Bath .... the City, not the Ablution

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How quickly I’ve become a devout fan of traditional English "weekend break" in the countryside!! I spent my Saturday in Bath, Somerset, which is famous for its ancient Roman springs and its popularity amongst the English gentry in the 1800's. Aesthetically, it is a very beautiful city, packed with cream-coloured three-story Georgian buildings, roman pillars, narrow alleys and cobbled pedestrian streets. I personally felt that is also had a certain Olde world, small-town homey-ness to it which was extremely endearing.

I adored the colour and architecture of the city. Most of the buildings appear to have been built in the Georgian period, and the outer walls are composed of "ashlar stone", which is a lovely creamy yellow colour, as if the sun's rays have seeped into it and now glow faintly from within. Most of the infrastructure is precisely three story’s high and many buildings stretch along the entire block (or more!), so unlike many cities whose landscapes vary from single-story homes to skyscrapers, Bath has a certain solid continuity to it. And then there are the Romanesque columns everywhere you look, supporting bridges and terraces and hallways. Most were not built by the Romans themselves, mind you, but they are impressive and stately nonetheless.

I became friendly with two other London-dwelling day-travelers on the bus, Jenny and Amy, both also Australian, which is all the character reference needed (haha). We decided to hang out, and their first priority upon reaching Bath was to stop in a local cafe to enact the English tradition of 'High Tea'. This involved "scones" (pronounced with false grandeur, 'oe' instead of 'oh'), strawberry jam, fresh clotted cream and coffee. The scones were actually quite delicious, and the experience, novel.

Afterwards we wandered for a while, making our way inevitably towards the highlight of Bath, which is, of course, the ancient and world-famous Roman Baths. The entry price was a bit steep at £9.50 ($25AU), but it was hardly an attraction one could forego even if it wasn't likely to be the most thrilling moment of one's life. I've come to the sad understanding that the most famous tourist attractions are often the least exciting; they’re interesting, certainly, and there's the privilege of saying that you've been there, but they seem to lack the potential for adrenalin-inducing or soul-affecting memories. Unlike dolphin-swimming, elephant trekking, or the simple but perfect moments of happiness and laughter while out on the town with mates or at the top of a mountain. Or that night in Koh Chang, lying on cushions in the sand, smiling into the candle’s flame, talking quietly with Rosie and Kate and listening to Tantaman's crazy staff truly enjoy themselves as they played their own mellowed-out version of indie/reggae/soul/oldies music.

Mmm. Anyway, we filed in with our trusty audio-guides, which are rectangular black devices that act a bit like a huge mobile phone, where you punch in the number beside each exhibit and hold the speaker to your ear to learn about it. What I have personally learnt is to hate them. Mine is invariably broken in some way and they go on and on with much more info than you're interested in, leaving you standing there impatiently waiting for the end so that you can move on.

The first stage of the tour is the Terrace, which runs around the second-story outer circumference of the main open-air Roman bath. There are statues of Roman emperors and so forth lining the railing, all facing inwards. These were not placed there by the original Romans, for most of what stands today was built in the late 1800's, when the site was rediscovered by the English. Apparently the original vaulted ceiling had fallen into the pool, crumbling along with much of the site, which was actually a lot more extensive than the current 'Roman Baths' attraction, and once spread out beyond where the neighbouring streets now exist. Some of the exhibition's walls have been built around original stonework and much of the lower levels are dedicated to the preservation of the remains of the original Roman structure, but most of what you see is no older than the 1800's, with the exception of the actual springs and so forth. So the Roman statues you see today were actually made and erected by Englishmen in acknowledgement and celebration of the original ancient builders of the baths.

After circling the Terrace you descend the stairs down into a small exhibition room and dutifully learn about the original site and its Roman inhabitants. After that you can pass through an old archway to the left and find yourself in the Great Bath room, looking into the same pool you were just peering down at from the Terrace. There are wide walkways around the water and pillars interspersed along the poolside. The stones you walk upon are worn smooth and slippery from millions of passing feet. Tourists wander about in hushed reverence or sit basking in the sunshine, some relaxing against the columns, contemplating the water and the room. The actual pool has a faint but definite smell, like unfamiliar herbs and watery, moldy organisms. There are ancient stone steps leading down past the water's edge, and you can see the moldy mushrooms of alien algae anchored to the first two steps beneath the water before the murky green liquid impedes any further sight. Small bubbling pockets can be seen here and there. In one corner of the room an ancient slab of stone bridges a stream of water running down an open tunnel into the pool, and here and there are small grooves in the edges of the pool where ancient lead pipes drain away the excess water. So it's not stagnant, but the water is still very green.

There is a warning sign as you enter the room demanding that you not touch or taste the water as it is untreated. Of course, I for one certainly wasn't paying £9.50 without getting some tangible benefit from the scheme, and while I certainly was not about to drink it - and can barely imagine the occasion which necessitated such a warning - touching seemed harmless enough. So I casually knelt by the water and, with the girls standing watch (though they were crap guards because they were watching me, not looking for passing security guards) and the smell of algae strong in my nostrils, I leant down and dipped my fingers into the pool.

Now, I know this is going to sound stupid, but it honestly did not feel like water. It was warm and liquid, but there the comparison ends. I don't know quite how to describe what it felt like, but not water. I put my hand in several times, trying to think of a comparison. It was both thicker, slicker, and of thinner substance than water. I don't know how to explain it. But if you were to fill a bowl with warm tap water and compare the two, it just wouldn’t feel the same at all. And I don't know quite why, though it's likely to do with chemicals. Regardless, it was intriguing.

After we grew bored of this we followed the exhibit as it wound through displays of previous Roman existence, and some of it was cool and some was not. Amongst the cool stuff (in my opinion) were ancient statues and pillars and colourful tiled mosaics, and even ancient stone coffins. The ancient remains of the temple and courtyard and altar areas were also okay. Next came the Spring Overflow (pictured), with a torrent of water crashing down into a pool from a natural opening in the wall before it is diverted through a Roman drain of ancient leaden pipes to the River Avon, about four hundred metres away. At the time I thought that this was the Sacred Spring, for it's laden with coin offerings. The lip of the overflow is a copper yellow, either from natural minerals or from the copper coins thrown into its depression. It smells amazing, very herbal and earthy, and the warmth of it and the spray of the falling water enhance the smell. But it's actually the overflow or drain from the baths, so it's on the other end of the process than the Sacred Spring. I threw in a copper anyway and wished for happy travels.

Further along were more exhibits and ancient roman rooms. Some were filled with strange high stacks of what looked like tiles. This was apparently called hypocaust pilae, and was a Roman method of central heating. They would build the floor above these tiles, with them holding it up, and there would be an accessible furnace underneath all this which would circulate beneath the floor to heat it before escaping through chimney-like tiles around the walls to heat the air. Just like a modern-day spa. There were even the remains of what were originally cold-water pools, so that the Romans could sweat it out in the sauna and then plunge themselves into the icy water, à la the Swiss with their famous sauna-and-snow antics.

After that, finally, was the Sacred Spring, which looked like a smaller, more enclosed version of the Great Bath, but with steam clouds rolling across its surface. The surface bubbled with more small pockets of gasses (as the main bath did, but with many more). Again, there was that smell of herbal earthiness. But unlike the Great Bath, the Sacred Spring is seen only through huge ancient glass-less stone windows; a no-tourist zone. No surreptitious dipping of the fingers here or leisurely strolling about its edges. Which was a disappointment - I would have liked to discover just how hot the water was. Judging from the steam clouds, it was pretty damn hot.

Eventually we made it back out. We didn't have the money to have lunch in high style in the famous Pump Room, and weren't too fond of the idea of drinking the bath water sold there - even if it was treated - so we bypassed that and spilled out into the street. Retrospectively, I would have liked to spend some time in the Pump Room, mentioned in so many of Jane Austen's works and in other novels of or about that time. The Pump Room actually has nothing at all to do with the Romans, but was built when Bath became so popular amongst the English gentry in the 1800's. They would come to the Roman Baths to socialize and to swan about, fully clothed, within its waters in the hope of curing whatever ailed them. In one Austen-inspired movie, I forget which, the characters are actually wading through the neck-high water with floating plates in front of them, eating and gossiping! Lud! But it was a huge cultural hub of the time and I wish I had abandoned the girls at that point and explored it a little.

Instead I wandered with them about the town with no real goal, which I can find very irritating. I wanted to get a map or find a walking tour and visit absolutely everything of import, but restrained myself and went along with them. Directly behind (or beside or near, in any case) the Roman Baths was the towering Bath Abbey, a huge yellow ornately ornamented giant of a building. It was very pretty and dates from the 1400's. It's more a Cathedral than an Abbey, but apparently the official cathedral for the diocese is in another country - go figure.

There were street displays and amusements all around, as it was the Bath Fringe Festival - I'd timed my visit especially for it, incidentally, if I forgot to mention. Tina had been eager to come a fortnight later, but I wanted to be there for the festival. Unfortunately, Jenny and Amy seemed more interested in the jewellery stalls than the entertainment. I stopped to laugh at two naked Englishmen doing acrobatics and comedic displays in black g-strings. At one point they had sparklers between their butt cheeks and were doing acrobatic on their hands! They were pretty funny and quick to banter with the crowd, but the girls wanted to wander on, so off we went. I was so sure I'd be miserable by myself that I wandered around with them doing everything I wasn't interested in - and having a nice time, don’t get me wrong, I'm not saying it was awful, just mildly frustrating - until, finally, I realised that I wanted to see the things on my list more than I wanted to socialize.

So we parted ways genially, and I tracked down the famous landmarks of the area, most of which are pictured, including the Royal Crescent, The Circus, and Queen Square with it's non-Egyptian obelisk. To be fair, I had seen The Circus and Queen Square with the girls, but with no maps or information, was unaware of their import until I got organised and searched them out. The Circus is quite impressive, like an enormous spoked wheel with a big green patch of grass about the size of a school oval and ancient towering trees in its centre. Around this is a perfect circle of road with four streets leading away into the city in a giant cross formation, and between them are four curving yellow Georgian blocks of high-class formerly-gentrified buildings. What enchanted me, though, was that the houses surrounding the oval have little below-ground courtyards between the footpath and the house, and in the courtyards I could see shadowy arches leading into some secret destination under the road. I wondered what those arches led to. Likely they were just shallow garden storerooms or similar, but I prefer to speculate that maybe there is a warren of tunnels under the Circus connecting the houses or something - though I cannot divine a purpose for such.

I went to the Museum of Costume, which was also an exhibit of Assembly Rooms from the 1800's. The costume museum was a bit boring, aside from the part where you get to try on a corset - egad -, but oh, the Assembly Rooms! My heart soared, walking through them, and I rebelled against the ban on photos, which is why you can see them here, though unfortunately the rooms were too enormous for my little camera and it does not do them justice.

The Assembly Rooms are where the titled English gentry of the past would gather for balls and assemblies and so forth, where they would dance, play cards, drink tea and listen to music. Imagine every regency or historical movie you've ever seen, every Jane Austen book, and their lavish parties. Imagine the ladies in their swirling, tightly-laced ballroom gowns and the men in their own gentlemanly splendour. These rooms, with their soaring ceilings and huge, echoing, lavishly decorated spaces, had witnessed such days.

The dozens of crystal chandeliers are electric now, but once upon a time they were lit with a million tiny candles. The windows, set so high up in the walls to prevent passers-by from espying the elegant at play, are large and numerous. Everywhere you look there is ornamental plasterwork, carefully elegant furnishings, amazingly ornate and numerous mirrors, and dozens of deeply recessed fireplaces to warm the rooms during winter festivities. In the Octagonal Room there are huge old paintings of elegantly attired gentry high up on the walls where we mere tourists cannot be tempted to touch them. Wandering through the rooms, I could almost hear the band strike up a waltz or country dance, could almost see the firelight dancing upon the faces of the people milling there. It was an entirely enjoyable little daydream.

Soon after that I made my way through the lovely old streets to the park by the river Avon. I wandered away from the centre of the city, following the path alongside the river. After jumping a gate or two to dip my hands into the River Avon (and delighting in the moment, for the River Avon is another famous landmark for those hopelessly avid readers of all things past such as myself), I wandered back along the other side of the bank and soon found myself following the sound of jazz music to a showground. There, at the edge of the green, was a big colourful tent and a crowd of festive people. Jackpot!

I went in, bought a drink and sat down amongst the locals to enjoy the music, which was amazing. The lead singer played a cello and her partner played a guitar. I do not know how to categorise their music, but it was like jazz, French, soul, and the fiery crescendo of Spanish music all rolled into one. She had an amazing voice and sang most of the songs in the French or maybe Basque language. The tent itself seemed very French, all made of velvet ceilings and elaborately decorated wooden booths with colourful walls and lamps and mirrors and folk paintings. The floor was wooden paneling and if it were not for the ceiling I would have thought the room a permanent fixture. The centre of the roof was made of a thin yellow fabric which allowed the light to stream through and taint the tables beneath with a garish yellow glow. It was all perfect and dreamy and festive.

Eventually I had to leave to catch the bus, and was soon on my way back to London. I chatted with Jenny and Amy for a while about our days and was glad I'd gone the last part of it alone - our tastes and priorities are just too different. I didn't offer my phone number and they did not offer theirs; I think we all knew it just would not work out. But I had a fantastic day and did not regret our time together. More importantly, I realised that not only is it not a bad thing to be alone, but that sometimes it can be much better than having to compromise your priorities for somebody else's.

Strange, is it not, how former behaviours and thoughts can continue on into your life; in school, from primary to secondary and even tertiary, unless you're with somebody you are considered a 'loner', a 'nigel', somebody without friends. The aim of your lunch hours is to surround yourself with allies. If they're genuine friends, all the better, but if not then at least they're figures on your social tally, proof of your status, of how fashionable you are. It's insane, really, and there are other, less dignified names for it. Like the 'sheep syndrome'. Safety in numbers and all that.

But stuff it, because I'm not alone. I'm with me.

(P.S. the photos of the River Avon and the tent and singers and all are film, not digital, as my batteries died. So it will take a while to post them).

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Photos

Roman Baths
The "Great Bath", surrounded by columns, terraces and Roman statues.