London to York, Day 2: Roche Abbey (sort of), the elusive Church and the Buzzard Sisters

The plan was to hit Conisborough Castle and Roche Abbey, plus both of the nearby churches near each property, before sliding into York to check into Lady Anne Middleton's Hotel, our haunt from last year.

It was probably an overly ambitious itinerary to begin with, but a calendar-challenged reservation clerk somewhere in the bowels of EuropCar's bureaucracy spiked it months earlier beyond any hope. It was obvious that were we going to orphan something. Which, we actually figured, was not a huge deal, since both properties were kind of on the way to Nottingham and we figured we'd just hit them on day 5 when we headed south again.

England was back to being small again.

So, we just cruised up the A1. I was a Highway Star.

We didn't really check to see what time Roche Abbey closed, but it seemed like the best bet for a damaged-agenda hail Mary. We exited the highway at a place called Blyth, caught an unsurprisingly narrow country road and exited it toward the Abbey (getting severely honked at in the process), then eased our way down an impossibly steep, cobblestone lane into a lush valley.

There were a few nature-walkers about - but the Abbey itself was closed, or just about to be closed. The gatehouse was accessible though, and there was a lengthy pathway outside the fenced Abbey property which afforded a decent view of the abbey ruins, so we got a few pictures anyway.

Roche Abbey Gatehouse

Roche Abbey ruins

Roche Abbey - from inside the gatehouse

We made a mental note to come back. (We didn't.)

Sharon had marked the church in Maltby, which was the closest town to the Abbey, but time was running short and after a half-hearted attempt to find the place (which, as it turns out, really isn't that easy to get to anyway, as we will see in a later chapter), we got back on the A1 and blasted toward York.

We entered the city from the south, through the excruciatingly narrow Mickelgate Bar. The used to hang the severed heads of traitors from this structure.

We got to the hotel, checked in and dropped the bags off. We remembered the Surly Desk Clerk from last year.

The smoking garden awaited - I brought out a cider.

At the next table were a couple of heavy set, sixtyish woman, sitting across from each other. They greeted us with an unmistakably American "Hi!", and we got to talking. They were sisters - one from Seattle, the other from Alaska - who were at the leading edge of a ten week vacation that was to take them across northern England, Scotland, Italy, Spain and finally on a boat to Florida. Our two week trip up and down the east of England seemed puny by comparison.

The larger and younger of the two asked, "How are you getting around?" Uh, driving.

"Oh my, I be too terrified to drive over here." Hmmm.

We finished up and headed into town for dinner at Thomas's [sic], our favorite pub from last year.

By the end of the next day, we were referring to them as the Buzzard Sisters.