Squashed in a window seat on a flight from Heathrow to SFO, I have 10 hours to reflect on my ill-fated journey. My husband had reserved aisle and window seats, hoping no one would come between us. Unfortunately, a burly fellow claimed his seat just as we were about to take off. After a bout with Covid, he was coming home with muscle cramps and congestion. My husband, the only one in our Cornish cottage who did not contract Covid, woke up the next day with a feverish flu. Go figure.
I should have anticipated the tenor of this trip when we were about to disembark in London and my husband couldn’t find his wallet, which contained his credit cards, cash and driver’s license. He never made it to London. Instead, he was waiting safely in a dark SFO security office. Despite our TSA PreCheck-Global Entry status, my husband was asked to empty his pockets, remove his belt, and then take out his passport. He claimed his passport and belt, but forgot his wallet on a separate tray.
During our 22-year marriage, with travels across five continents, adventure and misadventure have a way of finding us, whether it’s a pickpocket in Barcelona or an angry Roosevelt moose in the redwoods. But our week in Cornwall was not supposed to be an adventure. Instead, I was looking forward to visiting gardens, galleries and rugged coastlines, and wallowing in Cornish cream.
My son and his family, who live in Yorkshire, had rented a three-bedroom cottage in Truro, where we were to spend a week together. Having not seen my granddaughter since 2019, we were overjoyed when her family rejoined our train on a Friday afternoon.
On Sunday morning, I woke up with a fever, tested positive for covid, and spent five days in quarantine in an upstairs room, staring out the window at the lonely tombstone of a woman named Catherine. My son and husband brought me food on a tray and communicated with me on Facebook Messenger. In the meantime, I took a nap, checked the news on my iPad, did crossword puzzles, and finished “Sarum,” Edward Rutherfurd’s 1,039-page novel chronicling the history of the Salisbury region from prehistory to 1985.
Fortunately, I was never terribly ill. Fully vaccinated and double boosted, my Covid case was the equivalent of a 24 hour virus. Had I been prepared, I could have traveled with a prescription for Paxlovid just in case, which I was unable to obtain in the UK. On the other hand, not taking it means I didn’t have a post-Paxlovid rebound.
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But after ruining everyone’s vacation, post-Covid guilt swept over me. To see also : Making video games helps Montgomery Public Schools students learn confidence and teamwork.
Our rental ended the following Friday, and just as we were about to leave for the train station, my son texted us. He and his wife had contracted Covid. They were unable to fly back to Yorkshire as planned, and the airline would not give them credit for a future flight.
We offered to be babysitters and spend time with our granddaughter, but “Covid Cornelia” was as welcome as ants at a picnic. My son wanted us to leave. Several days later, my granddaughter fell ill with covid, delaying her return home by eight days. We could help financially (the delay cost them over $2,000), but we couldn’t do anything to improve a vacation gone wrong.
My husband and I grabbed our bags and headed down the hill to the train station a mile away because all the taxis were taking the kids to school. Still worried about contagion, we canceled dinner plans in Bath with University of Glasgow flatmate and famed astrophysicist Jocelyn Bell Burnell. Ironically, she replied via email that she too had tested positive for covid.
We made the most of the time we had left in the UK. In Bath, we immerse ourselves in Jane Austen, Roman remains and Georgian architecture, and enjoy a rich afternoon tea. Moving on to Salisbury, we explore ancient Sarum, the hilltop site of ancient ruins described in Rutherfurd’s book. And in Salisbury, home to a magnificent cathedral and the original Magna Carta, I had the best Sunday roast I can remember at our 16th century inn.
Returning to London, we met up with my stepdaughter and her family, who were also visiting, and took our grandchildren to the Churchill War Rooms, exploring the underground bunker where the Prime Minister and his officials hid during the Blitz.
At the end of a long flight, I was glad to escape Britain’s scorching heat wave. Cornish Gardens will await another visit, but I was looking forward to working on my own garden. Palo Alto is not bad at all.
