Choose Your Own Adventure
Excitement soars and adrenaline pumps for thrill-seekers of all sorts in Bristol, England
True story: At a small publishing company in Los Angeles, circa 1975, the receptionist buzzes me.
The eternally bronze and beautiful Cary Grant.
“Cary Grant for you, line two.”
“Cary Grant ... uh-huh.”
“I think it’s him.” For some reason, she’s speaking in a stage whisper.
“All right,” I say, as I grab the receiver and change my tone. “Who is this? Is it you, Bannister?”
“No, this is not Bannister,” comes a mildly testy reply. “It’s Cary Grant.”
There’s no mistaking the voice. I’m absolutely flabbergasted. Apparently we’ve made some blunder about a firm that’s just signed him to its board of directors. “I don’t think they’ll be amused,” Grant tells me. You can almost picture him saying it. Probably to Myrna Loy.
I try to formulate a witty reply but come out with a simple “Thanks for calling” and even manage to mangle that.
“You’re very welcome,” he says, before hanging up.
Thirty-two years later, I again encounter Cary Grant. This time he’s in bronze, life-size, frozen in midstride across Bristol, England’s Millennium Square. Since my long-ago chat with this native Bristolian, I’ve retold the story so often that I’m a little embarrassed. We avoid eye contact.
Grant grew up Archibald Leach in the nearby suburb of Horfield, and he’s near the top of Bristol’s formidible A list. Among other luminaries: mariner John Cabot; New World colony founder William Penn; and 19th-century engineering wizard Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
But I’m not in this energetic little city to commune with great men of history, nor to marvel at the waterside renovation, take a meeting at Rolls Royce, or snag a first-row seat at the Old Vic.
I’m here for the adrenaline rush.
South of Wales, where the Bristol Channel funnels up from the Celtic Sea, Bristol sits at the union of two rivers — the Avon and the Frome. Around the city are sweeps of hills and forest, smattered with imposing rocky gorges and, in places, the tracery of elaborate cave systems. With natural credentials like these, Bristol is a gateway to a wide range of custom-tailored adventures — no matter what your level of fitness or daring.
The menu of exploits available from local outfitters reads like the curriculum at a school for motion picture stunt doubles: ballooning, rock climbing, abseiling, caving, sailing, mountain biking, sea kayaking, 4x4 driving, paragliding.
I shop carefully, hoping to mix activities I’m already comfortable doing with a couple that will put me mano a mano with my personal phobias.
Cheddar and Beneath
A bit south of Bristol, our Vauxhall sedan pulls into the gorge above the village of Cheddar. A familiar dryness rises in the back of my mouth, and it’s not fear of cheese. The culprit is closed dark places, and we’re headed for one such spot — the Black Cat, a limestone hole where we’ll launch a two-hour caving expedition beneath the Mendip Hills, under the auspices of Cheddar Caves and Gorge, the major local purveyor of outdoor excursions.
Cavers get ready to explore Cheddar
My companion is Kerrie Grist, from Destination Bristol, the regional tourism honchos. Our guide into the “underland wonderland,” 470 feet beneath the hills, is Mark Champion, a bearded, 40-ish veteran caver whose look suggests a jolly, underfed monk. He began caving 20 years ago and seems to have a hook on the Zen of this whole experience.
“Caving is a journey into your own psyche,” he says. I confess that my psyche has a mild aversion to tight places, and he assures me that there is no such thing as “mild” claustrophobia: “It’s full on or full off.” Gulp.
We “kit up” under fluorescent lights in a bungalow perched against the sheer wall of the gorge, then embark past tourists exploring Gough’s Cave — the theatrically lighted “show cave” that demands nothing more of visitors than their interest. The displays highlight millions of years of nature’s handiwork, shaping carboniferous limestone with water from melting glaciers. In one nook, spotlights reveal the tangled 9,000-year-old remains of “Cheddar Man,” Britain’s oldest complete human skeleton, discovered on this very spot in 1903. It’s believed he was the victim of cannibalism. In the late 1990s, DNA testing connected this early cave dweller to his actual living descendants who still reside in this village.
Cheddar Gorge, the largest gorge in the United Kingdom
Clicking our headlamps on, we follow Champion into the maw of the Black Cat. Once inside, scaling a narrow ladder into the darkness, I realize claustrophobia won’t be an issue at all. Caving requires intense concentration on problems of body position and what Champion calls “site dominance.” I focus on the minutest details of squeezing beneath an overhang, or working sideways across a slanted rock face with almost no headroom. “You can’t fight the rock,” he warns. “It’s not weightlifting; it’s more like yoga.” This particular route traverses chambers of varying size, some with hard rock floors, others carpeted with soft reddish iron oxide dust — fuller’s earth, used to cast bronze. In the larger chambers, our headlamp beams pan across odd formations in the calcium carbonate ceilings — wave-shaped “curtains” and pale “flow stone.” It all has a phantasmic Lord of the Rings feel to it.
At last we enter Sand Chamber, and Champion demonstrates his “bat game.” With headlamps off, blind as bats, we follow him by sound alone, our senses redistributed so we can actually hear the difference in the wall surfaces as his voice echoes in the blackness ahead. Finally, there’s a faint glimmer of light, and we emerge like dust-covered trolls from the netherworld — hot, tired, but thoroughly elated.
At Grist’s suggestion, we stop at a roadside pub for a bite of authentic cheddar and a pint of the local ale. In the euphoric glow of my cave conquest, they go down like nectar and ambrosia.
Face Off with the Rock
The name Bristol is Saxon in origin — literally, “the place of the bridge,” a reference to a bridge that existed here 1,000 years ago. It could just as easily be a reference to the towering cliffs that bookend the Avon River Gorge — the site of Bristol’s most familiar architectural landmark, the Clifton Suspension Bridge, designed by engineering whiz I.K. Brunel in 1864.
We drive north along the Bristol Portway, with Brunel’s bridge 75 meters overhead, and pull onto the side of the road. There above us, atop a limestone wall in the gorge, is my next phobia challenge. I’ve resolved that, today, my long-standing fear of heights will not prevent me from tasting the thrill of abseiling down even this medium-difficulty 20-meter cliff.
Abseiling down a steep cliff
Abseiling is another word for rappelling — descending a cliff or steep pitch using the friction of an anchored rope to control your speed. Most of the adventure outfitters in Bristol offer abseiling guides and instructors. Our guide, a 32-year-old climber named Mark Bessell, is associated with Young Bristol, a volunteer youth charity that also organizes supervised adventure activities.
Bessell leads us up a steep, wooded trail to the spot from which we’ll launch down the rock face. Kitting up for abseiling requires a helmet, a web leg harness, gloves, carabiner, and a looped aluminum gadget for belaying rope. The ropes are secured to the base of a stout tree trunk at the top of the cliff, and Bessell instructs us in the use of the belaying device: hold the rope end down to slow your descent, raise it to accelerate. Finally, attached to the instructor’s safety line, we have only to back up to the edge of the cliff and begin our descent.
On cue, I shuffle back to the edge and “preload” the ropes, gingerly sitting against them. I examine all the hitches and friction gear to satisfy myself one last time that the only thing to really fear up here is fear itself.
I nudge my boot heels back over the edge, one at a time, until I feel the tension increase in my rope. I then take the single hardest step I’ve ever taken, and nervously lower myself down a straight vertical pitch the height of a six-story building.
Below, the traffic drones along the Portway, but I pay little attention, concentrating on every foot placement against the jagged limestone. Soon, I begin to ease my rope tension and accelerate ever so slowly. I fix on Bessell’s silhouette as he shouts encouragement from above. The breeze and the motorway hum have drowned out most other sounds, save my own occasional grunts every time I adjust my rope tension.
Within five minutes, I’m safely back to the floor of the gorge. I look back up to the top in a state of utter amazement. After a lifetime as a true acrophobe, I’ve actually taken that dreaded big step and rappelled myself down a blustery cliff face.
Biking to Bath
The rooftop pool at the attractive new Thermae Bath Spa
It’s hard to imagine the fairy-tale city of Bath — Bristol’s elegant neighbor to the east — as a stop on anyone’s “adventure tour.” But the two cities are connected by an immaculate bike route, the Bristol & Bath Railway Path. The 13-mile path is an old Victorian rail right-of-way, paved over for bikes and pedestrians, that meanders through villages and countryside, with blackberry growing along its edges and ever-present magpies squalling about.
My guide on this expedition is Rich Saunders of Sustrans, a nonprofit organization that promotes cycling in the British Isles and maintains the 10,000 mile National Cycle Network. My ride today is an 18-speed Optima mountain bike, courtesy of Blackboy Hill Cycles in Clifton.
The rooftop pool at the attractive new Thermae Bath Spa
We pass impressionistic sculptures commissioned by Sustrans, including a giant brick fish diving on its nose, sited appropriately near the village of Fishponds. In Mangotsfield, we ride by a little Victorian railway station that was rescued from demolition by Sustrans. The platform in Warmley is decorated with a group of laser-cut steel silhouettes depicting passengers waiting for a nonexistent train.
Once in Bath, following a sumptuous English luncheon at the Pump Room (see sidebar, page 88), I’m introduced to the world-class Bath Bun and a glass of the native mineral water. The water is served warm and rather formally, from an ornamental fountain. The Romans started corralling mineral-rich water beneath these stone buildings 2,000 years ago, and 8,000 years before that, it fell as rain on the Mendip Hills, eventually filtering down through the same limestone where I’d been caving a few days before.
A biker stops on one of Sustrans’ well-maintained
paths in Warmley
Drinking this tepid liquid is an acquired taste. Bathing in it is a different matter. This opportunity is afforded me by Peter Rollins and Charlotte Hanna of the new Thermae Bath Spa — an imposing architectural confection that blends steaming expanses of the native waters with sweeping views of the surrounding Georgian buildings. My hosts are eager to show me around the entire facility when one of the guests, soaking beside her husband in the dramatic rooftop pool, quips through a cloud of mist, “You shouldn’t be looking around, you should be in it.”
Five minutes later, I’m there, having been furnished with a thick white robe, slippers, towel, and a computer-chip bracelet that opens my locker downstairs. The hot water has the expected effect on the muscle fatigue I’ve developed over the last couple of days.
The SS Great Britain, the world’s first great ocean liner
Bristol Fashion
There’s a line that recalls a well-remembered voyage from my youth:
“Soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit by on either side ... the Hispaniola had begun her voyage to the Isle of Treasure.”
In choosing Bristol Harbour for the opening of Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson injected salt water into generations of young people whose adult lives would follow resourceful young Jim Hawkins to oceans both imaginary and real. My own passion for sailboats and seafoam comes straight from the pages of that book. For me, a visit to the quaysides and waterways of Bristol is something of a pilgrimage. Near Queen Square are sailors’ almshouses and pubs — Llandoger Trow, the King William Ale House, the Hole in the Wall — that date back to the 17th century. Tours trace Bristol’s salty legacy of privateers, slave ships, press gangs, and smugglers.
Local mariner Rob Salvidge is one of the keepers of the city’s maritime flame. The ruddy-faced native Bristolian owns and operates the Bristol Ferryboat Co., whose beefy diesel launches serve as transport for urban passengers and as party boats for specially hired charters. Salvidge is also a kind of oracle of seafaring lore, partly in his role as full-time skipper of the Matthew — a historically accurate wooden replica of the square-rigged ship that John Cabot sailed to the New World, from this very port, in 1497. The Matthew regularly takes passengers out, under both power and sail, and on the day of my visit, Salvidge and his crew are dressed in authentic 15th-century seaman’s garb for the trip. Once under way, Salvidge hands me the Matthew’s whipstaff and lets me steer.
The Matthew waits at the dock in Bristol.
I have learned during my stay that “shipshape and Bristol fashion” is a phrase sailors use to describe an especially sturdy, “well found” vessel. The Bristol Channel has the second largest tidal fluctuation on earth (the difference between low and high tides can be as great as 45 feet), and before the early 19th century, ships at anchor in Bristol Harbour would often find themselves beached at low tide — resting on their keels and tilted to one side until the tide rose again and refloated them. These vessels had to be exceptionally strong and their cargos well stowed, thus the term “Bristol fashion” to describe a well-built, properly laden ship.
A turning point in Bristol’s shipping industry came about thanks to the genius of Brunel, who, during the Victorian age, built railroads, ships, bridges, and tunnels — many of them still in use — before he succumbed to an untimely stroke at the age of 53 (possibly the result of his legendary 40-cigar-a-day habit). Brunel’s redesign of Bristol’s “floating harbor” is a celebrated engineering feat. But his most conspicuous legacies in this city are the bridge at Clifton and the world’s first great ocean liner, the SS Great Britain.
Moored in its original drydock, this lavish steamship has been restored to Bristol fashion. The interactive tour on board reveals the most informative nautical exhibit you’ll ever visit. But I’d fantasized about actually sailing in Bristol Harbour since I read Treasure Island as a kid.
Enter Young Bristol once again. In the airy loft of the group’s clubhouse at Pooles Wharf, we meet with jovial, mustachioed Don Brown, one of Young Bristol’s sailing instructors. Waiting for us at the dock is a yellow-hulled Wayfarer, its sails snapping in the brisk westerly breeze. Wayfarers are tiny, exceptionally seaworthy 15-foot sailboats originally designed by famed naval architect Ian Proctor more than 50 years ago. There’s no name on the transom of our little craft, so, in deference to Long John Silver, Squire Trelawney, and the rest, I suggest we call her the Hispaniola … just for today
Visitors enjoy the Pirate Walk in Bristol.
The afternoon is clear and cool, the water a deep blue-black. Brown hands out some Gore-Tex foul-weather suits to keep us dry. We pull on life jackets, tie a “reef” in the mainsail, and cast off. Brown assigns Grist to the jibsheets, the lines that control our forward sail. He seems content to put me on the tiller as helmsman. With light spray skimming over our deck, we practice tacking back and forth across the narrow harbor.
Our sailcloth pops stiffly as I turn downwind for a close-up look at the SS Great Britain and the neighboring Matthew. We ghost past the Great Britain’s prow, and the view of these two massive vessels at sea level is thrilling. I recall Hawkins’ first sail in this same harbor, heading out past great ships to board the Hispaniola: “We went under the figureheads and round the sterns ... and their cables sometimes grated underneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us.” Our bright yellow stern swings close to the Matthew’s hull. We veer away, to the accompaniment of my imagined soundtrack: the rattle of anchor chain, oak masts groaning as canvas and yardarms are hauled aloft. Over the shouts of officers and mates from the afterdeck, and the chanting of sailors’ work songs, Jim Hawkins’ line comes back to me again out of thin air:
“Soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit by on either side...”
Our little Hispaniola sails on.
— Jim Cornfield
Getting There: Continental offers daily nonstop service to Bristol from its hub in New York/Newark. Bristol, located just 115 miles from London, makes for a convenient entry point into the United Kingdom. It is close to many of the country’s rich and varied attractions. For further information, visit continental.com.
Helpful Web Sites
Cheddar Caves and Gorge
cheddarcaves.co.uk
Destination Bristol
visitbristol.co.uk
Young Bristol
youngbristol.com
Sustrans
sustrans.org.uk
Blackboy Hill Cycles in Clifton
blackboycycles.co.uk
Matthew replica ship
matthew.co.uk
Thermae Bath Spa
thermaebathspa.com
Take It Easy
Here are some places to have an adventure in luxury.
Hotels
The Bristol Marriott Royal Hotel. This four-star hotel is perfectly situated close to the waterfront, the Centre Promenade, and the historic Old City. 44.117.925.5100; marriott.co.uk/Channels/globalSites/propertypage/UK/brsry
Hotel du Vin & Bistro. Six 18th-century warehouses were rescued and converted into this elegant inn. Each loft-style suite has its own claw-foot bathtub and a huge bed dressed in Egyptian linen. The bistro adjoins a world-class wine cellar. 44.117.925.5577; hotelduvin.com
Restaurants
Arnolfini Café Bar. The austere minimalist decor befits the café’s location inside the Arnolfini center for contemporary arts. The food is hearty, classic English fare. 44.117.917.2335; arnolfini.org.uk
The Bridge Café in the Avon Gorge Hotel. This formal restaurant is the place to view the Clifton Suspension Bridge while lunching on crispy braised pork belly with parsnip mash, camelized red cabbage, and reduced black vinegar. 44.117.973.8955; avongorge-hotel-bristol.com
Visitors enjoy the Pirate Walk in Bristol.
Severnshed. A smashing location and postindustrial ambience in a former boathouse designed by the master himself, Isambard Kingdom Brunel. 44.117.925.1212; severnshed.co.uk
Riverstation. Formerly the quarters for Bristol’s river police, this spot immediately adjacent to Severnshed offers more austere decor and a new menu. 44.117.914.4434; riverstation.co.uk
The Pump Room. Situated over the old Roman spa in Bath, the decor is formal tearoom/Georgian. The fare includes the Bath Bun, a rich, sweet yeast dough confection sprinkled with crushed sugar and served with a decadent swirl of cinnamon butter. Phone: 44.122. 544.4477; searcys.co.uk/venue/1/0/15/pump_room_bath.html
Pubs
Llandoger Trow. This salty old inn dates back to the 1600s. Legend has it that this was the site of Daniel Defoe’s meeting with Alexander Selkirk, the model for Defoe’s character Robinson Crusoe, and that the name of a Captain Hawkins who once ran the inn was appropriated for Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. 44.117.926.0783
Crown Inn. All the food at this lunch-only pub in Churchill is locally raised and produced. About 10 ales are on tap, and if you tuck in beside one of the stone fireplaces, you may never want to leave. 44.193.485.2995 Directions from Bristol: take A38 south, then A368 to Weston at Churchill. Take the first left and follow to the top of the hill. — J.C.
