[Via Heather, appropriate as it was she who turned me onto the band - who have featured on a few mixes gone by I suspect - The Damnwells have released a free album through PASTE magazine!]
5th February 2009: TRAIN: Bath/London Paddington
After yesterday’s brattiness, it was almost to be expected that a visit to the Roman Baths would force me to eat my words. Although again rather expensive (my cousin told me later that local university students are spared the £11 entrance fee), for the amount of time we spent there it was worth the money. And fascinating too, to see intricate stonework thousands of years in the making stand up to the test of time. Science may provide an explanation for the naturally hot spring which is more prosaic than the will of the Goddess Minerva, but in the cold air the heat from the water didn’t feel any less miraculous.
But I suppose it was when we stopped staring at bits of rock, switched off our audio guides and joined Robin, our delightful camp old tour guide, for half an hour’s insight into the Romans’ bathing routine that history was really brought to life. Mischievously, he told us of the slaves who had to oil up their masters before they headed for the heat of the “caldarium”, and to scrape that oil and sweat off afterwards. It seems that the sticky byproduct would then be purchased by Roman matrons if it belonged to a famous athlete or gladiator, because they believed that the sweat when applied as a moisturiser would keep their skin oung – proving categorically that the lunacy of celebrity worship is no modern phenomenon.
Petty theft, too, was just as much a problem in Roman times, and one part of the exhibits I found particularly fascinating was the tiny curses, still legible, carved in pewter and tossed into the sacred spring so that the Goddess – if she had time – would hunt down whoever stole a towel or toga and exact her own particular brand of vengeance. As for me, I offered up a shiny ten pence from my best friend’s purse, and closed my eyes, and wished…
Later on, we had a wander by the town’s traditional sweet shop, and I spent my holiday “treating myself” unofficial budget on a plaid minidress and purple hat. We ate delicious Italian ice cream despite the weather, still as perverse as we were at seventeen, and I shared a cocktail with my cousin before we wolfed down tapas and jumped a train to Bristol.
Despite the score (we spent the night in some student hole so Lola could watch her beloved Liverpool unceremoniously dumped out the FA Cup by an extra time goal ITV decided it had better things to do than show as it happened) it was a fantastic evening, and it was great to meet Nat and see Katie again. Snowflakes spinning on the windshield of Katie’s car, Mates of State on the stereo and toffee apple cider warm in my belly, we weren’t to know that a delayed last train and a complete prick of a taxi driver who’d rather have seen two girls in an unfamiliar town walk up the hill to their hotel in a snowstorm than do a ten-minute run were waiting for us. Not that the ending spoiled our trip: we were so keen not to leave it took the cleaner chapping the door this morning to remind us we should have checked out an hour ago.
mmmm gelato
when I make my way back to the UK, I’ll need to check out the Stone Henge and Roman Baths. I remembering skipping out on those two because I rather wonder around in the snow (extremely light snow compared to last weeks reports).