William Hogarth, Mr. Garrick in the Character of Richard III, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1746.

Roundabouts

The Thanksgiving trip from Norwich, England to the island of Anglesey in North Wales, where our daughter Molly lives, is about six hours, a long drive for a small country. It’s tedious too. The way west requires a combination of motorways, highways and small roads stitched together by dozens of roundabouts — “traffic circles” in American. These are the scourge of tourists and emigres un-used to driving on the left. As you enter the circle, you must yield to incoming from your right and dodge interlopers on your left, all while aiming your vehicle for one of as many as seven possible exits. Timorous drivers may repeat the circuit, unsure how or where to exit. Electronic tallies in some locations, rumor has it, record more drivers entering roundabouts than leaving them.

“My kingdom for a horse!”

In the U.S., my wife Harriet and I would have made a drive of similar length in one day. But here in England, poor roads and dependably bad weather make even short journeys wearying, so breaking up long ones into a couple of days feels essential. Besides, for me, still new to the country, travel is its own reward. Our plan last week was to stop for a night at Bosworth Hall, in the town of Market Bosworth, about halfway to Wales. The hotel boasts a pool, hot tub, steam room and sauna, gratification of my lifelong quest for Sybaris, the ancient Greek colony legendary for its hedonism — maybe I’d discover it in Leicestershire?

Prior to our arrival, on a winding lane between isolated brick houses and rolling green fields with sheep so still they might have been cardboard, we passed a sign reading “Bosworth Field.” Of course! Our hotel was named for the adjacent site, where in August 1485, the deciding battle in the War of the Roses was fought between Henry Tudor (Earl of Richmond), and Richard III (the King of York). The latter was killed after he came off his courser, named White Surry. But before the final, deadly blow was struck – a broad sword to the back of the head – Richard exclaimed, according to Shakespeare: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!” (Richard III, Act 5, scene 4, line 13).

The unscrupulous Richard’s last words testify to two things: 1) the importance of the horse in early modern warfare; and 2) the uselessness of worldly wealth when facing death. Concerning the second, I thought while driving, my grandmother Bess — who knew nothing of horses or English history — would have put it differently: “Abi-gezunt,” she would have said, “So long as you got your health!” The great Molly Picon sang a song of that title in 1938:

A little bit of sun, a bit of rain
A quiet place to put your head down,
As long as you’re well, you can be happy.

– Abraham Ellstein, “Abi Gezunt,” from Mamele, Jos. Green and Konrad Tom, dir.

Kind hearts and coronets

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