This morning we woke up to a slight sliver of sun. We didn’t have to rush out except for returning our rental car to Gatwick airport by 1130am. After a rather sad breakfast of granola bars, an old banana, and haggis chips, we explored the property a bit. Our B&B was in a very posh neighborhood and had its own gardens, so we went for a stroll.
The lady working the reception had to find a key to unlock the door to the gardens. They’ve evidently not been trodden upon in some time. We didn’t really encounter anyone else up to checkout time except a couple squirrels and a few birds. “We have two funerals here later today,” said the receptionist doing her best attempt at small talk. The Inn would normally be a popular event venue for things like weddings. But thanks to the “Keep Calm & Carry On” attitude England is known for, the Inn has evidently adapted to the troubling times and now caters to funerals.
Despite being on the south side of London, we still had a thirty minute drive to the Hertz drop off. Nicole got to watch me awkwardly try and maneuver the Peugeot into one of the extra narrow parking spots.
Gatwick Airport was rather dead. We went through security fairly quick and into a gutted terminal. Every store and restaurant was closed except for WH Smith and a Pret A Manger. We were patrons of both establishments before eventually being summoned to our gate to board our British Airways 777. It wasn’t until later that we discovered we were on the very last flight going from the United Kingdom to Bermuda until at least late December. We wondered why it looked like everyone at check-in appeared to be moving their entire lives with them. People seemed to be averaging six large suitcases each. Bricole had one little black suitcase each which included attire for both warm and cold climates.
Unsurprisingly, we were seated in the far back, penned into tight seats that have no business being on a long haul aircraft. The only solace was surprisingly decent food for a British airline and decent entertainment selections. I watched the entire miniseries of A Very English Scandal. I will tell you it was very English and QUITE a scandal indeed.
After some 7 1/2 hours of flying, we touched down in LF Wade International Airport in Bermuda. It was quite a process from touchdown to getting to our hotel. They were very thorough. We had our authorization letters and covid test results analyzed again before collecting our luggage, going through customs, and then getting another covid test. They went deep this time. I didn’t think I had nasal passages that went back that far. We are now on test twelve and one would think there would be greater consistency. Poor Nicole keeps tasting blood.
After the test, we were allowed to exit the airport. While many places in the world would have aggressive taxi drivers hustling at the airport, Bermuda was quite the opposite. We had to wait probably fifteen minutes for a taxi to even pull up to the curb. From there, it took another twenty minutes or so (not including the stop to get gas) for us to reach our hotel.
Bermuda is different than its Caribbean neighbors to the south in that it seems to fancy itself a bit more sophisticated. When we checked in to the hotel, we could peer toward the on-site restaurant and hear piano music. There’s evidently a requirement that men wear jackets to go to the restaurant as well. I don’t think my puffy jacket fulfills this requirement. It seems to harken back to a time when board shorts and more comfortable island fashion didn’t exist. I suppose it’s like Mr Darcy jumping into the lake, in that removing one of eight layers of clothes is considered a bit risqué. It’s all very English, indeed.
passports & pepto bismol 