit well into coffee table conversations and, as such, were pretty hidden in his fireplace library at the end of out 48-foot living room.

Ed also arranged for me to have summer jobs with Foseco in 1973 and 1974, traveling and working alone for eight weeks each summer, always on the cheap, yet also always enjoying the sights, the culture, the music, the newspapers, and the inherent charm and mystique of a foreign country where the people spoke a close approximation of American English, at least well enough to understand and to work in an office. I even like the BBC, radio and television, back when they were almost exclusively a state-run media. Newspapers were sensationalized, not at all like the sedate Buffalo Evening News or Courier-Express back home.

Fish and chips were a wonderful addition to my comfort food menu and memories of greasy, newspaper-wrapped cod and chips for less than two dollars, back when the exchange rate was about two dollars to the pound and prior to the decimal system. Pence, shillings and quid were an amusing and only a little confusing.

As with my later, lengthy visits in 1984 and 1985, the summer weather was wonderfully sunny and dry for the most part. English music, fashion and pop culture were the global trend setters. Combine that with the charming accents and British women were a magical mystery to me, east to idolize and nearly impossible to approach, especially on a limited budget and with still quite limited skills in dealing with women in bars. I remember one visit to London in 1973 or 1974, where I attached myself to two American girls, from Hollywood, Florida, who accepted me for perhaps a bit of safety or companionship in their quest to hook up with Mick Jagger or David Bowie. I felt entirely embarrassed with my semi-hippie Binghamton wardrobe and unable to afford local purchases. All my money went to housing and food. Train travel was cheap but still a stretch for me, yet I did make it to Edinburgh, London, Chester, the Lake District, Sheffield, York and more cities than I was really able to afford.

One Friday night, with a car from the car pool in Foseco's Nechelles factory, I drove to York and settled late at night in a memorable bed and breakfast in Stillington, The White Horse Inn, and perhaps the only light on the street in town that dark summer night. I believe I was actually frustrated and trying to drive back home, unable to find or afford a hotel in York, when I made a wrong turn, heading north rather than southwest and back to Birmingham. It turned out to be a happy, fruitful accident, allowing me to see Yorkshire with the assistance of kindly people from the pub that night.

The smoky, nondescript neighborhood pubs, the tiny fish and chips shops (in the 1960s, the operators were almost always long-term Brits; today most are manned by immigrants), the not-so-fresh "green grocer," the small sweet stalls, windows and shops, the often bland local fare, all of this composes a fabric of warm memories, even from the times when I felt lonely and alone in my British travels. I learned that it is easier and more comfortable to travel more on a high-end budget than on a shoestring, but I feel sure that I got more for my money living at the low end of the British economy, living more like a local and less like a tourist. Even today, I tend to steer clear of the tacky, touristy venues. I can enjoy the greenery, the mountains, the small villages, and the long walks just as much as I did when that was I that I could afford -- free travel.

I retain a strong desire to set foot back in Britain, anywhere from London to Thirsk at the northern tip of Scotland, or Ullapool on the west coast of Scotland, the Lake District, Wales or other places I remember fondly. And while I like the country scenery, I am content to use a London or Edinburgh hotel as a base and to from there enjoy simple day trips around town, out to the countryside and back, or just exiting ("way out") the tube in London or heading over to Edinburgh Old Town for a walkabout.

God willing, our September 2019 trip to Edinburgh and London will not be our last.