England Day 5
England Day Five
My eyes weren't open yet, but I was already late for something—an all-too-familiar feeling. Today’s adventure featured a private driver whisking us to Highclere Castle (a.k.a. Downton Abbey) and then onward to Stone Lake Winery. I was pumped for the itinerary but plagued by one dread: sitting up front with the driver. With my gangly knees, I’m always the sacrificial lamb in Ubers, and I couldn’t stomach the idea of solo small talk for an hour and a half while everyone else snoozed. I’d been promised a seven-passenger vehicle, which offered hope.
The driver pulled up in a van large enough to house a minor royal family. My relief was short-lived. He took one look at me and declared, “You’re a pretty big guy. Why don’t you sit up front with me?” Cue internal sobbing. To add insult to injury, I confidently walked to the right side of the vehicle, only to remember this was England. My audience of loved ones found this hilarious. I climbed into the left side and sobbed externally.
Things took a turn when I noticed he selected the “home” button on his GPS. Did he live at Highclere? Were we moving in? Alas, no. He lived in the neighboring village. Within minutes, I could tell this guy was a pro. Overprepared and brimming with Downton Abbey trivia, he even detoured to show us an off-site film set. “It’s just up on the left,” he said. Turns out, “up on the left” was where a crowd of hundreds had gathered.
When I mentioned my ongoing quest to untangle the tangled web of British monarchs, he said, “I actually carry a list.” Of course, he did. From his James-Bond-esque pocket, he produced a neatly folded cheat sheet of every monarch and their respective lines. He explained it all, weaving in stories so gripping I wanted to take notes. Glancing back, I found my companions sound asleep. Their loss. These nuggets were mine to recycle as my own.
At Highclere Castle, he truly shone. While we snapped photos and hit the bathrooms, he secured our spot in line. Just as he neared the entrance, we rejoined him. It was a masterclass in line-cutting—smooth, professional, and guilt-free. Despite my momentary panic when he hadn’t yet produced our tickets, his unflappable demeanor carried the day. He greeted the ticket taker like an old friend, and she waved us in.
His insider knowledge didn’t stop there. He navigated us through the house and gardens with precision. By the end, other tourists were asking him questions, which I tried—and failed—to intercept. He was our guide, and I was possessive. Time ticked down, and we needed to leave for our winery appointment. While the others lingered in the gardens, he and I staged a strategic sit-in in the car. Surely, they’d take the hint. They did not.
We finally corralled everyone and hit the road, agreeing to a 45-minute lunch to keep the schedule. At the restaurant, our guide’s commanding presence once again worked wonders. Despite an empty dining room, he announced, “We have a booking for four,” and secured our table with the gravitas of a royal decree. He even expedited the process by taking our orders himself when the server’s water-fetching pace didn’t meet his standards. I regretfully skipped a beer, which seemed to disappoint him. I hated to let him down, but I had to save myself for the winery. My fish and chips arrived magma-hot, effectively incinerating my taste buds.
The winery began with a surprise. They led us to a field boasting a grand total of six vines. My skepticism flared. “How exactly do you produce wine from 50 grapes?” The answer: this was decorative. The real vineyards were off-site. The guide’s explanations were so thorough that I didn’t get to flex my carefully rehearsed wine lingo. Apparently, German grapes that struggle in Germany thrive in England. Their Bacchus wine—a Latin name for a German grape grown in England—was nearly sold out. Panic-buying ensued. We ended up with five bottles until our guide hollered, “10% off if you get six.”
In unison, “GET ANOTHER BOTTLE!”
Dinner was at an Italian restaurant with an inexplicable fixation on shellfish. Were we in some niche subcategory of Italian cuisine? The wine prices also raised eyebrows. Enter our server with a rewards club pitch. My wife perked up, ready to hear the terms. While I doubted we’d ever return, the deal offered half-priced wine. Sold. We joined, saved a bundle, and consigned their emails to my junk folder.
The day wasn’t complete without sticky toffee pudding from Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant. I added the recommended dessert wine pairing—a decision that drew side-eye for its expense but delivered in flavor. Worth every penny.
We avoided pubs boasting “cask ale” on their signs, hissing as we passed. Instead, we landed at The Shakespeare Pub, where I claimed a throne-like padded chair and demanded 200 photos in various beer-drinking poses. My antics caught the attention of the neighboring table, four men who—initially puzzled by my theatrics—became fast friends. They knew Disney World but none of the states I rattled off. One of them turned out to be from Tampa, restoring my faith in Florida’s international ambassador program.
I ordered a cold beer, silently apologizing to my tour guide. Some compromises had to be made.
