We got two good pieces of advice last night at diner: spareribs and Boston. Judy asked the folks at the table next to ours for menu recommendations. “We come here often and always end up ordering spareribs. And you really must go and see the Stump in Boston.”
Judy did ribs and this morning we did another itinerary modification and headed the twenty minutes to Boston. And I’m pleased to report that no harm came to our faithful Yaris in the commission of this diversion, several narrow roads not withstanding.
This Boston is from where the Massachusetts version got its name. And this Boston played a role in the Mayflower Pilgrim story. In 1607 a group of Pilgrims hired a ship and its captain to take them to the Netherlands where their form of Protestant religion was allowed. Escape like this was against British laws. The captain turned them in, they were tried and convicted in Boston’s Guild Hall (which we saw today). The group was successful the next year and spent 13 years in the Netherlands, returning to England to board the Mayflower in 1620, the first settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
The Mayflower never came to Boston, Lincolnshire. It was built in Harwich, not far from Colchester where we were day before yesterday. But Boston’s involvement ended with the aborted trip to the Netherlands.
Boston’s big drawing card is The Stump, one of the largest parish churches in England. St Botolph’s Church, its full name, is big enough to be anyone’s cathedral but it’s just a parish church, funded to its state of grandeur by wealthy sheep merchants back in the day.
Construction began in 1309 and the base building completed in 1390. The tower wasn’t built until 1490 – 1520. So the church was almost 300 years old or so when the Pilgrims did their thing back in 1607.
And why “the Stump?” Our friends last night told us that several attempts to complete the tower with a proper spire failed; several men died in the attempt. So they gave up. Now, The Stump is a tourist calling card and completing the spire would cut into the tourist trade, I’m sure.
Being Sunday, we attended the service at 11 AM. It’s Church of England, naturally, and today turned out to be Sailor Sunday, honoring those who brave the briny depths, from this, an island nation. It was an appropriate service for us who, next week, will be spending a week on board ship under the command of Cap’n Jeff. In today’s scripture lesson, the disciples woke Jesus, imploring him to save them from the storm. Jesus calmed the waters and said to the disciples, “Have ye no faith?” That’s what Jeff says when we ask him if he really knows how to do a Mediterranean mooring.
We had a pleasant fish-and-chips feed at a shop on the square and headed for Northampton, hometown of Deacon Henry Silsbee, progenitor of the New World Silsbes.
On the way we needed petrol; and so followed an exit that promised fuel but no food. We wandered through several quaint, picturesque villages (all British villages are quaint and picturesque, and there are a whole bunch of them) but never found the gas station. We were successful a few miles further down the motorway.
We wandered around the market square looking for dinner (it was now seven-ish) and found that most were only serving beer by now, it being Sunday and all. We finally settled on Zapatos, which, true to its Spanish name, served tapas and the usual mix of pub food. We did a smash burger and three tapas plus a strawberry trifle for dessert. Filled us up and did no harm.
We have a strong feeling that we’ve “done” Northampton, family tree speaking, so we’re going to call another audible and make a stop at the University town of Oxford, which isn’t exactly on our way to Stratford-upon-Avon, but close enough.
