Luckily, apart from that small hiccup—still in the stages of rectification by my bank—my summer travels have been nothing short of epic. Starting in Boston, continuing with a wedding on beautiful Cape Cod, transitioning to my childhood home in the suburbs of New York City, then hopping across the Pond for wedding number two in dear old Blighty, and concluding with a five day romp around the pastoral countryside of Hampshire, this trip has been varied, hectic, exhausting, magical and utterly unforgettable. I'll treasure the memories—and photographs—for the rest of my life.
It all started with the long flight, the first time I've caught Cathay's direct flight to Boston instead of New York. I guess I would have landed and headed straight to Cape Cod for the wedding, but a corporate client in town and a Friday morning meeting, made a perfect excuse to linger for the night, enjoy a waterfront Sam Adams and squeeze in a quick meet-up with my pal Jimmy.
I met up with some other wedding peeps around midday on Friday afternoon, Kristen and Bryan, and we picked up a fourth guest, Christian, at Logan International Airport before the long ride to Falmouth. Ironically, it was only my second time on Cape Cod, also for a wedding, and also in the small town of Falmouth where Shea and Jen got married back in 2014!
One of my favorite thing about weddings—and I've been to a lot of them—is that they almost always seem to perfectly reflect the unique personalities of the friends who are tying the knot. In this case, my colleague Kevin and his now-wife Erica were the happy couple, and simplicity ruled the day. It was unbelievably beautiful to be welcomed by so many of their pals who—while really complete strangers to me—treated me like family from the get go.
Whether feasting on fried clams and lobster rolls by the water or sipping craft beers on the back deck of the communal AirBnB, I've never made so many friends in such short succession. And Cape Cod is, of course, the perfect venue for summer nuptials.
Back in Boston around 4pm, I arrived at South Station with Kristen and Christian, where I approached the Amtrak ticket window to book passage on one of the frequent trains to New York. I was shocked to learn that the only available seats were on the last train of the evening, a 9pm departure! And even that train was nearly sold out! Snapping up my ticket, I reached out to trusty Jimmy, and he gamely met me again, easing what could have been a painful wait before boarding time.
Around 6am the following morning—after a dreadful wait in Penn Station before I caught the first New Jersey Transit train to Matawan—I had a pork roll, egg and cheese on a bagel at home with my old man.
New Jersey in the summertime cannot be beat. Whether spending an afternoon with my dad and sister on the beach at Sandy Hook, or gorging on seafood with a view of the Raritan Bay, or visiting an old working farm where we used to play as kids, or even simply savoring an ice coffee on our house's back deck, it's simple pleasures that rule the day.
Of course, there were also trips into Manhattan, and meet-ups with the usual suspects, like Heidi, Rusty, Kristen, CJ, Lisa and Ryan, among others! And time spent with my aunts, uncle and many cousins also filled my eleven days of bliss.
But then it was off to England, for my first visit since the "monumental fortnight" of the London Olympics! There was a time in my life when trips to the United Kingdom were frequent. I studied abroad there in the summer of 2006, was back twice in 2009 as I prepped for my move to Hong Kong, spent two weeks working from my previous firm's office there in 2010 and had one of my life's greatest experience there that summer in 2012. But for some reason, after that, the visits ended.
I was almost immediately reminded why I love the place so much, and when I met up with my friend Amy—the most gracious of hosts—and she took me for fish and chips, I made a promise to myself that I'll never let six years elapse between trips again.
You may remember Amy and her brother Alex from previous posts, as they were both a major feature in the earlier days of my Hong Kong life. Alex left Hong Kong in December 2011, Amy followed in mid-2012, but we've all remained great friends throughout. So when Alex popped the question to his then-girlfriend Hannah, I knew a British wedding was in my near future. What an honor it was to attend, and what a wedding it was!
Alex and Hannah—whom I'd never actually met before the wedding—got hitched at a British country house in Surrey, outside of London. The likes of Ginger Rogers, David Niven and Charlie Chaplin all stayed there during the golden age, and it was like something out of an old Agatha Christie novel.
Called Great Fosters, the place had wood-panelled corridors, ancient portraits of notable nobles, a hedge garden, a moat and numerous fireplaces that were lit by discreet staff whenever a guest plopped down on the nearest couch. I've never experienced service like that in my life!
The wedding was planned over the course of a three day weekend (or a "Bank Holiday Weekend" as the British call them). Thus, Saturday was a festival of outdoor games and activities in glorious sunshine, while the wedding itself took place on Sunday afternoon. Since nobody had to be at work on Monday, it was a leisurely segue back into real life. And it was even easier for me, since I still had a week of holiday ahead of me!
In fact, Sarah and her boyfriend David picked me up at Great Fosters at 10am on Monday morning, with their delightful Labradoodle puppy Mali in tow! These guys matched Amy's hosting prowess, having arranged for an incredible romp around their rural county, Hampshire, for the next week, so all I had to do was wake up and my days were planned.
I dubbed those five days the Great British Pub Crawl, because everything seemed to revolve around a trip to at least one notable watering hole. But, literally, every one was unique and so inviting. My running joke was that I labeled each "my favorite" and declared it "one of the best pubs I've ever been to anywhere." The funny part is, I wasn't lying!
That first day was mostly spent in Petersfield, the town where Sarah and Dave live. There was a festival taking place in the town square, and we swilled ales and IPAs as we listened to live music and enjoyed the glorious weather.
"Now we want to take you to the Queen's Head. It's our local spot, and we can walk from here," Sarah said after a few pints. It was a perfect introduction to the concept of the country pub, a distinct type of drinking establishment marked by outdoor gardens and an uber-laid back ambiance. The Queen's Head is in the tiny village of Sheet, and it's a picture perfect spot. Mali was able to run around in the garden, and I kicked my shoes off for most of the afternoon. Sarah's sister Ruth and her kids Jessie and Kenai even came by for a little while, and it was so nice to spend time with them.
"Oh, look. Josh Hartnett just came in," Ruth said at one point. I thought it was a joke, but the group chimed in with reassurances.
"No, it's really him. He and his wife send their kids to a nearby school, and they're here all the time." I turned over my shoulder again to take a closer look. It was entirely true. I was drinking the same garden as Josh Hartnett, and twenty minutes or so later, when I went inside to the bar to order our next round, he came up next to me and made some remark about the weather or something. It was a surreal moment in my life.
Back at home, we watched the Laurence Olivier/Greer Garson version of
Pride and Prejudice, in anticipation of the day to follow. Complete with nightcaps and puppy love, it was a charming evening.
Early Tuesday morning, Sarah, Ally and I headed to Winchester, a lovely city about twenty miles from Petersfield, famous for its cathedral, its eponymous boarding school, its pubs and its connection to legendary writer Jane Austen.
We parked the car at Saint Catherine's Hill and walked for about one mile alongside the tranquil River Itchen, a crystal clear chalk stream that flows through the countryside and right into the heart of town.
Our first stop was the famous cathedral, with its illuminated manuscript, stunning stained glass windows and centuries-old tombs. Austen's resting place is probably the church's most famous feature, but the entire place was mesmerizing, and we spent a long while walking around admiring the art and history.
Then it was pub time! Winchester is home to many amazing drinking establishments, and Sarah and Ally took me around to three of their favorites: the Royal Oak, established in the year 1002, the Bishop on the Bridge, with a delightful terrace overlooking the clear waters of the Itchen, and my personal favorite, the Black Boy, which was amusingly cluttered with all manner of art and artifacts, including old movie posters, taxidermied animals, thousands of books and dusty antiques.
I've never experienced a pub quite like the Black Boy. Ally, Sarah and I plopped down at a table and played Jenga and a trivia game, sipping our beers in a truly unique spot. I couldn't help wandering around again before we had to leave. I sincerely hope I one day have the chance to return. I'd make the trip to Winchester again just to revisit. Yes, it was that special.
In between pints, we also popped into the Great Hall of Winchester Castle, where Ally and I had way too much fun with a costume rack and my iPhone. The hall is iconic because it houses an enormous circular tabletop mounted on the wall, purported to be King Arthur's legendary round table. According to scientists and historians, this particular piece of furniture is significantly younger than it would need to be if it were actually connected to the sixth century king. However, it's much more fun to believe the association.
We walked along the Itchen again to reach the car, motored back to Petersfield, had dinner in Sarah and David's garden and hatched our plan for the night. Up to this point in the trip, my trio of hosts couldn't stop talking about a pub called the Harrow in the neighboring village of Steep. Only a few miles from the house, the place seemed to be everybody's favorite local watering hole.
"It's just so simple and spectacular," Sarah said. "They say that dogs are allowed, but children must be kept on a leash!"
"A real old-fashioned kind of a place... They even keep traditional pub hours and only accept cash," David informed me.
"You'll love it," added Ally. "It's been around for ever and was named Britain's most unspoiled pub." A quick call confirmed they were open that night, so off we went.
I don't know quite how to describe the Harrow. Looking back at the trip now, I feel like photographs do some amount of justice in capturing the funny charms of the Queen's Head, the Bishop on the Bridge and the Black Boy. But the Harrow had this old world, unphotographable sort of character.
We had our first round of drinks inside, in a small, dark panelled room. Dried hops lined the ceiling, and an old book of clippings recounted the pub's colorful past. Another table was occupied by chatty group of pensioners, whose conversation mentioned seeing
Gone With the Wind in the cinema but also included mentions of
Harry Potter.
Counting our notes and coins—remember, the place is cash only and there isn't an ATM for miles—we realized we did have sufficient funds for a second round. Migrating outdoors to the atmospheric front tables, we continued the party. "Autumn's in the air tonight," Sarah observed. Perhaps affected by the cloudy cider I was drinking, I misheard her, and replied, "Yes,
awesome really is in the air tonight. This place is wonderful!"
Everybody laughed, and it became the running joke of the week. It was an unforgettable introduction to Britain's most unspoiled pub.
Wednesday was a day I'd been looking forward to for a long time. Sarah had mentioned in the planning stages of this trip that our mutual friend Fiona (who had worked in Hong Kong) was currently living in the Channel Islands, specifically in Jersey. Flight time is just about thirty minutes and the airfare wasn't expensive. Plus, Fi and her boyfriend Scott were willing to host us for the night... Would I be interested in a vacation from my vacation? My answer: hell, yes! This New Jersey native was about to venture into Old (Olde?) Jersey!
So around mid-morning, David drove Sarah and I to neighboring Southampton, where there is a tiny airport by the Channel. Although our takeoff was slightly delayed, the fight time is short enough that I hardly cared. We had a round of drinks in the airport bar, and before I knew it, we were with Fi and her friend Rosie picnicking on Saint Ouen's Beach on the original Jersey Shore!
Scott operates a surf shop on the picturesque beach—complete with an ancient castle—and so we all donned wetsuits, grabbed some boogie boards, and headed out into the surf for a fun afternoon catching waves.
We only had one night on the island, and Fi was determined to make it memorable. And she was clearly delighted at how overzealous I was about visiting. When I told her that the name of the man who founded New Jersey was Sir George Carteret, who was granted a royal charter by the king to establish a colony in North America, her eyes lit up.
"Sir George Carteret! There's a pub named the Sir George Carteret that I drive past every day. We have to go for a drink there tonight!"
A statue of the nobleman stands proudly outside the pub, and I gleefully posed for photos slapping the back of the original Jersey boy.
Granted, the statue and the bar were solely of interest to me because of my own personal history, but the next stop of the evening, the Prince of Wales Pub, would have impressed nearly anybody. Precariously perched on a cliffside overlooking Greve de Lecq beach, the pub affords a stellar view of the Channel.
If time had permitted, I would have wanted to stay much longer. Heck, the place doubles as an inn, and I would been delighted to rent a room upstairs and stay overnight if I could. But if we wanted to see more of the island before it got dark, it was time to be making tracks.
The sun had started setting as we made our way towards the Devil's Hole, a natural blowhole that is one of the island's top tourist attractions. Our timing was pretty impeccable, for as we parked the car and began our stroll, the sky was painted incredibly rich shades of orange and gold, interspersed by billowy, blue clouds floating over the dark sea and green-and-brown cliffs.
Of course, there's not much daylight left after the sun actually sets, and Fi made clear to us that Jersey shuts down pretty early. Still, even just driving past the beautiful farmlands, with the famous Jersey cows grazing, was a memorable sight.
We got to Fi and Scott's lovely apartment just after darkness set in, and she and Scott ordered tasty Indian food, which was delivered to the house. We ate it in their dining room, complete with good conversation, making new friends, spending time with old friends... New Jersey might have slightly bawdier nightlife—apparently everything in Olde Jersey shuts down before 8pm—but I can't say it wasn't a lovely evening.
Fi and Scott had to head to work, but they shared a car that morning, leaving Rosie, Sarah and me a second one to get around. Since Fi works within walking distance to the airport and Rosie was also flying out around the same time as Sarah and I, we could just drop the car off in Fi's parking lot before meandering a few minutes down the road to catch our flights later.
Our first stop of the morning was Gorey, which is pretty much the definition of a picture-perfect harbor. I think it's one of the most visually arresting places I've ever seen, with a formidable thirteenth century fortress called Mont Orgueil towering over a postcard of a waterfront village, with pastel-colored houses and shops fronting a marina filled with boats.
Quaint little eateries, coffeeshops and cafes dot the tiny town, and we loaded up on breakfast pastries and coffees before continuing our island tour. Gorey is definitely a place that warrants more time to explore, and I was immediately smitten with it.
Driving around the island's small streets and villages was certainly memorable, even if we couldn't stop everywhere to explore. It confirmed what I had first felt the night before: that my first visit to Jersey will not be my last. One place we did stop was Portelet Bay, a rocky promontory with dramatic views down to crashing waves and inlets.
But our main objective of the morning was to visit the Jersey War Tunnels, the island's signature attraction, which tells the virtually unknown story of the German occupations of the Channel Islands during World War II.
I was profoundly moved by the very touching museum, which does about as good a job as I could ever imagine of making one actually feel what it must have been like to live under occupation by a foreign army.
If you ever have the chance to go to Jersey, my number one recommendation is the Jersey War Tunnels. You'll learn a tragically forgotten slice of history, a tale of collaborators and resistance fighters, of heroes, villains, and plenty of others whose actions are so much more complex than the simple black-or-white view we tend to favor. Imagine being hungry—or, worse, imagine your children or elderly parents being hungry—and knowing that if you just reported your neighbor for having a forbidden radio set, you would be rewarded with food. It's very easy to think we'd all be so noble as to have resisted the temptation. The Jersey War Tunnels really puts you in the shoes of those who lived through this harrowing ordeal, and makes you ask deep, personal questions of yourself.
In no way, shape or form was I ready to leave the island, but we didn't really have a choice. We made a quick stop back to Scott's surf shop to thank him again and then said another goodbye to Fi as we dropped off the car at her work, before catching our flights back to Great Britain. But I'll never forget my first visit to Jersey. Mark my words: I will be back, and for a much longer trip!
Trusty David was there to pick us up after we had touched down in Southampton on Thursday afternoon, along with Ally and an eager Mali, who had clearly missed Sarah very much over the past twenty-four hours. We drove straight to the Shoe, a pub in Exton that everybody had a feeling I would just adore.
What can I say? My friends know me well. The Shoe was absolutely adorable. An old brick building with a steeply slanted roof, the pub is abutted by a glorious garden with the River Meon traversing straight through it. We only had time for one pint here before it shut for the afternoon, but it was a memorable pint, to be sure.
The bar hop continued at the Pub With No Name, about twenty minutes' drive away. Unfortunately, David had some work to attend to, but he dropped Sarah, Ally, Mali and I off and promised to come back for us later.
First things first, a little backstory. The Pub With No Name is
technically called the White Horse. Sarah told me that during World War II, a great many businesses took down their signage to protect them from any aerial bombardment. For whatever reason, the White Horse never replaced theirs after the armistice. So although it's still legally licensed as the White Horse, there's no way you'd ever know that by looking around. Thus, locals refer to it affectionately as the Pub With No Name.
We ordered a round of pints, some pork scratchings and a delicious chicken liver pate. Firmly planting ourselves in the charming garden, we were ready for a proper session. Pint after pint followed: No Name Pale (3.8%), No Name Strong (5.5%), No Name Best (3.6%)... and when David did return to collect us, we convinced him to join us for one last beer before all heading home.
Dave cooked us all a delicious Jamaican jerk chicken that evening, which we ate in the garden. It was hard to believe the next day was the end of my trip, but I couldn't complain about how perfectly everything had turned out.
On Friday, Ally's mother Alison volunteered to drive us both to Portsmouth, a city most famous for its historic dockyard and notable ships, like the Mary Rose and Nelson's HMS Victory. Ever since I've been a kid, I've been fascinated by Lord Horatio Nelson: movie dramatizations of his life and career, his gallant statue standing atop Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square in London...As historical figures go, he has always captivated me. So with the limited time we'd have, my number one priority was to take a tour of the Victory.
Alison very graciously treated me to my ticket—audio tour included—and also bought me a lovely souvenir book with gorgeous photos and text recalling the story of the ship and her top-to-bottom restoration. Wandering the various decks, both indoor and outdoor, was simply fascinating. And the docents stationed throughout the ship were veritable fonts of knowledge.
Whether standing in the kitchen, or the bowels of the ship, or Lord Nelson's bedroom, or beside the mizzenmast, I loved every minute of the experience. Learning the minute-by-minute history of the Battle of Trafalgar alongside tales of Nelson's earlier life and the stories of other important personnages aboard the Victory was unforgettable.
En route to Petersfield, Alison and Ally suggested returning to the Harrow for lunch. A quick call confirmed they were indeed open, so off we went. The ambiance was entirely different than it had been a few nights before. During my previous nocturnal visit, only a few other guests were present. Now the whole place was jam-packed with what seemed like regulars taking advantage of what might possibly be one of the last full-fledged days of summer. Especially popular was the backyard garden, where gin-and-tonics were downed, dogs ran amok off their leashes and everybody seemed to be having a swell, old time.
The Harrow is renowned among locals for its simply but delicious Ploughman's Lunch, a large plate filled with newly baked bread, home-churned butter, fresh vegetables, sharp British Stilton, and house caramelized onions. With such top-notch ingredients, a simple combination like that is transmuted into pure magic.
It was a truly delightful lunch, and would have been even without the added pleasure of the company. Combined, it was unadulterated perfection. So tranquil and cheerful were the three of us that we decided to have another round of drinks, if only our combined coinage would tally up to the required sum. As fate would have it, we were just a wee bit short... And then, in one of the quirkiest moments I've ever witnessed, Ally unzipped a random pouch from her mother's purse to reveal wads of previously-forgotten bank notes—over two hundred pounds! The purse, Alison explained, had been purchased years ago from a second hand shop somewhere or other. The previous owner must have donated it without thoroughly emptying it! As it was, it had taken Ally searching through the purse years later to finally discover them! I'll never forget that lunch.
My first dinner in London with Amy had consisted of fish and chips, as did my last with Sarah, David, Mali and their friend Taria later that night in Petersfield, making an appropriate bookend to this incredible voyage.
The bar was called The Old Drum, the last on the litany of incredible watering holes I visited during that epic week, so many of which surely are now on my list of best pubs ever. We made a few final stops, first at a place called Annie Jones and then at another called the Charles Street Tap, before we all returned home via taxi and I forced everybody to watch a few episodes of
What's My Line? before turning in.
My flights home were painless, with FinnAir shuttling me from Heathrow to Helsinki, before at last depositing me safely in good old Hong Kong, where a waggily-tailed pooch was anxiously awaiting my arrival!
Fredric eases the pain of the end of a holiday, and so does a good horse race. So only a few hours after I landed, I met up with Matt and Ana to head to Sha Tin for the opening day of the new racing season! It was a glorious day in the warm weather, and I was glad not to need a sweater any more! I won a few nice bets, too, which hopefully will help tide me over as the bank sorts out my issues.
After the races—as you can probably guess—we headed to Shatin Inn, where yours truly delighted in savoring Asian cuisine after so many Western goodies over the previous weeks. Satays grilling on the table and gado-gado doused in peanut dressing, Tsing Tao freely flowing... As Frank Sinatra once sang, "It's very nice to go trav'ling, but it's oh so nice to come home."
