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The medieval city of Rye is not far from Hastings so we hop on a double decker bus and head for the top floor. An old gentleman gets on at the next stop with an accordion slung across his back and a border collie in tow. It continues to be hot and as the bus fills with travelers we are glad that all the windows are open. We are charmed when the elderly gent breaks out the accordion and gives everyone a keyboard rendition of the song Summertime followed by a few other classic tunes. I appreciate the distraction because the bus is moving quickly down a very narrow lane, and I keep flinching as we pass roadside houses by mere inches. My line of sight has me looking directly into people’s rooms. Who would want a bunch of faces in a bus flashing by their living room every hour?

Off we get in Rye and find narrow sidewalks lined with compact old – really old – buildings. Some have signs saying they were renovated in the 1400s. (!) The streets in the medieval section of town are, of course, narrow and frequently are made of rocks set in some type of cement or concrete. Real, bumpy rocks that are difficult to walk on. Even in my sensible shoes I have to work at keeping my balance. Locals in dress shoes zip by, demonstrating their rock-walking abilities. Cars drive on these streets, with a whumpa-whumpa-whumpa sound that must make tire companies smile contentedly.

Up a hill and around a corner we see a sign marking the birthplace of John Fletcher, who entered this world in 1579. I don’t know much about this playwright, who was a contemporary of Shakespeare. According to the Francis Bacon Research Trust, he is thought to have collaborated with Shakespeare on Henry VIII and The Two Noble Kinsman. He was best known in his day for comedy, his most famous play being Knight of the Burning Pestle, which he wrote in collaboration with Francis Beaumont. Luminarian.org says that Fletcher probably was involved in writing about 42 plays, with a style that is “fast-moving, well-constructed and, in the case of the comedies, still funny.” I remember reading at the Globe Theater in London that Fletcher was more popular than Shakespeare for at least 100 years. Any writer who is still funny after 500 years is worth reading! I mentally add this playwright to my must-read list.

Tomorrow we head to Cambridgeshire to visit with more aunts and cousins – this time on my father’s side of the family – and enjoy a trip to learned Cambridge.

I knock on the door and when it opens, I see a pair of eyes so similar to mine that I am a bit startled. My maternal cousin Hope, with whom I have corresponded for 30 years since we last saw each other, is welcoming us into her home. She lives in Hove, a town right next door to Brighton. It is compact, as all English towns seem to be, and has been her home for many years. We exchange stories, and I listen to family history that fills in some blanks and provides some surprises. She is the child of my late grandfather’s brother and tells me that most of the siblings were musical, the patriarch played several instruments and his wife worked in the theater as a “dresser”  (costuming, I think) and also sold antiques on the side. This is amazing to me, as my grandfather did not demonstrate any interests along these lines. He was a rather good writer and perhaps this has passed to me.

I think about my other maternal cousin, Karen, whom I met for the first time in London earlier on our trip. She shared photos and stories of my late grandmother’s family. In Karen’s family photo albums, I see the face of a boy of about eight – the same face that is in a locket I’ve brought with me to England in hopes of learning his identity and that of a toddler girl in a companion photo. The locket was among my grandmother’s things after she passed away. I discover that they were grandma’s siblings, their names were Billy and Pat and they died shortly after the photos were taken. Billy is fair haired with a sweet smile and reminds me of Karen. Pat has a head of dark curls and for years I thought she was my grandmother. I think that Grandma must have felt those losses deeply to have kept the locket all of her long life. Another sister, Hilda, died as a young adult. Other photos show dark-haired men and women in their prime, my great aunts and uncles before their metamorphosis into elderly people filled with memories and stories. I can see that in their youth they were somewhat bohemian, unafraid to be unusual and unconcerned about social norms of the day. Karen tells me about her creative life – she paints, sings and writes. Streams of creativity and independence flowing through my DNA.

The vines of life and death are weaving through our travels and we feel the tug of our personal histories around our hearts. We are nurturing our family trees, giving them deeper roots and, hopefully, richer dimensions for the future.

We look out the window at the English Channel – clear proof that we’ve arrived at the south coast town of Hastings. People don’t walk quite as fast here and are not so often dressed in suits. We’ve come to search for my better half’s ancestor and for me to reunite with another cousin after 30 years of corresponding across a continent and the Atlantic. Our bed and breakfast window allows us a bird’s eye view of the seashore and promenade, where we see locals strolling, walking their dogs and riding their bikes in the warm sun.

Ruins are everywhere in this country and, as we walk on the promenade, we look up to see what is left of a castle tower on a hill in the distance. It, of course, is ancient and overlooks the 20-some miles of sea between England and France, where so many battles and invasions have taken place during centuries past. I am surprised to learn that the battle of 1066, often referred to as the Battle of Hastings – or locally simply as The Conquest – actually took place some miles inland at a place called, not surprisingly, Battle. It is in this area that my husband’s great-great-great grandfather, William Davis, lived, worked and died.

My better half has done yeoman’s work researching William’s whereabouts and after a search of the first census in the area, learns that William was buried in the parish church of a little hamlet called Whatlington, near Battle. We take a cab and are glad we did because the driver, a local, can barely find the church even with his knowledge and a GPS system. Finally, down a road barely wide enough for one vehicle, we see a small wooden sign for the church at the foot of a lane leading up a small hill. The cab driver asks us more than once if we are in the right place and we assure him that we are. We hop out and read a posting that explains the church is closed due to a fire in 2010. We also learn that a church has stood in this location since before The Conquest. Walking up the small lane, we meet a neighbor, a gardener and a church warden (deacon). Not bad for a closed church! My husband explains his quest to the warden, who is  kind enough to take us inside the current church building, which was constructed in the Middle Ages and renovated during Victorian times. (!)  It is so moving to see a lovely old building being carefully restored with period materials, right down to the lime plaster on the ceiling, which is mixed with horsehair. (!)

Outside, the church is surrounded by graves. Many have not weathered the years in legible condition. One section houses stones that date from the mid-1800s. William died in 1843 at the age of 66 and we think he is buried in this section, but cannot see his name or initials on any of the legible stones. It still is very meaningful to walk through the churchyard, thinking about this ancestor, whose son emigrated to America and began a branch of the family that continues and thrives today. We look out over pastures and feel a cool breeze waft by. No one is in a hurry here. On the way out, my better half meets a neighbor who knows a member of the parish who has a map and history of the graveyard. This is a terrific lead and we’ll follow up to see if we can confirm William’s resting place, here in a quiet corner of England, surrounded by layers of history.

Our senses are saturated, our minds filled with information. We’ve only scratched the surface in London but our visit has come to a close. There will be more blogs about our experiences in this ancient yet so modern city. The British Library deserves its own post – we saw a special exhibition entitled Writing Britain (www.bl.uk/writingbritain) and then encountered the incredibly amazing Treasures of the British Library. To use an English term, we were gobsmacked by this priceless collection of books, manuscripts and unique historical documents.

I am thinking again about Westminster Abbey – the remains of so many royals lay within its walls. It’s not commonly known that some were accomplished writers of literature. Queen Elizabeth I wrote many of her own speeches, did poetic translations of the Psalms, translations from Latin and Greek, and some of her own poems. One poem, “On Monsieur’s Departure,” is thought to either have been written about the end of marriage negotiations with a French duke or about a favorite earl. Either way, the poem captures the anguish of a heart broken. Here’s an excerpt:

Some gentler passion slide into my mind/For I am soft and made of melting snow/Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind./Let me or float or sink, be high or low/Or let me live with some more sweet content/Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

She never did marry, shrewd ruler and politician that she was. But one must read this poem of a grieving heart without rose-colored lenses. Elizabeth also wrote a poem about her cousin Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, which was not at all affectionate and dubbed her “the daughter of debate.” (See “The Doubt of Future Foes,” which addresses Mary as a “foe” pursuing the English throne.)  Later, Elizabeth imprisoned her cousin Mary for some years – in that handy neighborhood Tower of London – and ultimately had her executed.

In one of those delightfully dark ironies of life, since Elizabeth left no heirs, after her death it was Mary’s son James who ascended the throne. Both Elizabeth and Mary are buried in Westminster Abbey. Death truly is the great equalizer.

Farewell London, thee of drama, intrigue, betrayal and triumph. We are off to the south coast to try and find the grave of my better half’s ancestor.

My better half has a new-found affection for ice since so little is to be found in British restaurants. Unlike U.S restaurants, service does not automatically start with a glass of water. And, when one asks for water, it does not come with ice. This scarcity, coupled with our inability to overcome our accents to make ourselves fully understood, has led to many glasses of tepid refreshments in various establishments. Today he asked for a lot of ice with his water.  Somehow that was interpreted as, “no ice, sir?” and I saw a flash of desperation cross his face as he began to pantomine a glass full of ice (no easy task!). I make a feeble effort to suppress a laugh and then dissolve into giggles.

My battle with British plumbing rages on, leaving me unusually afraid of bathrooms. The shower in our bed and breakfast, hardly big enough to turn around full circle, alternates between scalding me and shocking me with blasts far cooler than anything we’ve had to drink. And every shower is set up so that the hapless user has to lean in all the way to get the taps on. I’ll leave the result to the imagination.

Moving to a slightly more delicate subject, I have encountered some amazing toilets, including one that probably dates to the time of invention, with the tank above my head and a long pull chain. Figuring out how to flush them has been an adventure. Then there’s sinks – all kinds of them. The more historic the building, the more interesting the sink, including one so tiny it would not fit a baby Chihuahua, never mind a normal size pair of hands. Bending over trying to use it, I felt like Gulliver.

Meanwhile, my better half is working on a business plan to sell ice to American tourists in England.

Londoners take their sidewalks seriously. They barrel down the pavement at a clip that must qualify hordes of them as speed walkers. The tube (subway) is especially interesting for the pace of foot travel. Standing on the escalator, we are careful to stay right, as people shoot past on our left, taking the moving stairs two at a time. I see a man hop on our tube car only to be slammed on both shoulders by the closing doors. He wriggles his way in, but his rolling briefcase is stuck outside. Everyone remains silent except me – I exclaim, Whoooaa!” as I hit the open door button. Still complete, unnerving silence from everyone else. The man yanks in his case, takes his place and cracks open a newspaper as if nothing has happened. Without uttering a sound. I have never felt so loud in my life.

We emerge unscathed from the tube in the heart of London and navigate huge crowds to reach Westminster Abbey. After paying our 16 pounds ($24) each for entrance, we step into a cool, cavernous cathedral. It’s amazing to be walking up the same aisle that Prince William and Katherine walked when they married. Even more amazing to learn that this church was founded in the 10th century and that 3,500 notables are buried within its walls. Many more are memorialized with plaques, statuary, crests and more. The priest says that no matter where we stand, we are probably standing above someone’s remains. The listening tour group shift their feet and look down. The priest seems to enjoy the reaction – probably comes from working in a giant tomb.

My better half heads off on his preferred section of the self-guided tour as I walk over to Poets’ Corner. Beginning with Chaucer, writers of note through the ages have been buried or memorialized in this area. Dylan Thomas, one of my favorites, has a memorial plaque that reads, “Time held me green and dying though I sang in my chains like the sea.” I wonder if he chose this as his parting phrase. Charles Dickens’ remains are here, along with the ashes of Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy. Handel’s gravestone reads “I know my Redeemer liveth,” from his famous work, the Messiah. (Later that day we see an early composition draft of this work in the British Library.) It is sometimes difficult to keep one’s footing on the ancient floor so I slow my pace and then notice some beautifully touching eulogies written about wives and mothers in medieval times.

Prayers are said every hour in the abbey and for this reading we hear a lovely English accent asking for blessings of peace. I am moved by the spirit of the place and the thought of countless prayers said through the centuries. We exit into the throngs of tourists and late summer heat of this complex and deeply  interesting city.

Parliament is located along the banks of the Thames in the heart of London. On the way to our tour, we pass through security that is not quite as stringent as the airport. It makes me a bit sad to think of this venerable and historic democracy having to arm its entrance, but I later learn some historical facts that give me perspective. Today we are with my auntie and uncle, who have traveled from Needingworth in Cambridgeshire to join us for a day of sightseeing. We enter through the Westminster Hall, the oldest surviving section of Parliament, built in 1097-1099 by King William II. I look up to consider the roof, which dates from 1401, and think about roofs in the U.S. that last 20 years. I stand on a plaque noting the date that the Speaker of the House, Sir Thomas More, was condemned to death in 1535. He also was the Lord Chancellor of England and author of the book Utopia. During the tour I learn that various kings would take a disliking to the activity or opinions in the House of Commons and would send soldiers to storm the doors and haul off hapless politicians. I imagine poor Sir More being in this group. In those days one really did need a serious commitment to one’s political platform!

With the exception of Westminster Hall, all of Parliament burned down in the mid 1800s and a new, larger set of structures were built at that time. Practically new by English standards. During World War II a fire forced leaders to choose which buildings to save – they allowed the House of Commons to burn in order to save Westminster Hall. The House of Lords loaned their chamber to their colleagues and there Prime Minister Winston Churchill made many speeches, thumping his fist on the desk for emphasis, leaving dents in the wood. The emphatic damage to the desk remains to this day. I am intrigued by how the British value their past.

As we walk over to the Churchill War Museum, I remember my grandmother’s stories about the air raids in London, running to the tube (subway) with her children – my mother and uncle –  holding a small wash tub over their heads in case the bombs hit before they descended to relative safety. The tube was not always safe, sometimes collapsing, sometimes flooding. My family was fortunate to survive, though my grandmother never was able to stop hoarding food and basic supplies (things that were rationed during the war). When she died decades after the war, the family found an enormous supply of toilet paper in the attic.

Churchill was not only an accomplished leader and strategist, but also an author, ultimately winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1953. The BBC website has a terrific page dedicated to his accomplishments. I like him most for his eccentric ways (more to come about that in another blog) and his bravery. We are standing in his underground bunker, where he ran the war with a staff of military and civilians. It is just as it was left at the end of WW II – dark, spartan and cramped. The sleeping quarters for all but the PM and high-level staff is awful. The PM had his own room but rarely slept there. He preferred to be above ground and often went on the roof to watch the bombing raids. After one near miss at the front door of the building above the bunker, which was top secret then, he went out to examine the rubble. Churchill also was one of the few in the bunker who knew that the building above them was never completely bomb-proofed.

As I listen to a recording of air raid sirens, still alarming, I think about the determination of this culture, the stoic way they went about surviving month after month of bombing raids. My family, dashing for shelter, with that sound shrieking in their ears. My grandmother had a lot of spunk and I can imagine her yelling to her children to stay close as she railed at the enemy overhead. She talked about the war for years afterward. As a child, I was riveted by her stories and her very colorful descriptions of the enemy.

We pack ourselves onto the tube at the end of the day – another marvel of British ingenuity. The first tunnel opened in 1863, during Charles Dickens’ lifetime, and it was the first in the world. Some parts of it still function today, which is quite stunning to think about as we hurtle down the track.

Tomorrow we head to the British Library – the largest in the world – which holds a vast collection of written records spanning 1,000 years. For now, we sit in the tube train, stuffed with people yet quiet. That British reserve in operation. I feel I understand it, and my own heritage, a bit better.

I am chomping on a raspberry meringue that we purchased in an Italian deli, on the same street as several other delis, a collection of small restaurants, and many boutiques with stylish clothes and shoes. We feel very international even as we continue to be stunned by the price of real estate. The 600 square foot flat (apartment) we are renting would likely sell for at least one million pounds (add half again to figure U.S. dollars). We cannot imagine how all the young faces around us manage to live in the neighborhood.

I reflect on our visit to Kew Gardens, where we walked through time with my cousin Karen and her husband. As with so many large tracts of land, the history of Kew is all wrapped up with the British royals, who owned much of the prime real estate in centuries past. The gardens began to take shape in the 1700s with successive royals adding to its size and splendor. We stroll through grove after grove of trees, each so thoughtfully planted and carefully tended. Peacocks, large wood pigeons, colorful ducks and other birds wander around with an air of ownership. We see the occasional swan in ponds laden with water lilies. The most amazing feature of the gardens are the large, very spectacular “glass houses,” ornate greenhouses filled with the more exotic plants in the collection. They are old to us, being built at least 150 years ago, but in Britain, the word old takes on a rather different meaning. Here, old goes back 1,000 years and ancient is even older! I see the trees as a cast of thousands, creating a frame for the main characters – the remarkable glass houses. Together with the water features, a small palace and other structures, they tell a wordless but eloquent story of the loving labors of many generations.

One aspect of our trip involves discovering our family history, which has gaps we hope to fill during our travels here. This is the first time I’ve met my cousin and as we walk under the great trees, we try to share a lifetime of hopes, joys and disappointments. In such a rooted place, I feel my lineage stretch away into the distance.

Later we visit a pub in Richmond-upon-Thames, the White Cross, which sits on the edge of the Thames. I am astounded to learn that the lower patio and entry way floods every day with the tides on the river. Patrons take it all in stride, arriving before or after the tide. I am both amused and fascinated that the pub posts the tide times on a sandwich board outside. Inside we meet a regular and his dog, Louis the First, who is very deft at cadging morsels from my cousin’s plate, using his brown Schnauzer eyes to best advantage.

It has been a day full of family photos, reminiscing and exploring. As we hug goodbye, my cousin and I agree that much is left to be said and done.

My better half’s perky internal clock has him up at 5 a.m. doing battle with our european kitchen to make tea and toast. He emerges victorious, his bread toasted on one side. I enter my own battle with the shower with a set of taps that confound me. No matter what combination I try, the water pours out blazing hot. The taps are placed in such a way as to ensure the erstwhile bather gets an early soaking. Eventually I emerge victoriously clean and slightly scalded. We gaze out the window at Abbey Road and see men cleaning the streets with brooms and bins on bikes. A bit later we see a motorized street cleaner driving by. Now we understand why this huge city teeming with activity and packed with people stays so clean and tidy.

Yesterday we toured Kew Gardens – an enormous landscaped tract of land in the middle of the city. Today we are off to see Parliament, that bastion of great debate. More on that and our other adventures later!

We have arrived in London, which feels like the melting pot of the world. We are thrilled with our decision to hire a car to take us from Heathrow Airport to our digs on Abbey Road – yes, the road immortalized (can a road be immortal?) on a Beatles album. The roads are very narrow, cars very fast and of course all of the action is on the other side of the street from our norm in the U.S. Our driver, Abdul, tells us he is Persian and that his family was from Afghanistan, where they had lived for generations. The family was forced to flee when he was not yet 10 years of age; he and his sister rode donkeys across the border, trying not to look at the bodies of an earlier group of refugees, killed by Russian artillery. That was 40 years ago and today he is grateful to live in peace. He tells us that the highway that circles London is about 140 miles long and that it does not encompass Greater London. We marvel at the giant presence of this city whose name we are told was coined by the ancient Romans when they moved in.

Our rental apartment is in a converted church, which is charming. I am struck by the irony of an empty church looking out at droves of devoted followers collected across the street taking photos of Abbey Road Studios. They are very brave (or something) as they plunge onto the crosswalk on a busy street full of drivers unconcerned by their celebratory stroll (did I mention people drive at a fair clip here?), recreating the famous album cover. We walk off a dose of jet lag and find the former home of Sir Thomas Beecham, a composer and impresario who had a major influence on Britain’s classical music in the early to mid 20th century. He even wrote a book – a biograpy of his favorite composer, entitled “Frederick Delius.” Everywhere we walk, we encounter British history juxtaposed by the chatter of a host of languages used by passers by. We stop and ask  a young lady directions and she has an American accent but uses British slang. Very fun for us.

Real estate here in the heart of west London is not for the faint of heart. A 2,000 square foot townhome can cost 4 million. Pounds, that is, so add half again to estimate the U.S. cost. We look at all the young faces and wonder how they manage.

Today we are surrounded by musical history. Tomorrow we are off to Twickenham.