Plan ahead and spend your spring and summer vacations in Europe as the strong dollar veers tourists away from the United States, giving them more incentive to travel to culturally rich destinations such as France, Spain and Greece. The value of the dollar hasn’t been this high since 2003 ($1.10 for one euro as of today). It’s no secret that the euro value is diminishing, among other currencies, which makes 2015 the perfect time to visit the notoriously expensive continent.
Europe has transformed into a buyer’s market especially for American travelers. Research shows that the number of bookings to Europe was high even before the dollar’s value spike. The strengthening dollar with the increased rate of advanced ticket bookings is indicative of “an explosive year for Europe.” Some speculate that European tourism won’t bloom until 2016 since the dramatic value rises in currencies tend to have a delayed effect on the travel industry.
A report from Expedia reveals that it’s best to book international flight 171 days, or just under six months, prior to the date of travel. Typically, Americans book their tickets around 31 to 90 days before they travel to Europe. With dwindling prices of oil, and competition between budget and larger airlines in terms of “unbundling” amenities, flights to Europe are going to be more economical than ever. Thus, planning for summer, and even winter getaways, are crucial at this point of time.
In comparison to the euro, the dollar isn’t as strong against the pound. However, exchange rates are more favorable than they have been for quite some time, so traveling to the UK could still fit right within your budget. London has two of the busiest airports in Europe, Heathrow being the top and Gatwick listed as the tenth according to Parking4Less, and with dream vacations in Europe looking more affordable, passenger traffic at these airports is likely to increase.
Although exchange rates will work in your favor, the travel industry is always going to look for ways so that tourists don’t have access to too many cheap deals. One of the worst places, if not the worst, to exchange currencies is at an airport, yet because of its convenient location, tourists continue to lose valuable bucks instead of making the most out of their budget. Some suggestions from travel guidebook writer Pauline Frommer include using your credit card to get to your accommodations from the airport, or only exchanging a small amount before traveling. The rest can be exchanged at a local bank.
If you’ve been wanting to go to Europe for awhile, now is the time to go. Be prepared, however, to see many American tourists there with you…
The ewe looked ready to charge. (Can sheep be dangerous? I know wombats can be deadly). She was intent on protecting her lamb from this strange creature that was approaching on two legs. The creature had a black box instead of a head. The black box made a slight clicking sound.
It was lambing season in the Peak District in Derbyshire, England. Tiny lambs were taking their first steps across the hills and moors. The ewes kept watch over them as they grazed in the spring sunshine.
The Peak District is the most popular of the United Kingdom’s national parks. It is between the cities of Manchester and Sheffield in the north of England. Although it is designated a national park, the area is only partly owned by the government. Many small villages with stone houses dot the landscape. Fields full of sheep have walls made of stones to mark their boundaries.
Bakewell is the only town in the Peak District. It was first settled in Anglo-Saxon times in the 9th century, when the Bakewell area was in the kingdom of Mercia. The parish church was founded in 920, and a five arched stone bridge has been providing a way over the River Wye since the 13th century.
Bakewell is famous for Bakewell pudding. It’s colloquially called pudding because it’s a dessert, but it’s actually a jam pastry with an egg and ground almond enriched filling. It’s said to have been created by accident in 1820 by a cook at a local inn who didn’t follow her landlady’s instructions.
I didn’t eat any Bakewell pudding while I was there, but since I was in Northern England I had to have some traditional fish and chips. I made my way to Bakewell Fish & Chips for a delicious lunch of famously good fish and chips.
Just outside of Bakewell is Haddon Hall, a medieval manor house of the Duke of Rutland started in the 11th century. The current Tudor hall includes additions made between the 13th and 17th centuries. It was used as a setting in the movies The Princess Bride, Jane Eyre, and Pride and Prejudice. Sometime in the 12th century, someone drew these skeletons on the wall in the chapel. They were covered up during the Reformation and newly discovered hundreds of years later during a renovation.
A short distance away is Chatsworth House. It has been the home of the Duke of Devonshire since 1549. Many say it is the finest example of an English country house. The house seems more like a king’s palace to me. The window frames are lined with gold leaf and the interior is filled with fine furniture, precious artwork, and Greek statues.
Chatsworth has also been seen in many movies and TV programs, including “Pride and Prejudice,” where it was called Pemberley, the home of Mr. Darcy, as well as The Duchess.
The interior of the house is certainly spectacular, but I like the estate grounds even better. The house was built on a hill overlooking the beautiful countryside of Derbyshire between the Derwent and Wye valleys.
Chatsworth is famous for its gardens, which have features built over six centuries. The Canal Pond near the house is a man-made lake that is the size of a football field. It was dug at the direction of the first Duke of Devonshire in 1703. The first Duke also had a water cascade built into a hillside in 1696. It has 24 steps, each slightly different and with a variety of textures so that the water flowing over each step results in a different sound.
In 1843 Czar Nicholas I of Russia informed the sixth Duke that he was likely to visit Chatsworth the following year. In anticipation of this visit, the Duke decided to construct the world’s highest fountain. A lake was dug up on the moors 350 feet above the house to supply natural water pressure to power the fountain. The resulting water jet is on record as reaching a height of 296 feet. However, the Tsar died and never saw the fountain.
Chatsworth’s Great Conservatory was completed in 1841. It was also as big as a football field and was the largest glass house in the world at the time. The conservatory contained tropical plants collected by the Duke from all over the world. It was heated in winter by coal-fed boilers. The coal was stored in a hidden pit built into the hillside and the coal was transported to the conservatory by a tunnel so that visitors couldn’t see how it was heated.
The conservatory wasn’t heated during World War I so all of the plants died. The building was demolished and a large hedge maze was planted on the site. I spent a good deal of time wandering through the maze to find my way to the center and back out again.
As I toured Haddon Hall and Chatsworth House I couldn’t help but wonder at the display of riches by the nobility in past centuries. One man, who was lucky enough to be born to inherit a title, commanded vast wealth and power. Thousands of others toiled for that man’s whims and follies. It’s almost enough to make me become a socialist. But not quite.
I rode the tightrope on the side of the road. I didn’t want to leave the yellow line next to the curb. The traffic was heavy even though it was a Sunday afternoon. Cars whizzed past my right side, inches from my elbow. I pedaled faster as my heart raced.
Shoot, there’s a bus directly in front of me! How could I have not seen that big red double-decker? The brake lights of the bus lit up and the bus stopped. I braked hard and skidded to a stop while I inhaled the suffocating exhaust bellowing from the massive tailpipe of the bus.
I quickly glanced behind me. Another giant double-decker was bearing down on me. I was going to become a bus sandwich! The brakes of the second bus squealed and the behemoth slowed to a crawl behind me. It then occurred to my carbon monoxide-addled brain that I was in a bus stop.
Maybe renting a bike in London wasn’t such a good idea.
London was in the midst of an early fall record heat wave. It was gloriously sunny and the high was in the mid-80s. Londoners sprawled over every available square inch of grass in the city, trying to soak up enough rays to tide them over through the bleak coming winter. England hadn’t had a real summer. The weather had been dark and rainy for weeks. Summer was officially over, but finally a brief period of sunshine broke out. This happened to coincide with my visit. I had expected cool and rainy weather. I had a raincoat and was prepared to use it. I could even buy an umbrella if there were going to be downpours. Instead I pulled the shorts back out of my suitcase.
I was staying in a flat in the Butler Wharf area of Southwark, on the south bank of the Thames River in central London. Butler Wharf is a neighborhood of gentrified warehouses near the south base of the Tower Bridge. It was quite a distance from the West End, but the views of the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge at night were spectacular.
I often strolled along the Queen’s Walk between the Tower Bridge and Waterloo Bridge. The Queen’s Walk is a promenade along the south bank of the Thames River. By crossing over the Waterloo Bridge I could get to the Theatre District and the restaurants near Covent Garden.
On this day I decided to stay on this side of the Thames and seek out the Imperial War Museum. I had always wanted to see the museum, but its location is far from anything else worth seeing in London. Getting there hadn’t ever worked into my plans on previous trips. This time I was determined to explore every exhibit in the First and Second World War rooms. I was by myself and could take as much time as I wanted. I set off for the London Bridge Tube station.
The Underground is a marvelous thing in London. Taxis are very expensive and walking can only get you so far. The bus system is good and everyone should ride a double-decker bus at least once (get a seat in the front row on the top!). But the Tube is a cultural icon as well as an efficient transportation mechanism. For years after an earlier visit to London with my children we would spontaneously chirp “Mind the Gap!”
Once in the Tube station I learned that one of the lines was closed for maintenance. I was taking a different line, but so were thousands of people who would have been on the closed line. Down on the subway platform I approached a large crowd. I took my place in the crowd and waited for the next train.
The train arrived with a giant whooossh of air. It was completely packed. The people were like the proverbial sardines in a tin can. The doors opened but no one got off. After a few moments the doors closed, the train sped away, and the crowd collectively sighed.
The Tube station was full of hot, stale air. Sweat ran down my face and down my back. I remembered that I had forgotten my water bottle. This was not what I expected London to be like. It was steamy like Hong Kong or Singapore, not typical London.
Another train arrived 10 minutes later. It was packed too. It was a weekend afternoon and every train was packed to the gills. Was I really in Tokyo? Eventually enough trains came by, enough people got off, and my spot in the crowd moved forward until I was destined to get on the next train. As I waited my turn I kept wondering how London was going to host the 2012 Olympics. I vowed to not be in the same hemisphere during the event. Transportation is sure to be a nightmare.
The next train came to a stop. I could see a slight crease in the crowd of passengers on the train. I politely maneuvered my way into a spot just inside the door. I was trying to give the mother with the baby in the stroller a modicum of space. There were about two dozen people crammed into a six feet by ten feet space. Personal bubbles were compressed almost into nonexistence. It was a pickpocket’s dream scene.
Just as the doors were closing, several young men with immaculate hair pushed their way into the huddle. They were dressed in bright colored polo shirts and tank tops. I got pushed so I was leaning sideways over the stroller, by shoulder to the wall, my head near the door. The side of the head of one of these guys was two inches from my nose. He started talking loudly and flamboyantly.
“I hope you boys wore your deodorant today,” he said to the others.
At the first stop I mumbled “excuse me” and pushed my way out. I made it to the Imperial War Museum and had a nice tour of the exhibits. After visiting the museum I rested in a nearby park and planned my next move.
For the trip back home I had a dilemma. I wasn’t willing to tackle the Tube again. I could take a taxi, but there didn’t appear to be any in this part of town. I could take a bus, but I had no idea where the bus stop was or what route the buses would run. I might end up in Dover. I did have a map, and it was a splendid day, so I decided to walk. I figured it was about two miles back to the Tower Bridge.
A couple of blocks away from the museum I saw a strange kiosk. It looked like an old American phone booth that had been squashed between trucks. Alongside the kiosk was a row of heavy grey bicycles.
I had seen these kiosks before around the city but hadn’t paid any attention to them. They are Barclay’s Cycle for Hire kiosks. London had recently installed hundreds of these kiosks, which are full of thousands of bikes. Pick up a bike at one location, ride to where you need to go, and drop it off at the closest kiosk. This is the way to overcome the congested roads, expensive taxis, crowded Tube trains, and uncertain bus rides of central London. What a great idea!
I followed the directions on the kiosk and swiped my credit card. Nothing happened. The menus on the kiosk screen kept taking me in circles. I used to be a computer programmer and have used many different user interfaces and menus. I consider myself to be an advanced user of modern high technology. The simple act of renting a bicycle using a computer had me baffled.
I tried again and again, forgetting about the common definition of insanity. I began to get frustrated. What kind of idiot designed this system? It doesn’t even work. No wonder I have seen lots of bike rental kiosks but not very many bikers riding these heavy clunkers on the city streets.
Finally the machine gave me a code to release a bike for my use. It told me my credit card would be charged 1£ for the rental (about $1.55). I adjusted the seat and took off. I rode down quiet side streets and zig-zagged my way back towards the Thames. I covered many blocks without much effort. Riding was so much better and more fun than walking I thought as I cruised along.
As I got closer to London Bridge the traffic started to thicken. I moved off the side streets and rode down Borough High Street, a main thoroughfare in Southwark. I hugged the left curb and moved with the traffic. I knew I had to cross the street at the next intersection to take a right turn. My mind got confused as I dealt with the heavy traffic, pedestrians, other bikers, and motorcycles. Horns were honking and lights were changing. I kept looking to the left and back over my left shoulder when I should have been looking right and back over my right shoulder.
I made it across the road and into a warren of streets past the London Dungeon and the Tower Bridge to Butler’s Wharf. Whew… That was hectic. I had been afraid of being hit by a car every second of the last ten minutes. There was safety in the back streets. Where can I drop off the bike?
After circling a few blocks I found a nearby kiosk and pushed my bike into an empty slot in the rack. What now? How do they know I returned the bike at this location? Or at all? I reasoned there must be some sensor or ID tag on the bike that I couldn’t see.
A man was kicking the kiosk. “Bloody stupid thing” he muttered. He pulled out his cell phone and called the number on the kiosk. He complained to the customer service representative that he had gotten no indication that he had returned his bike. He started arguing with his phone as he walked away.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a cell phone. The kiosk sign said a fee of 150£ would be charged if the bike was not returned. After monkeying around with the kiosk interface for a few minutes, I gave up and went back to my flat. I would just have to deal with it later.
When I got home my next credit card statement had a charge on it from Barclay’s Cycle for Hire. After the currency exchange, the charge was about $6. I don’t know why it was that amount. I rode their bike for about 30 minutes over two miles. However, it was better than 150£ and better than walking.
I couldn’t touch my toes. Ordinarily that is not a problem for me. I’m not the most limber guy around, but I can usually reach down far enough and pull up one foot at a time. This is an important capability when it comes to washing your feet. After a long day hiking the moors of West Yorkshire, these feet need to be washed, or else my wife is going to ban me from the car, the restaurant, and most importantly, the hotel room.
We were staying in the Old White Lion Hotel in Haworth, England. Haworth is a small village known as the home of the Bronte sisters in the 1800s. The hotel is a 300 year old coaching inn, built at the top of a hill. It looks down the famous cobbled Main Street of Haworth and opposite the Bronte Parsonage Museum.
The hotel web site boasted of 14 en suite rooms, with a restaurant and pub, and even something called a “function room” with a dance floor! Each room had a “multi-channel” TV. You mean we get to watch more than one channel?
Our room on the second floor was only big enough to provide one foot of space on each side of the bed, and about 3 feet at the end of the bed. I was afraid that if I rolled over at night and fell off the bed (it does happen on occasion) that I would be stuck tight between the wall and the bed and would never get out without a call to the fire department. I didn’t even want to think about what I might see under the bed at 3am.
The multi-channel TV was an old 12-inch tube mounted in the top corner of the room near the ceiling, which was visible only by lying flat on the bed and craning your neck a certain way. The multiple channels appeared to only include two: the Playboy Channel and European MTV. At least it was in color.
The en suite bathroom was, of course, retrofitted in so-called modern times into a 300 year old room. Back in the early 1700’s the bathroom facilities were probably behind the stables. The bathroom was about four feet by five feet in size. One could sit on the loo, as the Brits call it, and wash your hands at the same time! How convenient and efficient. Just think of the time saved.
We could have stayed at the Best Western near the motorway for half the cost. But that would have been too mundane, I thought when planning the trip. Let’s splurge a little. We can always stay at an international hotel chain with standard rooms and amenities. Why not soak in a little local culture where literary girls once stubbed their toes on the old cobblestones? We’d never stayed in a hotel as old as the Old White Lion. I could imagine myself standing in the pub, eating fish and chips and lifting a pint with the local gents, while ducking my head beneath the ancient beams.
Instead I was stuck in the shower trying to figure out how to wash my hair and my feet. The shower was about two feet by two feet in size, with the shower head about five feet from the floor. I think it was designed for malnourished coal miners who stood 4 feet 9 inches high and weighed 110 lbs. I am 6 feet tall and weigh 190 lbs. (OK, to be honest I used to weigh 190 a decade or so ago, and would like to get back there someday). I barely fit in the shower. Let’s not even pause to contemplate the current and projected obesity rates of today’s American adults.
Getting my head wet was very difficult, and involved some moves I once saw done by a child contortionist in Beijing. Next it was time for the shampoo. However, I couldn’t quite get my elbows away from my body far enough to get my hands over my head to lather up. I kept banging my arms against the wall and the shower door. By hugging myself, I could sort of get the soap over most of my torso and arms. Reaching my feet was going to be a trick.
And that’s when I dropped the soap.
Travel Stories from Around the World by Steve Skabrat