London Walks have the best tour guides – read up if you don’t believe me. Wanting a day out of London I signed up with a different company for a trip to Oxford and Cambridge.
Arriving early (first in the queue), I waited at the designated spot in Victoria for the trip. Gradually, others arrived. A quiet American couple, some Spanish young ladies, a New Zealander, some Finns – and then much to our dismay a class-load of Asian schoolchildren – read NOISE!. Our Guide turned up in a Jaunty red beret and clipboard.
Immediately ignoring the adults, our Guide marched past us and ordered the kids on the coach first. When she did emerge, clipboard in hand, she barked at the Americans: “Name?” “You get on coach!”
Fresh from the People’s Republic? I wondered.
Despite this, we all obediently got on the coach, sitting in the available spots as you do.
The Guide followed. “You! You sit behind driver!” She yelled (yelled!) at the American couple. The American gentleman protested, “please don’t yell at us – this is quite extraordinary!” The Guide didn’t seem to care, “I not yell at you – you need move, sit behind driver!” She screeched. “Please do not shout at us!” The American gentleman repeated, ignoring this, the Guide rounded on me: “You! You too move one seat up!” (Exchanging looks with the Americans, I kind of thought having paid for the tour, we should at least go on it. Perhaps it would improve?)
The driver looked round apologetically. Our beretted Nazi perched herself in the front seat and neither looking back nor stopping for breath, plugged in her microphone.
“Look right, that’s Westminster Abbey where King being crowned.” We twisted our heads round but the sight had already passed, “who know how long he live huh? He old man – twenty years max!”
The batty, one-way commentary continued. First in English, and then repeated in Chinese.
“Look at tree! Apple blossom so pretty!’ (Loses its charm after the tenth time.)
“You hear joke? What you call a deer with poor memory?” (No Idea.)
“What you call a deer with no legs and poor memory?” (Still, no idea!)
Traumatised, we arrived in Cambridge where our Guide marched up the street. She stopped near the famous Mathematical Bridge. “This is bridge!” she said, “you take photo!” That was it in terms of historical elucidation. After a short pause, she strode up the street with the group scurrying to keep up. (Oh! The power of a clipboard!)
“Chapel!’ She announced, “you only go in if you have white or green wristband!” Those ‘ticked off’ entered the resplendent, Tudor King’s Chapel, I picked up a pamphlet as it was quite clear that actual historical information would be in short supply.
“After-now, you have free time! Meet back at bus at 1.45pm!”
Relieved to have escaped the grip of the Guide, I strolled around the streets alone – feeling a slight surge of jealousy. (How I’d have loved to send my kids here, or even to have attended myself. The glib University students passed me by, unaware perhaps, of their incredibly lucky start in life?)
Having the strong feeling that our Guide wasn’t one to wait, I arrived promptly back at the coach. My hunch proved correct when she did a number check to find two people missing. “We wait five minute, they no come we go. They selfish. We have schedule.”
Half-admiring the couple’s bid for freedom this idea was disabused, when I spied them in the review desperately mouthing ‘stop!’ and trying to catch up with the coach. Our implacable Guide showed no signs of noticing.
“You know where Aspirin come from, K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E?”
Me, startled. “Er…the chemist?”
“NO Dumbo! The willow tree, bark from the willow tree!”
It was like being interrogated by the Gestapo.
Arriving at the cathedral City of Oxford, I ascertained the coach meet up time, then legged it. Restoring my spirit with a half-pint at the historic Eagle pub and joyfully loitering round the First Folio on display in the Bodleian’s Weston Library.
Unfortunately, the trip back had to be faced. The Americans and I, eyed each other glumly. The Spanish girls, being young, didn’t care and plugged in their iphones, chatting and scrolling and paying no attention to her at all. Not once did the Guide look back over her shoulder to see if anyone WAS listening to her sing-song, witless, waffle that went ear-achingly on and on. English, Chinese, English, Chinese…such was our mutual suffering, that I wondered if I could persuade the driver to effect a hijack and just push her off the coach?
By day’s miserable end, the Americans and I leapt off the coach faster than economy passengers off Ryanair. The long-suffering driver got tips, our Guide – none. “You give me review!” She ordered. Not one to disoblige: “This tour is pure torture, do not go on it unless you like being trapped in a moving vehicle with a headless chicken in a beret.”
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