Approaching Avalon, Part I
Amy Hadden Marsh
Carbondale
Legend has it that the ancient, mystical isle of Avalon is tricky to find, that in ages past pilgrims often got lost in the mist that surrounded the island, never to be found. Certain romantic Arthurian legends say that King Arthur’s body was returned to Avalon after his death at the hands of his son, Mordred. In 1191, the monks of Glastonbury Abbey in Somerset, England claimed to have discovered King Arthur’s grave. Their claim is history, but the truth of the claim remains legend. Nonetheless, Glastonbury has been synonymous with Avalon ever since.
Fast-forward 832 years to a recent October afternoon when Legend had me in its grip, like white knuckles on a steering wheel, as I drove from Bristol to Glastonbury. “A 45-minute drive,” said the bloke at the car rental place. But, the ghosts of all those dismal pilgrims who lost their way to Avalon had other plans. They must have been lined up along the roads and roundabouts as I ventured south, pointing me in the wrong direction.
I headed out from Bristol Airport in the rain in the rental — wider, said the bloke, than what the English usually drive. Wider? My spidey sense began to tingle. I was fairly confident, if not a bit anxious, with the idea of driving on the left side of the road from the right side of the car. I had been told to keep the center line on my right and to hug the left side of the left lane, which I did to the detriment of the front left quadrant of the “wider” car when I scraped off the mirror against a building.
I knew less about how to drive the roundabouts. British roundabouts are nothing like the ones in the Roaring Fork Valley, which I now call “Leggo© roundabouts.” I also didn’t know how to set up the e-map in the car, so I used the Google Map on my phone to guide my drive, which kept switching off every five seconds. I guess I thought that by following highway signs and the map, I’d be okay. But, I wasn’t.
My biggest problem was not understanding the four-exit scenario of the roundabouts combined with a lack of familiar landmarks. Every time I came to a roundabout, I lost the highway thread. I would inevitably get honked at, freak out and spin off the first exit that presented itself. My hopes would soar when I saw a road sign tempting me with “Glastonbury” and an arrow pointing in the right direction only to plummet after losing my way in a roundabout and heading in another direction.
Around sunset, I found myself at Burnham-On-Sea, which, as its name implies, is on the coast, about 30 miles southwest of Bristol and 20 miles northwest of Glastonbury. I found a Tesco — the UK’s version of City Market — and, for normalcy’s sake, decided to go in for a spot of grocery shopping. I bought water and slippers and a box of Walker’s Shortbread. Outside in the parking lot, I struck up a conversation with Charlie and Maddie, two young women out in their car for a Friday night in a small town. Upon hearing my plight, they offered to help me find a hotel. They led the way and I followed but not before I crashed into a parking divider.
Fortunately, Charlie advised me to stay left at the upcoming roundabout, which helped when their car disappeared behind a large van. We ended up on the waterfront, looking out over a dark sea toward Wales. All of the hotels were full, so off we went to a Travelodge that Charlie knew of, only this time she didn’t mention which way to go at the roundabout. To this day, they don’t know if I survived the night.
When I lost sight of them, I was once again adrift on a sea of highways with no guiding light, totally lost in the dark and the pouring rain without any sense of direction. Panic began to swirl around me like mist around Avalon.
To be continued …