Amsterdam, Salisbury, & Teffont

Sprinting across Bristol’s cobblestoned streets with a wheeled suitcase at 4:00 a.m. is one way to earn a reputation with the neighbors.
I did, however, catch the bus to the airport.

Upon landing in Amsterdam, passengers shared puzzled looks as we stepped into a pitch-black Schipol airport. Some not-so-stealthy eavesdropping revealed there’d been a massive power outage across the Netherlands and operations were at a standstill. The implications of this fact did not register with me as I cheerily approached a Travelex agent:

“Hello! So I don’t have any cash, but could I give you my debit card in exchange for euros?” A cold stare.

“As you might have noticed, our machines and computers are down. We must perform every transaction by pen and paper because the airport has lost power. In order to use your card, I would have to use the card machine.”

My cheeks burned as I tried in vain to share a laugh with her. Later, another customer service rep was also not in the mood: “No. The trains are not running at this time. We have no power.” I found a spot on the floor by the vending machines to wallow in my stupidity.

The lights flickered to life after an hour as shouts of joy erupted from the terminal. I hailed a taxi to my friend’s flat, unable to face another airport employee with questions about public transport.

We spent the day wandering through the Van Gogh museum and snacking on poffertjes, stroopwafel, and frites. The first, a sort of miniature pancake (but fluffier) topped with powdered sugar, the second, a thin, flat waffle filled with caramel and topped with chocolate, and the third, just french fries, really, but with sauces like curry ketchup and garlic mayo. Highly recommend.

On the day we booked a nonrefundable trip to the tulip gardens at Keukenhof, there happened to be a torrential downpour. So, we threw on rain jackets and trekked out to the countryside on a neon purple bus stuffed with tourists.

We squinted through heavy winds and swirling rain making a spectacle as we tried to snap Instagram-worthy pictures. Adding to the chaos was a marching band that kept circling the gardens as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It felt like I was in a strange dream—a spectator at a high school football game in a tulip field during a hurricane.

Soaked and shivering, we spent most of the afternoon in the cafe indulging in apple pie and espresso. For dinner we settled on a quaint pizzeria in the city center where I was given craft scissors to cut my pizza. Scissors.

At Schipol the next morning, I stared at the monitor for a solid three minutes, refusing to believe my flight back to England had been delayed for seven hours. I followed fellow dazed passengers around the terminal who were grumbling about the same flight, and we all promptly collected our airline food vouchers from the Easy Jet representative who was not paid enough.

After takeoff (seven hours later) I slid into an empty row at the front of the plane where the seats were more expensive and featured actual legroom. The flight attendant either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and feeling quite pleased with myself, I ordered a coconut water that I could not afford.

Back in Bristol, my roommate and her parents graciously invited me to Teffont Magna for Easter, the only English village I’ve ever visited but my favorite just the same. Along the drive we pulled up to a “toll booth” in a neighboring village where a small man in a flat cap stood by a wooden sign reading “toll.” Keri rolled down her window and placed a single pound in his outstretched hand. “Cheers love!” I was overjoyed.

Teffont is home to around 150 residents who live in gorgeous cottages, argue about community goings-on in the village hall (a refurbished schoolhouse), and intimately know one another’s business. I adore it.We attended Sunday service at their picturesque village church built in the 1100s. During communion I pretended to drink from the communal wine glass (thank you, no) and bumbled through the unfamiliar hymns to the dismay of the woman next to me.

In the evening I cuddled with Keri’s cats by the fire — Boris and Mischief — sipped Yorkshire tea and put away an embarrassing amount of Cadbury eggs. We visited the iconic Salisbury Cathedral where I realized I’m not very interested in the Magna Carta, and Mompesson House, a National Trust property and the filming location for many of the interiors from Sense and Sensibility. I imagined it was my personal residence, descending the staircase like Mia Thermopolis.

If Easter weekend wasn’t wonderful enough, we also drove out to Stourhead with Keri’s family. Another National Trust property, it is a sprawling 18th century estate of nearly 3,000 acres with a picturesque lake, classical temples, and lush woodlands. Most importantly (for shameless fangirls), it’s also the filming location for the rain scene from Pride and Prejudice (2005).

As we rounded a corner on the path, the Temple of Apollo came into view across the lake. I gasped, “That’s it! The rain scene!”

“Oh, yeah, ha,” Keri replied, puzzled by the outburst. She had spent a decade roaming the grounds with childhood friends — it was not special.

Once there, we pretended to be Darcy and Elizabeth with a weak attempt at recreating the scene. I was appalled at fellow visitors when they asked what was significant about the location.

Satisfied with our photo shoot, we continued along the path and I stood aghast once more. There was the small footbridge Elizabeth runs across during the same storm, but a sign declared public access wasn’t allowed for safety. That may or may not have stopped me.