"If history was taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten."
--Rudyard Kipling
Note to Readers:
If you prefer starting at the top with Day 1 versus this blog page which starts at the bottom, try the Journal page. This will eliminate the need to endlessly scroll up and down, hither and yon. For your convenience, the photographs associated with each travelogue entry have live links at the end of the narratives.
If you prefer starting at the top with Day 1 versus this blog page which starts at the bottom, try the Journal page. This will eliminate the need to endlessly scroll up and down, hither and yon. For your convenience, the photographs associated with each travelogue entry have live links at the end of the narratives.
The Dreaded Hurry Up and Wait Journey
15 July 2011
11:11 pm
Well, we thought it was a good idea to get to Heathrow Airport around 9:30am--even though our flight didn't leave until one in the afternoon. We had every intention of checking our luggage--doubled due to the collection of keepsakes, souvenirs, and artifacts for the classroom. We figured we could go to the duty-free shops and fill a shopping bag with goodies that we would miss--chocolate, Daddies Sauce, a couple of serious looking teapots, maybe a tee shirt. I coveted a Union Jack carbonite suitcase I'd seen on the Isle of Wight, and I was determined to have one for storing my developing English Literature units for seventh-graders. We got to the airport in good time. We said an emotional goodbye to to Keith and Wendy, friends who are now like family. No, they are family now. They are the other main reason why our trip all over the lower half of England was such a success. We even checked our luggage and got it onto the conveyor belt when a supervisor suddenly appeared and stopped our bags. "Go around there and report to Desk 4. Your flight is on delay--cancelled," he said. Not good!
Mom and I dragged our luggage and hurried over to Desk 4. We were the first ones there, which was a good thing. Why the delay and ultimate cancellation? The flight crew had been in the air too many hours and were now grounded. So in my mind (because you don't ever want to verbalize your curiosities in high-stress situations), I wondered if the crew scheduling coordinator had gone on vacation or even died. How could a huge airline sell every seat on a 767 with four travel classes and Economy Comfort and then not have sufficient crew available to get the plane off the ground? How can that happen when teachers would be in huge trouble for doing something like that in Education? Wouldn't that be the equivalent of getting students ready for the test and then forgetting to take them to the computer lab to take it? Still, I wasn't angry. Just anxious. It was not going to be easy to get home on a Friday, a peak traveling day in the middle of summer's high season. The super nice lady at Desk 4 had us to deal with while the nice gentleman at Desk 5 had a very rude, fussy American man who demanded answers and first class upgrades for everyone in his travel party. He wanted what he wanted right then, and I couldn't help saying to my mother (much to her chagrin) that the only thing about traveling this summer was having to encounter rude, self-centered Americans who thought they were better than everybody else and ultimately deserved instant gratification while everyone else was polite, patient, and courteous to each other. Did he ever grumble and glare at me. I thought I had said it quietly enough for my mother and the person behind us, a man from Midland, Texas who was on his way back home. Americans are highly visible in the scheme of things. Even though I tried to blend in, my Vera Bradley bag--in sharp contrast to my solid color chino pants and button-down shirts--made me stand out. That meant it was important to incredibly polite and courteous to everyone around me; I was an ambassador for my nation, my state, my community, my family. Why didn't that loud, angry man understand that? Please, everybody, when you leave your hometown and visit places far or near, be an excellent representative of what is best about your part of the world. Observe the customs and traditions of the places you visit so you can experience what makes that part of the world unique and special. You don't need a McDonald's or a Starbucks everywhere you go. Just try.
Miracle of miracles, the nice lady at Desk 4 said that there was a flight boarding at 10:30 am today--to Boston Logan Airport and that there was a connection going to Atlanta, which would put us on the same plane to Tri-Cities that was on our ticket. There were two problems with getting our seats--the present time of 10:03 am and whether or not there were enough meals on the plane. I said I'd go without a hot meal if it meant not being stranded in the airport until MONDAY at 1:00 pm. Believe it or not, airlines are required by law to serve a meal to passengers who book International flights. Luckily, there were enough meals on the plane, so we had to make a run to the Sky Miles Check-In. No lines, no waiting. It was 10:10 am when we presented our paperwork to the express lane personnel and could check our baggage. Problem! The flight was locked on the computer because of all the rerouting that Desks 4 and 5 were making. A supervisor had to be called to clear our baggage and print boarding passes for assigned seats. It was 10:40 by the time that was cleared up. There were others behind us trying to make the same flight, so the plane was going to be held with a take-off time of 10:54--so we rushed to the Sky Miles security screening line and then dashed to the very end of the International terminal to our gate. We were so worn out from the sudden change of plans that we collapsed in our seats and looked out the window of the plane, all sad and melancholy while we calmed down. No duty-free goodies. Pounds in our wallets not sold back for dollars. No time to say a proper goodbye to England. And, are you ready for this? No way to let our families in America know that we were on our way home via Boston and Atlanta. No way to warn them not to worry. The only thing to do was buckle up and make myself go to sleep. After take-off, I tried, but my mind was too wired. After a nice lunch, I did drift off.
At Boston Logan Airport, Mom and I got in the very long customs line. No more Sky Miles treatment for us, I'm afraid. I hurried and called home to let Curt know to be at the airport at the same time and not to worry about us because we were in Boston and not stranded in London. Customs line moved right along, so I had to end my call. Did I have anything to declare other than the things I had recorded on my customs declaration form? Any fresh groceries or homemade food items? Where was I going? Which flight? Which flight did I arrive on? FAST! FAST! FAST! I did fine until I was asked which flight I'd been on. I'd memorized the flights on my original itinerary, so I drew a blank and had to apologize for not knowing off the top of my head. I guess the customs guy was well versed in handling exhausted travelers because he could have pulled me out of line for a baggage check. Not a good plan since our flight from Boston to Atlanta was less than an hour from boarding. We walked from Customs to get our baggage and then had to check them in for the flight south before we rushed to the far end of another terminal--got there just in time to get on the next plane. Another snack and water. Another little nap.
Atlanta at last. We had time to eat a real meal. Then we made our way to the gate to check in. Another problem! We had an hour delay due to severe thunderstorms. Phoned home to let Curt know that we would arrive an hour late and not to worry. I called him when they announced that we were about to board and that the flight would not be cancelled. Thank goodness!
We landed at Tri-Cities Airport a bit early because the pilot got us cleared for take-off ten minutes earlier than scheduled (because everyone was on board the plane in quick time). I was retrieving suitcases when Curt and Dad arrived to help us with our bags and drive us home.
Jet lag. That's going to be a problem, I'm sure. I'll have to adapt quickly. I have a professional development class in three days, not to mention all the work associated with this trip. Over 2000 photographs, cave sounds to mix with a picture of a cave, artifacts to catalog, and ultimately making sense of it all so that I can create something lasting, useful, and fun for my students. I am so tired, I think my imagination is on hiatus. It will mean compartmentalizing my priorities because I realize I shall be working on curriculum design while I get ready to start the new school year. When I started on this journey, I thought I would get it all done before August 10th. I now realize that I will be working on web page things until then and that if I'm fortunate, I'll have one unit finished by September, another in October, and so on. Now I am glad I gave up hours of sleep to record my end-of-the-day thoughts. I'm glad I have pictures of everything I saw so it stays fresh and real. Real. I'm back to that again. This whole experience does not seem real. You hear that, Steve Sizemore? You are right about living a dream for the rest of my life.
Cambridge--Reconnection With Old Dreams
14 July 2011
11:11 pm
This trip is coming to a fast end. How can two weeks go so quickly? It's hardly fair, and I think that if husband Curt had been with me, I'd have begged to stay longer. But I miss him so much, I'm thinking about how nice it will be to be home again. I used to say things like "home in England," "home to England," and "home is England." My home is in Abingdon, a small Southwest Virginia town. And my passion is teaching my students. Not willing to give up teaching to live here.
Don't you know that darned bell kept me awake another night? Needless to say, I skipped the full English breakfast in favor of toast and tea. It would have been a great move were it not for a second encounter with an American gentleman who could be so incredibly polite and thoughtful and then turn on a thin dime to be rude and thoughtless. I made a note to talk to my students about how to be an ambassador for our school, state, and nation whenever they travel stateside or abroad. As soon as we were packed, we turned our baggage over and checked out of the room. Then we hurried to Market Square to see if Biddy was there. She was! I asked about the bell, and she had a register of users. My bell was, for a time in the 1960s played by G. Smith. How alarming! This was my great grandmother's hand bell...unless it belonged to a George Smith or a Geoffrey Smith or a Gertrude Smith. I handed over twenty quid and clanged the bell, much to the chagrin of everyone working in the Market Square. Satisfied, it was off to the shops for a whirlwind spree to collect more artifacts for my classroom. How about real tea spoons? How about a real hand-knitted tea cozy? How about chocolate bars? Or another picnic rug and some scarves? When we had three shopping bags half-full of things we wanted to tak to America, we headed back to the hotel. After turning in our shopping, we made our way across the street to see about hiring a punt for an hour. Our punter, Joe, just finished school at one of the Cambridge universities, and he is going on to complete his Master's degree in physical geography. How awesome is that? We got some geography and geology thrown in with the basic tourist commentary about the River Cam and its colleges. While Kings College was impressive, so was Trinity. What really grabbed me was the Wren Library where the downstairs is empty of books on account of flooding risk. The upper levels are where the books are these days. Christopher Wren said it was the most boring building he had ever designed. Still, I like it awfully much. Joe turned the boat around and punted us back to La Mimosa. Mom and I walked back to the hotel. We knew it was time for Keith and Wendy to pick us up, so we went and got our bags and carried them to the hotel parking entrance. Just as we finished getting everything lined up, they arrived.
On the road back to Reading. We went to the New Inn and had a lovely last meal with Keith and Wendy. Naturally, we had fish and chips. One last time. And then a grand traditional dessert. One last time. Back to the house in Reading. It is time to pack, but I am too busy thinking. Too busy saying goodbye to my old self, the person that got on that plane fifteen days ago to go on a big adventure. Tomorrow we get on the plane and fly home. Tomorrow I have to say goodbye to Keith and Wendy. Tomorrow I have to drag the new me onto a plane and grab some naptime so that I don't have jet lag for a week!
13 July 2011
11:42 pm
I couldn't sleep well last night. I kept waking up, thinking about that hand bell. Twenty quid? Too much. It was old and came from St. Mary's. The church where my great grandmother worked in the office for over thirty years before retirement. She used to give guided tours of the historic church and its bell tower. She used to sing there. She used to play the hand bells on special church holidays. Twenty quid? A good night's sleep would have been worth that! I was out of bed and dressed by seven and was anxious for some toast and tea before I took off to Market Square. There would be just enough time to buy the bell and be back at the hotel by ten to have coffee with Cousin Linda and her husband Andrew. Eight-thirty. Eight-thirty eight. We left the hotel at a brisk pace and walked up Magdalene and Bridge Streets. We passed the Edinburgh Wollens shop, and I pulled up short at the second ATM machine I saw so I could get some cash to pay for that darned bell. We made a beeline for Sidney Street and came up to a police line that taped off our direct route to the market. We turned right and followed Green Street around until we found the street that looped to the market square. Booths were just being set up, but Biddy was nowhere to be seen. Talk about frustration! I could hear myself telling myself that it served me right balking at the price. We waited as long as we could before having to head back to the hotel for our coffee date with family. We stopped at the bank my mother preferred, but it had delayed its opening by an hour. We thought it had to do with the taped off area next to the bank, but now I don't think so. We went around Green Street again and cut across to Sidney to try the ATMs we had seen between the Arcade area and our hotel...three of them to be exact, all along the street. All were out of service! How odd is that. My mother looked at me and said in a mild voice, "Oh, Lizbeth. You got the last of the money and brok the banks." The memory of the clearance sale signs at the BANK (see the picture in the gallery) made me wonder about the state of the world economy--for a split second. Rather funny. I just didn't have much of a sense of humor because I didn't get that silly hand bell. Another trip to market tomorrow, I scowled.
At ten sharp, we met Linda and Andrew in the conservatory for coffee. It was lovely meeting them, and after ten minutes of lively conversation, it was as if we had always known each other. We talked about the scope of my trip and what I planned on doing with my experiences, how many years it has been since I've seen any of my Cambridge relatives, and what we might do for the day. There were two basic choices for the two hours we had before meeting Cousin Stephen for lunch at La Mimosa on the edge of Jesus Green (on the other side of the river, across the street from our hotel). First, we could drive out to Wimpole Hall and get in line to see The Jungle Book volume that is dedicated to Kipling's deceased daughter Josephine or we could drive out toward Girton to see Great Nanna and Granddad Falkner's house in Girton before going on to Comberton and Toft where my grandfather lived. Obscure connection to Kipling at a house that didn't want to let me in the family library to see the Kipling collection that daughter Elsie had inherited OR a very tangible opportunity to learn more about my grandfather and his family. No brainer. I chose family.
To help you understand my decision to step out of my teacher self or part of a day, let me just say that once when I was fourteen, I was walking past Marks & Spencer on Sidney Street at a rather fast pace right behind my mother and grandmother. They came to a full stop without warning, right there on the sidewalk. I crashed right into them, and my sisters piled up on the ground and had to be dusted off. My grandmother looked at me and said, "That was your grandfather." I had only seen his face for a brief few seconds before he side-stepped us and made hast toward the Trinity Church. I started after him because I wanted to meet him, but I couldn't find him. I can tell you what he looked like, what he was wearing, and that he can purse his lips tighter than I can, and that's saying something. I never got to call out his name because he was nameless. No one ever mentioned him until that moment. Do you know how frustrating it is to not know your grandfather's name so you can call him to stop long enough for you to introduce yourself? I wrote a letter to him once, but it was never sent because I did not know his name or address. I knew his name when he died, but then there was no point in sending the letter. What good is all this to the children in my classroom? I have to step back and realize that perhaps all this is why I have a soft spot for kids who survive in disjointed family structures. And I was a happy child and am a happy adult. Just one or two chinks in the armor. So, Linda and Andrew were willing to take me to the villages my grandfather lived in, and I was not about to let that opportunity pass me by.
Off we went to Comberton, pausing along the way to view Kings College all the way around. On the street, I felt anxious, like there was something to see that I didn't see. I brushed it off and worked myself around to take pictures of the livestock lowing on King's College land. Odd sight that can take your attention away from pressing matters, right? How many big cities have you seen longhorn steer laying down in tall grasses? Not a one, I'd say. We found Girton first. Girton where it was suggested I go to university. Girton where my great grandparents lived until Nanna passed away. What happened to all the lovely flowers that were in the front garden of their house? All filled in with pea gravel so that the family living there had room to park two cars off the street. It's enough to make you want to knock on the owner's door and ask if they can recite the words to Kipling's "In the Garden" poem. Dreadful!
We went on to Comberton, a picturesque village with plenty of thatched cottages. Andrew turned off West Street onto Kentings, and I saw my grandfather's house. He was starting to feel real now. I could see his face that day he disappeared near Trinity Church. My grandfather lived in Comberton, but he had a shop on High Street in the nearby village of Toft. It took two minutes to get from his house to his shop. I got out of the car and took pictures and then went inside. The realization that my grandfather owned this town shop and was also the postmaster certainly grabbed my attention. I wanted something from his shop, so I grabbed two large tubes of Smarties, a sweetie my grandmother would mail to me every Christmas. One tube for each daughter. I grabbed a tin of sour lemon drops for myself. The tin could be kept so that I would always feel connected to the store and ultimately my grandfather. I don't know if or when I will open the tin. Silly me. It is a keepsake of sorts, I suppose. My mother didn't want anything, so I got a picture of her standing with Linda and Andrew. Linda asked the new shopkeeper if there was anyone around who would remember my grandfather, and the shopkeeper immediately suggested a lady named Mary, aged 80. She lived next to the shop and would have known him. We called, but the person who answered the phone said we had a spot of bad luck because Mary was out in the fields cutting wheat today. I got her address and said I would write. I really must be careful to not misplace the paper. Nor should I let it go too long. I should buy some stamps so Mary doesn't have to pay postage on her response. We made one more stop at the church where my grandfather's funeral was held, and then we headed back to Cambridge, past Kings College and back to the hotel to park. We then crossed the street and the foot bridge that crossed into Jesus Green. We followed a path to the restaurant, and there was Cousin Stephen. What a pleasure to meet him as well.
We had lovely lunches and then made our way to Stephen's house for tea with Auntie Eileen. Auntie Eileen will be 96 this month. Quite something since she doesn't look older than 65. We talked about family events that have kept us all apart since the 1940s, a good bit before I was born. I sat and listened mostly. We had coffee sponge, scones with clotted cream, lemon loaf, and shortbread with our tea. I have a video clip of Auntie Eileen talking, but I've not listened to it yet. I probably won't until I have settled down at home and have time to really listen hard to all the years that have gone into her conversation. Her voice is as I remember it. Auntie says it was nice to meet me. I'm not the world's best snail mail correspondent, so I suppose meeting me is the right term versus seeing me again. I am not that sixteen year-old she saw at her Hollydene home over on Hamilton Road, which happens to be about a ten-minute walk from the hotel. So, that is where I left Auntie Eileen. I gave her a good hug and said it was so good to see her again. She said it was nice to meet me. I thanked her. Maybe she will make the connections later and see my young face behind the older one she met at tea today. Maybe she won't. It was just grand to see her, to cherish her.
Stephen took her back to her home, and after we closed up the house, Andrew and Linda took us to see the churches where different family members had their funerals. My great grandparents, my grandfather, my grandfather's brother Eric, who was ill after World War II. Then we went past Hollydene, the house where Auntie Eileen lived when I was a teenager. I was taken aback with the strong smell of cigar smoke from my great grandfather's cigar. He used to read Kipling to me or Dickens or Wordsworth before or after tea. I can hear his voice in the house, in the flower gardens at the back of the house. All that as I rode past and savored the memories. I wanted to touch the house and connect with it. Even though Grandad is gone and Auntie hasn't lived there in decades. We were back at the hotel long before dark. It wasn't late at all, and we had light refreshments before getting ready for bed. So, here I sit lounging on a chair with my journal, able to see out of my window and across the Cam to the place where the swans showered in the weir, across Jesus Green to where I can remember picnics and cricket and walks to Auntie Eileen's or my great grandmother's house. I can see my past. And I am good with that.
12 July 2011
12:00 Midnight
You would think that I would have a handle on setting aside writing time each night, but I feel certain that from the time any of a day's activities ceases, I have to have time to take it all into the subconscience and allow time for melding so that every possible detail, trivial or not, can be stored properly in my long-term memory. Most people would just experience the day, keeping what suits them or just going with the flow because they know they will be return to that place for new experiences. I know that every moment I am on this trip could be the last at any given location. As much as I desire to return, I know that life can happen, keeping you from it. When was the last time I was in Cambridge? Believe it or not, I can tell you all about that day--May 18th. I memorized everything about that day. The weather, what I was wearing, where I was every hour, what I ate (and on which plates using which silverware and from which cup and saucer my tea was in). You see, I knew then what I know now. The day could be my last, so it was important to hang onto every last miniscule scrap of it. Before I write about this summer's visit to Cambridge, I have to examine what that day in 1975 was like. For a Sunday, it was like most. I had tea with my grandmother at 4a Davy Road and helped her carry breakfast from the kitchen. Her kitchen had two remarkable things in it--a great cooker with a gas grill that browned Newmarket sausages perfectly. She also had the most interesting kitchen scales I have ever seen, one with a white basin and lead weights because she cooked by weight versus cups or spoonsful. I can feel the coolness of the floor as I walk from the kitchen into the sitting room where a heavy wool rug caught toast crumbs as they fell from the table. I can tell you what my grandmother was wearing that day, that her cat decided to permit my hand to stroke its back while it sunbathed on the window sill. I can hear the sound of footsteps going down the steps to the flat below hers and then the door to the outside opening and closing. I suppose I always knew that my time with my grandmother was going to be extremely limited, but when I was sixteen, I refused to address it. I was told to leave her that last day as though I would be back. I was told to not say goodbye. I never said goodbye to my grandmother. She died when I was 50, and I never saw her again, never said goodbye.
So, this trip to England had a couple of days built in for letting go of the past and putting it into some kind of perspective. I also knew that it could be my mother's last time to Cambridge, so it was justification for my own self-indulgence. How can it be that I am my age, at this point in my life, I am without much attachment to family beyond those who have lived with me? How is it I can go day to day and ignore what few connections I have with old dreams or family I do not know--those who are alive and those who have passed on? And how can I take those examinations of myself and family and apply them to what my students experience and to what I want for my daughters? Life is disjointed. Families do not tell stories they don't want told. I have family here. But I don't know them. When I think about old dreams, there are two major ones. I wanted to know my grandfather and cousins. I also wanted to be a university student at Trinity, St. John's, or Kings, even though women in my family have gone to university in Girton.
Now we can get back to the present...
When I got up for breakfast, the air crackled with the excess energy that comes from anxiety and stress. I had wanted to wake up and move through the day as smoothly as all the others. Tea and toast is my morning medicine, and after a second cup, it was time to hit the road. Three screams a mile. I had shared with Keith that his idiom in reference to my nerves when getting into traffic on the left side of the road was so accurate, and he told me it had to do with rolling down the window of the car whilst driving along the M-5. He had tried to let a bug out of the car, and instead it blew into the back seat with a blast of fast air to smash into our back seat passengers. Well, the ride to Cambridge was three screams a mile, not for traffic or bugs, but for my angst. I hadn't planned on my past crashing into the present. Still, I watched the sides of the road and waited to recognize something. Anything. Finally! There was a stand of trees on a ridge. A stand of trees I would recognize anywhere. My heart skipped a beat, and all of a sudden it wasn't about the past at all. It was about now.
We checked in at the Arundel House Hotel on Chesterton Road, which put us on the River Cam and not far from City Center. A narrow sliver of the past came to light as soon as I got to the Round Church and headed on to Market Square. On our way toward the shopping area down from Drummer Street station (bus hub), we stopped at Patisserie Valerie for tea. Finally! A tea shop similar to ones I have stored in my romantic memories. We had tea and cakes after sharing a plate of club sandwiches. I couldn't be still, had to get up and take pictures of all the cakes and buns in the window of the shop. Absolutely lovely. I had pangs for the tea cake shop my grandmother and I would walk to along the Mill Road on the other side of the Jesus Common that marked the edge of the University City. All of a sudden, I could remember the shop owner's face, how she would smile at me as she put my favorite cakes in a box and handed them to my grandmother. I got to carry sausages and breads while my grandmother carried the box of cakes. That past connecting with the present again. The mille-feuille I enjoyed was loaded with buttery layers of pastry and heavy custard. There was also a thin layer of shortbread on top, middle, and bottom to help hold its shape and keep it from being so fragile as it is handled. After this nice luncheon, we walked to Market Square and discovered the market was open. I didn't see anyone there selling Wombles, a cute furry animal that looks after Wimbledon Common (probably a passing trend, but I still have my Womble packed away somewhere). What did I see? Lots of flowers, lots of produce, lots of homemade breads. Things I ignored as a kid. There was the bicycle repairman's booth like I remember, although I am quite certain the owner is different! And then there was Biddy's stall. This stall had old cups and saucers, a Coronation cup from George V's coronation that was too worn for me to pay ten quid, and of all things a hand bell from St. Mary's (the church where my great grandmother worked). Twenty quid? Really? I walked away from it. Toward the end of the afternoon, we headed back to Chesterton Road and ultimately to our hotel where Keith and Wendy left us. We would not see them until Thursday afternoon, and I realized that the next time they left us, it would be after difficult goodbyes. I hated to see them leave. We went to our room, and Mom called Cousin Linda to touch base. Knowing we were on for tomorrow's family excursion and reunion, we went to dinner in the hotel conservatory.
No fish and chips with mushy peas tonight. Instead, it was Newmarket sausages, mashed potatoes with carmelized onion, and onion gravy. With a whole pot of tea. I had intended to enjoy dessert, but I was so full, I just couldn't. The hotel Internet allowed me to catch up on correspondence before my evening journal session. As I finish my writing, I realize that I am at a milestone in my life. Being in Cambridge today is a homecoming to strangers. The university colleges I used to dream of are familiar buildings, but my life in America is what I love more than those dreams. My grandmother was the center of my life in Cambridge. She is gone without saying goodbye to me. I see that my connections to the past are shadows and that if I am to love this city as I used to, I need to make new connections.
To view pictures associated with this part of the trip, look in the gallery for "Cambridge Comeback."
11:11 pm
This trip is coming to a fast end. How can two weeks go so quickly? It's hardly fair, and I think that if husband Curt had been with me, I'd have begged to stay longer. But I miss him so much, I'm thinking about how nice it will be to be home again. I used to say things like "home in England," "home to England," and "home is England." My home is in Abingdon, a small Southwest Virginia town. And my passion is teaching my students. Not willing to give up teaching to live here.
Don't you know that darned bell kept me awake another night? Needless to say, I skipped the full English breakfast in favor of toast and tea. It would have been a great move were it not for a second encounter with an American gentleman who could be so incredibly polite and thoughtful and then turn on a thin dime to be rude and thoughtless. I made a note to talk to my students about how to be an ambassador for our school, state, and nation whenever they travel stateside or abroad. As soon as we were packed, we turned our baggage over and checked out of the room. Then we hurried to Market Square to see if Biddy was there. She was! I asked about the bell, and she had a register of users. My bell was, for a time in the 1960s played by G. Smith. How alarming! This was my great grandmother's hand bell...unless it belonged to a George Smith or a Geoffrey Smith or a Gertrude Smith. I handed over twenty quid and clanged the bell, much to the chagrin of everyone working in the Market Square. Satisfied, it was off to the shops for a whirlwind spree to collect more artifacts for my classroom. How about real tea spoons? How about a real hand-knitted tea cozy? How about chocolate bars? Or another picnic rug and some scarves? When we had three shopping bags half-full of things we wanted to tak to America, we headed back to the hotel. After turning in our shopping, we made our way across the street to see about hiring a punt for an hour. Our punter, Joe, just finished school at one of the Cambridge universities, and he is going on to complete his Master's degree in physical geography. How awesome is that? We got some geography and geology thrown in with the basic tourist commentary about the River Cam and its colleges. While Kings College was impressive, so was Trinity. What really grabbed me was the Wren Library where the downstairs is empty of books on account of flooding risk. The upper levels are where the books are these days. Christopher Wren said it was the most boring building he had ever designed. Still, I like it awfully much. Joe turned the boat around and punted us back to La Mimosa. Mom and I walked back to the hotel. We knew it was time for Keith and Wendy to pick us up, so we went and got our bags and carried them to the hotel parking entrance. Just as we finished getting everything lined up, they arrived.
On the road back to Reading. We went to the New Inn and had a lovely last meal with Keith and Wendy. Naturally, we had fish and chips. One last time. And then a grand traditional dessert. One last time. Back to the house in Reading. It is time to pack, but I am too busy thinking. Too busy saying goodbye to my old self, the person that got on that plane fifteen days ago to go on a big adventure. Tomorrow we get on the plane and fly home. Tomorrow I have to say goodbye to Keith and Wendy. Tomorrow I have to drag the new me onto a plane and grab some naptime so that I don't have jet lag for a week!
13 July 2011
11:42 pm
I couldn't sleep well last night. I kept waking up, thinking about that hand bell. Twenty quid? Too much. It was old and came from St. Mary's. The church where my great grandmother worked in the office for over thirty years before retirement. She used to give guided tours of the historic church and its bell tower. She used to sing there. She used to play the hand bells on special church holidays. Twenty quid? A good night's sleep would have been worth that! I was out of bed and dressed by seven and was anxious for some toast and tea before I took off to Market Square. There would be just enough time to buy the bell and be back at the hotel by ten to have coffee with Cousin Linda and her husband Andrew. Eight-thirty. Eight-thirty eight. We left the hotel at a brisk pace and walked up Magdalene and Bridge Streets. We passed the Edinburgh Wollens shop, and I pulled up short at the second ATM machine I saw so I could get some cash to pay for that darned bell. We made a beeline for Sidney Street and came up to a police line that taped off our direct route to the market. We turned right and followed Green Street around until we found the street that looped to the market square. Booths were just being set up, but Biddy was nowhere to be seen. Talk about frustration! I could hear myself telling myself that it served me right balking at the price. We waited as long as we could before having to head back to the hotel for our coffee date with family. We stopped at the bank my mother preferred, but it had delayed its opening by an hour. We thought it had to do with the taped off area next to the bank, but now I don't think so. We went around Green Street again and cut across to Sidney to try the ATMs we had seen between the Arcade area and our hotel...three of them to be exact, all along the street. All were out of service! How odd is that. My mother looked at me and said in a mild voice, "Oh, Lizbeth. You got the last of the money and brok the banks." The memory of the clearance sale signs at the BANK (see the picture in the gallery) made me wonder about the state of the world economy--for a split second. Rather funny. I just didn't have much of a sense of humor because I didn't get that silly hand bell. Another trip to market tomorrow, I scowled.
At ten sharp, we met Linda and Andrew in the conservatory for coffee. It was lovely meeting them, and after ten minutes of lively conversation, it was as if we had always known each other. We talked about the scope of my trip and what I planned on doing with my experiences, how many years it has been since I've seen any of my Cambridge relatives, and what we might do for the day. There were two basic choices for the two hours we had before meeting Cousin Stephen for lunch at La Mimosa on the edge of Jesus Green (on the other side of the river, across the street from our hotel). First, we could drive out to Wimpole Hall and get in line to see The Jungle Book volume that is dedicated to Kipling's deceased daughter Josephine or we could drive out toward Girton to see Great Nanna and Granddad Falkner's house in Girton before going on to Comberton and Toft where my grandfather lived. Obscure connection to Kipling at a house that didn't want to let me in the family library to see the Kipling collection that daughter Elsie had inherited OR a very tangible opportunity to learn more about my grandfather and his family. No brainer. I chose family.
To help you understand my decision to step out of my teacher self or part of a day, let me just say that once when I was fourteen, I was walking past Marks & Spencer on Sidney Street at a rather fast pace right behind my mother and grandmother. They came to a full stop without warning, right there on the sidewalk. I crashed right into them, and my sisters piled up on the ground and had to be dusted off. My grandmother looked at me and said, "That was your grandfather." I had only seen his face for a brief few seconds before he side-stepped us and made hast toward the Trinity Church. I started after him because I wanted to meet him, but I couldn't find him. I can tell you what he looked like, what he was wearing, and that he can purse his lips tighter than I can, and that's saying something. I never got to call out his name because he was nameless. No one ever mentioned him until that moment. Do you know how frustrating it is to not know your grandfather's name so you can call him to stop long enough for you to introduce yourself? I wrote a letter to him once, but it was never sent because I did not know his name or address. I knew his name when he died, but then there was no point in sending the letter. What good is all this to the children in my classroom? I have to step back and realize that perhaps all this is why I have a soft spot for kids who survive in disjointed family structures. And I was a happy child and am a happy adult. Just one or two chinks in the armor. So, Linda and Andrew were willing to take me to the villages my grandfather lived in, and I was not about to let that opportunity pass me by.
Off we went to Comberton, pausing along the way to view Kings College all the way around. On the street, I felt anxious, like there was something to see that I didn't see. I brushed it off and worked myself around to take pictures of the livestock lowing on King's College land. Odd sight that can take your attention away from pressing matters, right? How many big cities have you seen longhorn steer laying down in tall grasses? Not a one, I'd say. We found Girton first. Girton where it was suggested I go to university. Girton where my great grandparents lived until Nanna passed away. What happened to all the lovely flowers that were in the front garden of their house? All filled in with pea gravel so that the family living there had room to park two cars off the street. It's enough to make you want to knock on the owner's door and ask if they can recite the words to Kipling's "In the Garden" poem. Dreadful!
We went on to Comberton, a picturesque village with plenty of thatched cottages. Andrew turned off West Street onto Kentings, and I saw my grandfather's house. He was starting to feel real now. I could see his face that day he disappeared near Trinity Church. My grandfather lived in Comberton, but he had a shop on High Street in the nearby village of Toft. It took two minutes to get from his house to his shop. I got out of the car and took pictures and then went inside. The realization that my grandfather owned this town shop and was also the postmaster certainly grabbed my attention. I wanted something from his shop, so I grabbed two large tubes of Smarties, a sweetie my grandmother would mail to me every Christmas. One tube for each daughter. I grabbed a tin of sour lemon drops for myself. The tin could be kept so that I would always feel connected to the store and ultimately my grandfather. I don't know if or when I will open the tin. Silly me. It is a keepsake of sorts, I suppose. My mother didn't want anything, so I got a picture of her standing with Linda and Andrew. Linda asked the new shopkeeper if there was anyone around who would remember my grandfather, and the shopkeeper immediately suggested a lady named Mary, aged 80. She lived next to the shop and would have known him. We called, but the person who answered the phone said we had a spot of bad luck because Mary was out in the fields cutting wheat today. I got her address and said I would write. I really must be careful to not misplace the paper. Nor should I let it go too long. I should buy some stamps so Mary doesn't have to pay postage on her response. We made one more stop at the church where my grandfather's funeral was held, and then we headed back to Cambridge, past Kings College and back to the hotel to park. We then crossed the street and the foot bridge that crossed into Jesus Green. We followed a path to the restaurant, and there was Cousin Stephen. What a pleasure to meet him as well.
We had lovely lunches and then made our way to Stephen's house for tea with Auntie Eileen. Auntie Eileen will be 96 this month. Quite something since she doesn't look older than 65. We talked about family events that have kept us all apart since the 1940s, a good bit before I was born. I sat and listened mostly. We had coffee sponge, scones with clotted cream, lemon loaf, and shortbread with our tea. I have a video clip of Auntie Eileen talking, but I've not listened to it yet. I probably won't until I have settled down at home and have time to really listen hard to all the years that have gone into her conversation. Her voice is as I remember it. Auntie says it was nice to meet me. I'm not the world's best snail mail correspondent, so I suppose meeting me is the right term versus seeing me again. I am not that sixteen year-old she saw at her Hollydene home over on Hamilton Road, which happens to be about a ten-minute walk from the hotel. So, that is where I left Auntie Eileen. I gave her a good hug and said it was so good to see her again. She said it was nice to meet me. I thanked her. Maybe she will make the connections later and see my young face behind the older one she met at tea today. Maybe she won't. It was just grand to see her, to cherish her.
Stephen took her back to her home, and after we closed up the house, Andrew and Linda took us to see the churches where different family members had their funerals. My great grandparents, my grandfather, my grandfather's brother Eric, who was ill after World War II. Then we went past Hollydene, the house where Auntie Eileen lived when I was a teenager. I was taken aback with the strong smell of cigar smoke from my great grandfather's cigar. He used to read Kipling to me or Dickens or Wordsworth before or after tea. I can hear his voice in the house, in the flower gardens at the back of the house. All that as I rode past and savored the memories. I wanted to touch the house and connect with it. Even though Grandad is gone and Auntie hasn't lived there in decades. We were back at the hotel long before dark. It wasn't late at all, and we had light refreshments before getting ready for bed. So, here I sit lounging on a chair with my journal, able to see out of my window and across the Cam to the place where the swans showered in the weir, across Jesus Green to where I can remember picnics and cricket and walks to Auntie Eileen's or my great grandmother's house. I can see my past. And I am good with that.
12 July 2011
12:00 Midnight
You would think that I would have a handle on setting aside writing time each night, but I feel certain that from the time any of a day's activities ceases, I have to have time to take it all into the subconscience and allow time for melding so that every possible detail, trivial or not, can be stored properly in my long-term memory. Most people would just experience the day, keeping what suits them or just going with the flow because they know they will be return to that place for new experiences. I know that every moment I am on this trip could be the last at any given location. As much as I desire to return, I know that life can happen, keeping you from it. When was the last time I was in Cambridge? Believe it or not, I can tell you all about that day--May 18th. I memorized everything about that day. The weather, what I was wearing, where I was every hour, what I ate (and on which plates using which silverware and from which cup and saucer my tea was in). You see, I knew then what I know now. The day could be my last, so it was important to hang onto every last miniscule scrap of it. Before I write about this summer's visit to Cambridge, I have to examine what that day in 1975 was like. For a Sunday, it was like most. I had tea with my grandmother at 4a Davy Road and helped her carry breakfast from the kitchen. Her kitchen had two remarkable things in it--a great cooker with a gas grill that browned Newmarket sausages perfectly. She also had the most interesting kitchen scales I have ever seen, one with a white basin and lead weights because she cooked by weight versus cups or spoonsful. I can feel the coolness of the floor as I walk from the kitchen into the sitting room where a heavy wool rug caught toast crumbs as they fell from the table. I can tell you what my grandmother was wearing that day, that her cat decided to permit my hand to stroke its back while it sunbathed on the window sill. I can hear the sound of footsteps going down the steps to the flat below hers and then the door to the outside opening and closing. I suppose I always knew that my time with my grandmother was going to be extremely limited, but when I was sixteen, I refused to address it. I was told to leave her that last day as though I would be back. I was told to not say goodbye. I never said goodbye to my grandmother. She died when I was 50, and I never saw her again, never said goodbye.
So, this trip to England had a couple of days built in for letting go of the past and putting it into some kind of perspective. I also knew that it could be my mother's last time to Cambridge, so it was justification for my own self-indulgence. How can it be that I am my age, at this point in my life, I am without much attachment to family beyond those who have lived with me? How is it I can go day to day and ignore what few connections I have with old dreams or family I do not know--those who are alive and those who have passed on? And how can I take those examinations of myself and family and apply them to what my students experience and to what I want for my daughters? Life is disjointed. Families do not tell stories they don't want told. I have family here. But I don't know them. When I think about old dreams, there are two major ones. I wanted to know my grandfather and cousins. I also wanted to be a university student at Trinity, St. John's, or Kings, even though women in my family have gone to university in Girton.
Now we can get back to the present...
When I got up for breakfast, the air crackled with the excess energy that comes from anxiety and stress. I had wanted to wake up and move through the day as smoothly as all the others. Tea and toast is my morning medicine, and after a second cup, it was time to hit the road. Three screams a mile. I had shared with Keith that his idiom in reference to my nerves when getting into traffic on the left side of the road was so accurate, and he told me it had to do with rolling down the window of the car whilst driving along the M-5. He had tried to let a bug out of the car, and instead it blew into the back seat with a blast of fast air to smash into our back seat passengers. Well, the ride to Cambridge was three screams a mile, not for traffic or bugs, but for my angst. I hadn't planned on my past crashing into the present. Still, I watched the sides of the road and waited to recognize something. Anything. Finally! There was a stand of trees on a ridge. A stand of trees I would recognize anywhere. My heart skipped a beat, and all of a sudden it wasn't about the past at all. It was about now.
We checked in at the Arundel House Hotel on Chesterton Road, which put us on the River Cam and not far from City Center. A narrow sliver of the past came to light as soon as I got to the Round Church and headed on to Market Square. On our way toward the shopping area down from Drummer Street station (bus hub), we stopped at Patisserie Valerie for tea. Finally! A tea shop similar to ones I have stored in my romantic memories. We had tea and cakes after sharing a plate of club sandwiches. I couldn't be still, had to get up and take pictures of all the cakes and buns in the window of the shop. Absolutely lovely. I had pangs for the tea cake shop my grandmother and I would walk to along the Mill Road on the other side of the Jesus Common that marked the edge of the University City. All of a sudden, I could remember the shop owner's face, how she would smile at me as she put my favorite cakes in a box and handed them to my grandmother. I got to carry sausages and breads while my grandmother carried the box of cakes. That past connecting with the present again. The mille-feuille I enjoyed was loaded with buttery layers of pastry and heavy custard. There was also a thin layer of shortbread on top, middle, and bottom to help hold its shape and keep it from being so fragile as it is handled. After this nice luncheon, we walked to Market Square and discovered the market was open. I didn't see anyone there selling Wombles, a cute furry animal that looks after Wimbledon Common (probably a passing trend, but I still have my Womble packed away somewhere). What did I see? Lots of flowers, lots of produce, lots of homemade breads. Things I ignored as a kid. There was the bicycle repairman's booth like I remember, although I am quite certain the owner is different! And then there was Biddy's stall. This stall had old cups and saucers, a Coronation cup from George V's coronation that was too worn for me to pay ten quid, and of all things a hand bell from St. Mary's (the church where my great grandmother worked). Twenty quid? Really? I walked away from it. Toward the end of the afternoon, we headed back to Chesterton Road and ultimately to our hotel where Keith and Wendy left us. We would not see them until Thursday afternoon, and I realized that the next time they left us, it would be after difficult goodbyes. I hated to see them leave. We went to our room, and Mom called Cousin Linda to touch base. Knowing we were on for tomorrow's family excursion and reunion, we went to dinner in the hotel conservatory.
No fish and chips with mushy peas tonight. Instead, it was Newmarket sausages, mashed potatoes with carmelized onion, and onion gravy. With a whole pot of tea. I had intended to enjoy dessert, but I was so full, I just couldn't. The hotel Internet allowed me to catch up on correspondence before my evening journal session. As I finish my writing, I realize that I am at a milestone in my life. Being in Cambridge today is a homecoming to strangers. The university colleges I used to dream of are familiar buildings, but my life in America is what I love more than those dreams. My grandmother was the center of my life in Cambridge. She is gone without saying goodbye to me. I see that my connections to the past are shadows and that if I am to love this city as I used to, I need to make new connections.
To view pictures associated with this part of the trip, look in the gallery for "Cambridge Comeback."
The Lost Rivers and Lesser Fogs of London
11 July 2011
10:11 pm BST
We woke up, hurried to pack the last of our things and took our luggage to the front desk of the hotel to have them hold it until after lunch. Why? Well, there was the matter of Westminster Abbey to take care of. We needed to catch a train between two and three o'clock, so we had time to walk down Victoria Street to the abbey. We did a rather brisk walk and got in line to enter. There were two lines, both long--one for debit/credit cards and one for cash, which I thought was very interesting. The guides outside the abbey commented that since the royal wedding, the number of visitors each day had dropped to triple of what it had been in years passed. Wow. It seemed reasonable enough when I was outside in the line, but after the tour, I wonder why anyone would get married there. It's sort of a creepy place when you dwell on it.
There is a no gum sign at the door to the abbey--with a receptacle to dispose of what you are chewing! I took a picture of it so I can put one up on my classrom! No camera photography is allowed, so I capped my camera and felt sorry for myself. No picture of Kipling's new floor stone. Were it not for the fact that I didn't get to see the original stone that was placed at one of the gardens at Bateman's, I'd have gotten out of the line and not gone in. When you go into the abbey, you are supposed to walk from numbered sign to numbered sign in sequential order, and I needed to get to stop 34. I wanted to rush from one place to the next, but the points of interest on the audio tour were just too interesting; I slowed down to a pace that made the abbey both interesting and almost hallowed. The monuments that proclaim undying love for the deceased were mind-boggling. Such beauty. Marble sculptures so real you could imagine them blinking from time to time.
In just over two hours, we saw hundreds of the monuments and tombs that are inside the abbey. Some of the most amazing stories come with them. King Edward is entombed there...he was a good person who did much to help the people under his reign...so good that the Pope made him a saint! The list of kings and queens resting in the abbey is very long, and I won't bore anyone in that way. I would like to point out the story that impressed me the most, though. Queen Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots were rival for the throne. Mary was Catholic, so Elizabeth ended up sitting on the throne; she imprisoned her cousin because she was such a huge threat to the young monarch. When Elizabeth I died in her old age, she was buried right above Queen Mary Tudor, and the huge marble monument that encases the monarchs was the last monument in the abbey to be placed above the deceased. James I became king, and one of the first things he took care of was having his mother buried in Westminster Abbey in a tomb as grand as that of the former queen. Interesting stuff. The abbey is full of such stories.
When I got to Poet's Corner, I was pretty ticked off that people were slouched in chairs that were placed on the stones of famous philosophers and theologians! I stood in Poet's Corner and lost track of all the noise around me. I stood on Samuel Johnson's marker, seeing how he created the first English language dictionary. I found Thomas Hardy's marker, famous because little bits of Thomas Hardy are buried all over England. Charles Dickens was nearby...his London home is up for sale for two million pounds, a fine historic home for mere extravagant pennies. And then, I saw my Kipling marker. The sadness of having to leave Bateman's came rushing back. I looked over my shoulder and saw King George V's tomb. The king and his trumpeter should have been buried closer to each other. I stood next to Kipling's marker, wishing I could talk to him. No such luck. And a good thing, too. After all, my talking to Kipling and him answering back would have given rise to News of the World starting back up! Anyway, I paid my respects and refused to say goodbye. He is living through print, and soon children will be writing stories in subliminal tribute to his ability to conjure up whole characters and plots from mere dust.
Before we left the abbey, we had lunch in the abbey cloisters. I couldn't help but notice that the lunch stand was located across three large slate slabs which entombed some folks who passed away in the mid- to late 1700s--as though it was no big deal. People sat on benches and let their feet rest on other slabs while other people sat on them as though the floor were a vast picnic ground. Me? I ate my sandwich and drank my abbey water with my feet pulled up from the floor out of respect for the person at my feet, aged some 78 years. As we made our way to the door where we came in, I was taken by the poppies on the floor, left there for honored war dead. And within three steps of that was an etched stone in honor of Winston Churchill. I had to keep calm and carry on as I walked across the stone to get outside. We couldn't find anything honoring Kipling in the small gift shop at the abbey, so we made our way back up Victoria to collect our baggage at the hotel. After hailing a cab, we made our way to Platform 2 and ran for a very crowded slow train that had one stop in Slough (home of Horlicks drink mix that helps you sleep...better than Quik!) before stopping in Reading. We hailed a cab and found ourselves at Keith and Wendy's at 3:10 pm...only ten minutes past target!
We had a cup of tea and talked about the London trip and having tea with mutual friend Pat. Later, we had a lovely dinner of chicken, rice, and a vegetable. It tasted so good. For dessert, there was Eaton Mess. That's right, it's a dessert that got started up at the famous boys school where all the royals go before attending university. I didn't visit Eton, but I did visit the bowl of E ton Mess for seconds! I have eaten a ton of Eton Mess! What is Eaton Mess? Well, imagine heavy cream beaten to a soft pudding stage with some sugar, in a bottom layer of a wide bowl. Add red raspberries (or strawberries, if you must) and crusty meringue that has cooled. You can pile the berries in the middle and make a ring of dry meringue or you can layer them a couple of times. Add a lot of berries to the top to make it look gorgeous. This dessert tasted so good that I had to close my eyes and savor all the flavors that teased my taste buds...sweet, creamy, tart all at once. You really must try this dessert, which is now my hands-down favorite dessert in all the world. Better than chocolate or great banana pudding. Better than cream teas. I can just close my eyes and immediately see Eton Mess whenever I want, and the taste of it can still be summoned.
By 9:30, I was ready to call it a night. There is packing to do for the final leg of our journey. In the morning, Keith and Wendy are going to take us to visit Cambridge. It's a place I've not seen since I was sixteen, and I am sure that the biggest surprise will not be the fact that time changes places. And I am certain that I shall fall asleep before my head hits the pillow!
10 July 2011
10:18 pm BST
The Tower of London was spell-binding. I rented the audio tour guide and followed the signs so I could have a more in-depth experience than a mere walk-through. I got to visit the Tudor palace where the king would stay when he needed to be safe and away from harm. Unfortunately, one king was murdered while he prayed in his apartment chapel. Later, two young princes were murdered at the tower...heirs to the throne, no less. Many famous political and royal figures have been imprisoned at the Tower. It was amazing to see the common cells and the ones where affluent people could rent very nice prison accommodations! There was a room that imprisoned a woman and her beau when they were arrested for poisoning her prominent husband. Anne Boleyn was held and executed here--as was Sir Walter Raleigh, who is hailed in our history textbooks as being the man who took tobacco to Queen Elizabeth I along with the jewels and gold he had nabbed. Funny, our history books don't say anything about him losing his head to greed over loot he was to give Her Majesty! Keeping the treasure bore such a high price in the end.
There are the crowns of past monarchs in a tower room not far from the monkeys that are hanging about outside...along with the lions and leopards running in the pits between the building, in hopes of finding some fresh meat running by. The Crown Jewels were also on display. "Keep moving. Don't stop. No pictures. Move along, please." This is what you get when you go to the Crown Jewels exhibit. You literally have to walk through the corridor and gawk at them, and before you know it, you are squinting in the bright sunlight! Once you have adjusted to the outdoors, you can see the monument on Execution Green that pays tribute to all those who lost their heads to the executioner. You walk around the stone and read the words on the bottom ring, and then you keep going and read what is on the top glass ring. It's a very chilling monument, and there is a glass pillow on which the victim's head rests. Chilling. Sobering. Deeply disturbing because the monument is so beautiful.
After a photo opportunity with two yeomen, your attention is drawn to the ravens that live on the grounds. There is an armed guard who stands in full uniform, perfectly still until it is time for him to march the grounds alongside the raven's perch. Then he returns to his guard post. It is the job of this guard to call the King or Queen should the ravens leave the tower. "Should the ravens flee the Tower, Britain shall be no more." People take this very seriously, you know. I know I would not want tht guard's job. Too many mischievous tourists around! On our way out of the Tower of London, I happened to glance around for something I had read about...a thief's hand, it being chopped off to set an example to all criminals both inside and outside the Tower. It was not at eye level, and I almost missed it. What a sobering end of the visit.
We ate fish and chips in the food commons and then walked around to the dock to get our cruise to Greenwich. It was a great trip because we heard all about the lost rivers of London, how the Thames has gone from the dirtiest river in Europe to the cleanest in under seventeen years. This part of the river is where all the big ships with goods would come to port. There are all kinds of places for cargo ships to weigh anchor before the tide goes out. Smaller boats tie up according to the tide, which essentially beaches them until tide returns some five or six hours later. I got to see a lot of the tea warehouses and pub where a judge would sit on the establishment's deck and watch the execution drownings of pirates and smugglers including one Captain Kidd. Essentially, his rule was if you could survive the tide coming and going three times whilst bound to the post of a wharf, he would let you go. Thou shalt not suffer a smuggler to live... The Cutty Sark, under restoration after an onboard fire, was closed to visitors in Greenwich the day we were there, so we took the captain up on his invitation to just ride back to port on his boat. We enjoyed the commentary about the lost rivers on the way back. Venice is not the only European city built above the water. London has at least five lost rivers that you cannot see unless you know where they channel into the Thames. I think I got pictures of three of the river outlets.
Once we got back to port, we had to hurry to the bus stop and meet friend Pat, who was coming down on the Tube from north London to have tea with us at 3:30. It was 3:15 when we got to the bus stop, but because of the many ongoing charity events, the Red Bus line had three buses waiting for police permission to make the turn to our stop. By the time we got to our hotel, we were half an hour late! Ordinarily we would have been very much on time for tea, but not today. It was lovely seeing Pat, and we had a nice long visit talking about our work and how it impacts families...not to mention my impressions of the trip to England. Since it was Sunday and traffic above ground was crippled, we decided to not take the last bus around the city. Instead, we went to some local shops and got food to eat in our room so we could just lounge around and relax. The Highgate Cemetery is still booked solid, so a visit there on Monday is out of the question. Oh, well.
9 July 2011
10:58 pm BST
It was eight o'clock sharp when Mom and I hurried out of the hotel's restaurant entrance to buy two-day passes on the Red Bus. I cannot give the Red Bus people enough praise for their ability to move so many people of different nationalities through the most popular parts of London! Seriously, if you want to see London above ground, this is the way to go. If you have time, ride the red route without getting off, and sit where you can get great pictures. Then get on the blue line and do the same thing. You won't be sorry you did this, especially if your time is limited and you cannot possibly see all you want to see. The tour guide, whichever bus we rode, gave interesting historical or contemporary information about key sites as we drove past, and the company's bus stops were strategically located throughout the city so we can get off and sight-see and then get back at the same stop to continue on. Now, all this being said, remember that I have lived in Southwest Virginia for over thirty years, and I only go to cities when I have to because the buildings are tall like mountains, but they are not covered with trees and footpaths up their not-so-sloping sides. I feel as though I am in a maze trying to find the exit. On top of that, remember that my first week in England has been in very rural, picturesque parts of England where the majority of tourists never go. Just ask anybody you know, "Would you rather see London or see Merlin's cave?" You get the picture!
It stuns me how London (and the parts of the countryside I've seen so far) has managed to blend the newest construction in the city with its oldest. It's not unusual to see things like one of London's oldest pubs with an old ship dry docked next to it on one side and a brick and glass 21st century high rise on the other. Piccadilly has gone digital and cleaned up its streets so that it can cater to the theater crowd. I had to get my mind on the beauty of the city, and that was not hard to do. Shops of two hundred years ago are shops today, but instead of seeing a local green grocer, a butcher, a baker, and a newsagent strung together in a row, now you might see a string of fashion designer shops. It's great the the old parts of city are still valued, but a bit of me wishes I could have experienced the bygone charm of the past. Ah, well. There's more chance of that kind of experience in the outlying villages.
Our bus conductor suggested we split the river cruises so that we do one each day, so we did just that. We got off our bus at the Tower of London, walked right past it as though it was not there, and then got on the first boat of the day--excellent because it wasn't full of screaming teenagers making silly faces at camera lenses and paying no attention at all to the boat captain talk about all the historic sites we were going past. The cruise took us from the Tower of London, past Shakespeare's Round Theatre, past the Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge, and all the way to the Houses of Parliament stop. We got off there and walked toward the plaza where you can ride the London Eye. Since it was Saturday, the regular line was long, so I upgraded our standard tickets for fast track ones. I have to tell you that my sentiments about this great wheel being as recognizable as the Statue of Liberty troubled me. The London Eye, in it's high tech ferris wheel kind of way, clashed with the majesty of the buildings around it. Frankly, I used to think it was an eyesore! I sing a different tune now, let me tell you!
The wheel moves continuously, ever so slowly. At least it seems slow until you start to step onto it before its doors close! Then it moves slowly again so that you can get your bearings and gawk. Gawking like Wendy as she sails away to Never Never Land with Peter Pan comes to mind without seeming like exaggeration. Just imagine moving so smoothly that you would swear you were standing still, suspended safely in the air. You look around while inside the glass capsule, and you gawk and gawk and gawk, punctuate it with camera whirs and snaps with a few ooohs and ahhhhs thrown in for good, honest measure.
To be on the London Eye meant we had to give up the Changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace, but we were sure we had made the right decision as we slowly made our way to the top vantage point. It's hard to remember to take pictures where you are taken aback by the beauty of the city and cannot resist seeing it with your own eyes rather than through a camera lense, but I did get lost of pictures...a whole series of them so you have a sense of how grand the experience is. It never crossed my mind that I could be seeing what I saw, recognizing what I saw--based on what I've read and what I learned on the Red Bus. And to beat all, when I uploaded pictures taken on the London Eye, guest what?? I got the Changing of the Guard in a snapshot--best vantage point in the city!
After we left the London Eye, we made our way toward the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben in the bell tower was sounding off, and I wished I had brought my flip video recorder along. When we finally got to a Big Bus stop, we waited for the bus and rode it around the city and got more historic tidbits for committal to memory until Stop Five, the stop for Madame Tussaud and 221b Baker Street. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle again! I bought tickets while Mom waited in line, and when it was finally our turn, we walked inside the narrowest four-story house I've ever seen, let alone been in. The rooms were decorated for Sherlock's period in time, so all the Victorian furnishings and accoutrements were rather nice. There were a lot of "artifacts" from the novels--various detecting gadgets, not to mention scenes from famous Sherlock Holmes stories being on display in the upper rooms. Of all the things I liked the most, it would be the vaguely beehive-shaped glass dish with the pewter or silver lid that had a bee on it that was on the tea table. At that moment I decided I was going to have one just like it--to go with the inkwell like the one at Bateman's and the smooth little rock I found at Merlin's Cave. What a silly thing to think about!
By the time we got off the bus after a very pleasant late afternoon ride all the way around the city, we got to our hotel and freshened up for dinner . Once again, we chose the hotel restaurant. This time I ordered an organic cheese pizza, which was excellent. I thought that taking a night off from fish and chips might be a good idea. After dinner we made plans for Sunday. This was necessary on two counts. First, it was a charity Sunday, a time when the center of London is blocked off for various races and walks. All public transportation was overflowing with passengers, and all the sidewalks were packed with charity supporters and participants. It made getting around the city a huge challenge, but the Big Bus people were great. The Tate was out. Kensington Palace was out. The smartest thing to do was go to the Tower of London and then take the long river cruise to the Prime Meridian Observatory. Our second bit goal of the day was to be back at the hotel at 3:30 or as close as we could get thanks to bus delays on account of all the races and walks that blocked major streets in the city until late at night.
8 July 2011
10:05 pm BST
Wakey, Wakey! We had a good breakfast of cereal, fruit, toast, and tea before loading up for the ride to the Reading train station. After purchasing two tickets for the fast train into Paddington Station in London, Wendy saw us off to the right platform before she headed off to the shops. It took approximately 25 minutes to get to London by train, and then we looked for a case with wheels so we would have it to pack extras in for the trip home. To make things simple, we got in the cab line and rode to the Thistle Hotel in Westminster. Getting to the hotel was easy enough, but we found out the hotel was overbooked somehow and that we didn't have a room. The manager was very nice about it and asked why we chose his hotel, and I told him it was near the Big Bus headquarters and was a bit out of the way of the main attractions. I've stayed in cities so noisy that it was hard to sleep, and I needed to sleep soundly when I did get to sleep. Much to my relief, we were given a room that came available as the result of a cancellation. We tossed our things into the room and made a beeline for transportation to the British Museum. We had money for cab fare and Oyster Cards for the Tube (thanks to friend Pat who lives in London). Why go to the British Museum first, you ask? Well, it's Rick Riordan's influence, really. You see, my students read the Percy Jackson series, which is steeped in Greek mythology. One of the enrichment projects my students do each year is create a Greek urn that tells about an important event in the novel. Do I ever get some good ones! Lord Elgin, back in the 1800s, brought a few boatloads of Greek artifacts to London and placed them in the British Museum. Resources being what they are, I show one or two urns that are on the museum website just so students get an idea of what ancient Greek urns looked like. Coming to London, it was a no-brainer to view the actual urns...to touch one or two. Exciting stuff for a teacher from Southwest Virginia! With a few reproduction urns to hand around the classroom, there's no telling how this activity will go beyond the scope of where it's been the past few years.
And! And! And now that Rick Riordan has a a couple of new series--starting with THE RED PYRAMID--that touches on Egyptian mythology, I had to go see the Egyptian kingdoms displays in the Egypt Rooms. I had to see the funeral needles and friezes, the sarcophagus collections and tomb relics. What about the Rosetta Stone that was blown up in the novel? I had to see it, and I did. Thanks Rick Riordan for THE LOST HERO because if that isn't enough, I viewed part of the Roman artifacts that are on display before I dropped by the Rooms of Enlightenment, which is a huge gallery where one can see important artifacts that define humanity. Everything from fossils to first editions of rare books to sculptures of the gods to eggs of extinct species wiped out by people to urns to busts of the benefactors to the museum can be found there. They say that if you view each item in the gallery, you walk away with a lifetime's knowledge and have a better sense of self.
Can you believe that seeing just this one section of the museum took us almost six hours? We stayed until 8:00 before we called it a night and went back to the hotel for dinner. You guessed it! Fish and chips! Then we headed to our room and unwound. [For me, that means letting go of all the things I've seen, which means write about it, sort it out, review the pictures, write some more. Only when my brain says, "Enough!" will I stop and get ready for bed. This could be an early night for me. Joy! Hope I don't forget to think about something before I fall asleep.]
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "London's Calling."
10:11 pm BST
We woke up, hurried to pack the last of our things and took our luggage to the front desk of the hotel to have them hold it until after lunch. Why? Well, there was the matter of Westminster Abbey to take care of. We needed to catch a train between two and three o'clock, so we had time to walk down Victoria Street to the abbey. We did a rather brisk walk and got in line to enter. There were two lines, both long--one for debit/credit cards and one for cash, which I thought was very interesting. The guides outside the abbey commented that since the royal wedding, the number of visitors each day had dropped to triple of what it had been in years passed. Wow. It seemed reasonable enough when I was outside in the line, but after the tour, I wonder why anyone would get married there. It's sort of a creepy place when you dwell on it.
There is a no gum sign at the door to the abbey--with a receptacle to dispose of what you are chewing! I took a picture of it so I can put one up on my classrom! No camera photography is allowed, so I capped my camera and felt sorry for myself. No picture of Kipling's new floor stone. Were it not for the fact that I didn't get to see the original stone that was placed at one of the gardens at Bateman's, I'd have gotten out of the line and not gone in. When you go into the abbey, you are supposed to walk from numbered sign to numbered sign in sequential order, and I needed to get to stop 34. I wanted to rush from one place to the next, but the points of interest on the audio tour were just too interesting; I slowed down to a pace that made the abbey both interesting and almost hallowed. The monuments that proclaim undying love for the deceased were mind-boggling. Such beauty. Marble sculptures so real you could imagine them blinking from time to time.
In just over two hours, we saw hundreds of the monuments and tombs that are inside the abbey. Some of the most amazing stories come with them. King Edward is entombed there...he was a good person who did much to help the people under his reign...so good that the Pope made him a saint! The list of kings and queens resting in the abbey is very long, and I won't bore anyone in that way. I would like to point out the story that impressed me the most, though. Queen Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots were rival for the throne. Mary was Catholic, so Elizabeth ended up sitting on the throne; she imprisoned her cousin because she was such a huge threat to the young monarch. When Elizabeth I died in her old age, she was buried right above Queen Mary Tudor, and the huge marble monument that encases the monarchs was the last monument in the abbey to be placed above the deceased. James I became king, and one of the first things he took care of was having his mother buried in Westminster Abbey in a tomb as grand as that of the former queen. Interesting stuff. The abbey is full of such stories.
When I got to Poet's Corner, I was pretty ticked off that people were slouched in chairs that were placed on the stones of famous philosophers and theologians! I stood in Poet's Corner and lost track of all the noise around me. I stood on Samuel Johnson's marker, seeing how he created the first English language dictionary. I found Thomas Hardy's marker, famous because little bits of Thomas Hardy are buried all over England. Charles Dickens was nearby...his London home is up for sale for two million pounds, a fine historic home for mere extravagant pennies. And then, I saw my Kipling marker. The sadness of having to leave Bateman's came rushing back. I looked over my shoulder and saw King George V's tomb. The king and his trumpeter should have been buried closer to each other. I stood next to Kipling's marker, wishing I could talk to him. No such luck. And a good thing, too. After all, my talking to Kipling and him answering back would have given rise to News of the World starting back up! Anyway, I paid my respects and refused to say goodbye. He is living through print, and soon children will be writing stories in subliminal tribute to his ability to conjure up whole characters and plots from mere dust.
Before we left the abbey, we had lunch in the abbey cloisters. I couldn't help but notice that the lunch stand was located across three large slate slabs which entombed some folks who passed away in the mid- to late 1700s--as though it was no big deal. People sat on benches and let their feet rest on other slabs while other people sat on them as though the floor were a vast picnic ground. Me? I ate my sandwich and drank my abbey water with my feet pulled up from the floor out of respect for the person at my feet, aged some 78 years. As we made our way to the door where we came in, I was taken by the poppies on the floor, left there for honored war dead. And within three steps of that was an etched stone in honor of Winston Churchill. I had to keep calm and carry on as I walked across the stone to get outside. We couldn't find anything honoring Kipling in the small gift shop at the abbey, so we made our way back up Victoria to collect our baggage at the hotel. After hailing a cab, we made our way to Platform 2 and ran for a very crowded slow train that had one stop in Slough (home of Horlicks drink mix that helps you sleep...better than Quik!) before stopping in Reading. We hailed a cab and found ourselves at Keith and Wendy's at 3:10 pm...only ten minutes past target!
We had a cup of tea and talked about the London trip and having tea with mutual friend Pat. Later, we had a lovely dinner of chicken, rice, and a vegetable. It tasted so good. For dessert, there was Eaton Mess. That's right, it's a dessert that got started up at the famous boys school where all the royals go before attending university. I didn't visit Eton, but I did visit the bowl of E ton Mess for seconds! I have eaten a ton of Eton Mess! What is Eaton Mess? Well, imagine heavy cream beaten to a soft pudding stage with some sugar, in a bottom layer of a wide bowl. Add red raspberries (or strawberries, if you must) and crusty meringue that has cooled. You can pile the berries in the middle and make a ring of dry meringue or you can layer them a couple of times. Add a lot of berries to the top to make it look gorgeous. This dessert tasted so good that I had to close my eyes and savor all the flavors that teased my taste buds...sweet, creamy, tart all at once. You really must try this dessert, which is now my hands-down favorite dessert in all the world. Better than chocolate or great banana pudding. Better than cream teas. I can just close my eyes and immediately see Eton Mess whenever I want, and the taste of it can still be summoned.
By 9:30, I was ready to call it a night. There is packing to do for the final leg of our journey. In the morning, Keith and Wendy are going to take us to visit Cambridge. It's a place I've not seen since I was sixteen, and I am sure that the biggest surprise will not be the fact that time changes places. And I am certain that I shall fall asleep before my head hits the pillow!
10 July 2011
10:18 pm BST
The Tower of London was spell-binding. I rented the audio tour guide and followed the signs so I could have a more in-depth experience than a mere walk-through. I got to visit the Tudor palace where the king would stay when he needed to be safe and away from harm. Unfortunately, one king was murdered while he prayed in his apartment chapel. Later, two young princes were murdered at the tower...heirs to the throne, no less. Many famous political and royal figures have been imprisoned at the Tower. It was amazing to see the common cells and the ones where affluent people could rent very nice prison accommodations! There was a room that imprisoned a woman and her beau when they were arrested for poisoning her prominent husband. Anne Boleyn was held and executed here--as was Sir Walter Raleigh, who is hailed in our history textbooks as being the man who took tobacco to Queen Elizabeth I along with the jewels and gold he had nabbed. Funny, our history books don't say anything about him losing his head to greed over loot he was to give Her Majesty! Keeping the treasure bore such a high price in the end.
There are the crowns of past monarchs in a tower room not far from the monkeys that are hanging about outside...along with the lions and leopards running in the pits between the building, in hopes of finding some fresh meat running by. The Crown Jewels were also on display. "Keep moving. Don't stop. No pictures. Move along, please." This is what you get when you go to the Crown Jewels exhibit. You literally have to walk through the corridor and gawk at them, and before you know it, you are squinting in the bright sunlight! Once you have adjusted to the outdoors, you can see the monument on Execution Green that pays tribute to all those who lost their heads to the executioner. You walk around the stone and read the words on the bottom ring, and then you keep going and read what is on the top glass ring. It's a very chilling monument, and there is a glass pillow on which the victim's head rests. Chilling. Sobering. Deeply disturbing because the monument is so beautiful.
After a photo opportunity with two yeomen, your attention is drawn to the ravens that live on the grounds. There is an armed guard who stands in full uniform, perfectly still until it is time for him to march the grounds alongside the raven's perch. Then he returns to his guard post. It is the job of this guard to call the King or Queen should the ravens leave the tower. "Should the ravens flee the Tower, Britain shall be no more." People take this very seriously, you know. I know I would not want tht guard's job. Too many mischievous tourists around! On our way out of the Tower of London, I happened to glance around for something I had read about...a thief's hand, it being chopped off to set an example to all criminals both inside and outside the Tower. It was not at eye level, and I almost missed it. What a sobering end of the visit.
We ate fish and chips in the food commons and then walked around to the dock to get our cruise to Greenwich. It was a great trip because we heard all about the lost rivers of London, how the Thames has gone from the dirtiest river in Europe to the cleanest in under seventeen years. This part of the river is where all the big ships with goods would come to port. There are all kinds of places for cargo ships to weigh anchor before the tide goes out. Smaller boats tie up according to the tide, which essentially beaches them until tide returns some five or six hours later. I got to see a lot of the tea warehouses and pub where a judge would sit on the establishment's deck and watch the execution drownings of pirates and smugglers including one Captain Kidd. Essentially, his rule was if you could survive the tide coming and going three times whilst bound to the post of a wharf, he would let you go. Thou shalt not suffer a smuggler to live... The Cutty Sark, under restoration after an onboard fire, was closed to visitors in Greenwich the day we were there, so we took the captain up on his invitation to just ride back to port on his boat. We enjoyed the commentary about the lost rivers on the way back. Venice is not the only European city built above the water. London has at least five lost rivers that you cannot see unless you know where they channel into the Thames. I think I got pictures of three of the river outlets.
Once we got back to port, we had to hurry to the bus stop and meet friend Pat, who was coming down on the Tube from north London to have tea with us at 3:30. It was 3:15 when we got to the bus stop, but because of the many ongoing charity events, the Red Bus line had three buses waiting for police permission to make the turn to our stop. By the time we got to our hotel, we were half an hour late! Ordinarily we would have been very much on time for tea, but not today. It was lovely seeing Pat, and we had a nice long visit talking about our work and how it impacts families...not to mention my impressions of the trip to England. Since it was Sunday and traffic above ground was crippled, we decided to not take the last bus around the city. Instead, we went to some local shops and got food to eat in our room so we could just lounge around and relax. The Highgate Cemetery is still booked solid, so a visit there on Monday is out of the question. Oh, well.
9 July 2011
10:58 pm BST
It was eight o'clock sharp when Mom and I hurried out of the hotel's restaurant entrance to buy two-day passes on the Red Bus. I cannot give the Red Bus people enough praise for their ability to move so many people of different nationalities through the most popular parts of London! Seriously, if you want to see London above ground, this is the way to go. If you have time, ride the red route without getting off, and sit where you can get great pictures. Then get on the blue line and do the same thing. You won't be sorry you did this, especially if your time is limited and you cannot possibly see all you want to see. The tour guide, whichever bus we rode, gave interesting historical or contemporary information about key sites as we drove past, and the company's bus stops were strategically located throughout the city so we can get off and sight-see and then get back at the same stop to continue on. Now, all this being said, remember that I have lived in Southwest Virginia for over thirty years, and I only go to cities when I have to because the buildings are tall like mountains, but they are not covered with trees and footpaths up their not-so-sloping sides. I feel as though I am in a maze trying to find the exit. On top of that, remember that my first week in England has been in very rural, picturesque parts of England where the majority of tourists never go. Just ask anybody you know, "Would you rather see London or see Merlin's cave?" You get the picture!
It stuns me how London (and the parts of the countryside I've seen so far) has managed to blend the newest construction in the city with its oldest. It's not unusual to see things like one of London's oldest pubs with an old ship dry docked next to it on one side and a brick and glass 21st century high rise on the other. Piccadilly has gone digital and cleaned up its streets so that it can cater to the theater crowd. I had to get my mind on the beauty of the city, and that was not hard to do. Shops of two hundred years ago are shops today, but instead of seeing a local green grocer, a butcher, a baker, and a newsagent strung together in a row, now you might see a string of fashion designer shops. It's great the the old parts of city are still valued, but a bit of me wishes I could have experienced the bygone charm of the past. Ah, well. There's more chance of that kind of experience in the outlying villages.
Our bus conductor suggested we split the river cruises so that we do one each day, so we did just that. We got off our bus at the Tower of London, walked right past it as though it was not there, and then got on the first boat of the day--excellent because it wasn't full of screaming teenagers making silly faces at camera lenses and paying no attention at all to the boat captain talk about all the historic sites we were going past. The cruise took us from the Tower of London, past Shakespeare's Round Theatre, past the Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge, and all the way to the Houses of Parliament stop. We got off there and walked toward the plaza where you can ride the London Eye. Since it was Saturday, the regular line was long, so I upgraded our standard tickets for fast track ones. I have to tell you that my sentiments about this great wheel being as recognizable as the Statue of Liberty troubled me. The London Eye, in it's high tech ferris wheel kind of way, clashed with the majesty of the buildings around it. Frankly, I used to think it was an eyesore! I sing a different tune now, let me tell you!
The wheel moves continuously, ever so slowly. At least it seems slow until you start to step onto it before its doors close! Then it moves slowly again so that you can get your bearings and gawk. Gawking like Wendy as she sails away to Never Never Land with Peter Pan comes to mind without seeming like exaggeration. Just imagine moving so smoothly that you would swear you were standing still, suspended safely in the air. You look around while inside the glass capsule, and you gawk and gawk and gawk, punctuate it with camera whirs and snaps with a few ooohs and ahhhhs thrown in for good, honest measure.
To be on the London Eye meant we had to give up the Changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace, but we were sure we had made the right decision as we slowly made our way to the top vantage point. It's hard to remember to take pictures where you are taken aback by the beauty of the city and cannot resist seeing it with your own eyes rather than through a camera lense, but I did get lost of pictures...a whole series of them so you have a sense of how grand the experience is. It never crossed my mind that I could be seeing what I saw, recognizing what I saw--based on what I've read and what I learned on the Red Bus. And to beat all, when I uploaded pictures taken on the London Eye, guest what?? I got the Changing of the Guard in a snapshot--best vantage point in the city!
After we left the London Eye, we made our way toward the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben in the bell tower was sounding off, and I wished I had brought my flip video recorder along. When we finally got to a Big Bus stop, we waited for the bus and rode it around the city and got more historic tidbits for committal to memory until Stop Five, the stop for Madame Tussaud and 221b Baker Street. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle again! I bought tickets while Mom waited in line, and when it was finally our turn, we walked inside the narrowest four-story house I've ever seen, let alone been in. The rooms were decorated for Sherlock's period in time, so all the Victorian furnishings and accoutrements were rather nice. There were a lot of "artifacts" from the novels--various detecting gadgets, not to mention scenes from famous Sherlock Holmes stories being on display in the upper rooms. Of all the things I liked the most, it would be the vaguely beehive-shaped glass dish with the pewter or silver lid that had a bee on it that was on the tea table. At that moment I decided I was going to have one just like it--to go with the inkwell like the one at Bateman's and the smooth little rock I found at Merlin's Cave. What a silly thing to think about!
By the time we got off the bus after a very pleasant late afternoon ride all the way around the city, we got to our hotel and freshened up for dinner . Once again, we chose the hotel restaurant. This time I ordered an organic cheese pizza, which was excellent. I thought that taking a night off from fish and chips might be a good idea. After dinner we made plans for Sunday. This was necessary on two counts. First, it was a charity Sunday, a time when the center of London is blocked off for various races and walks. All public transportation was overflowing with passengers, and all the sidewalks were packed with charity supporters and participants. It made getting around the city a huge challenge, but the Big Bus people were great. The Tate was out. Kensington Palace was out. The smartest thing to do was go to the Tower of London and then take the long river cruise to the Prime Meridian Observatory. Our second bit goal of the day was to be back at the hotel at 3:30 or as close as we could get thanks to bus delays on account of all the races and walks that blocked major streets in the city until late at night.
8 July 2011
10:05 pm BST
Wakey, Wakey! We had a good breakfast of cereal, fruit, toast, and tea before loading up for the ride to the Reading train station. After purchasing two tickets for the fast train into Paddington Station in London, Wendy saw us off to the right platform before she headed off to the shops. It took approximately 25 minutes to get to London by train, and then we looked for a case with wheels so we would have it to pack extras in for the trip home. To make things simple, we got in the cab line and rode to the Thistle Hotel in Westminster. Getting to the hotel was easy enough, but we found out the hotel was overbooked somehow and that we didn't have a room. The manager was very nice about it and asked why we chose his hotel, and I told him it was near the Big Bus headquarters and was a bit out of the way of the main attractions. I've stayed in cities so noisy that it was hard to sleep, and I needed to sleep soundly when I did get to sleep. Much to my relief, we were given a room that came available as the result of a cancellation. We tossed our things into the room and made a beeline for transportation to the British Museum. We had money for cab fare and Oyster Cards for the Tube (thanks to friend Pat who lives in London). Why go to the British Museum first, you ask? Well, it's Rick Riordan's influence, really. You see, my students read the Percy Jackson series, which is steeped in Greek mythology. One of the enrichment projects my students do each year is create a Greek urn that tells about an important event in the novel. Do I ever get some good ones! Lord Elgin, back in the 1800s, brought a few boatloads of Greek artifacts to London and placed them in the British Museum. Resources being what they are, I show one or two urns that are on the museum website just so students get an idea of what ancient Greek urns looked like. Coming to London, it was a no-brainer to view the actual urns...to touch one or two. Exciting stuff for a teacher from Southwest Virginia! With a few reproduction urns to hand around the classroom, there's no telling how this activity will go beyond the scope of where it's been the past few years.
And! And! And now that Rick Riordan has a a couple of new series--starting with THE RED PYRAMID--that touches on Egyptian mythology, I had to go see the Egyptian kingdoms displays in the Egypt Rooms. I had to see the funeral needles and friezes, the sarcophagus collections and tomb relics. What about the Rosetta Stone that was blown up in the novel? I had to see it, and I did. Thanks Rick Riordan for THE LOST HERO because if that isn't enough, I viewed part of the Roman artifacts that are on display before I dropped by the Rooms of Enlightenment, which is a huge gallery where one can see important artifacts that define humanity. Everything from fossils to first editions of rare books to sculptures of the gods to eggs of extinct species wiped out by people to urns to busts of the benefactors to the museum can be found there. They say that if you view each item in the gallery, you walk away with a lifetime's knowledge and have a better sense of self.
Can you believe that seeing just this one section of the museum took us almost six hours? We stayed until 8:00 before we called it a night and went back to the hotel for dinner. You guessed it! Fish and chips! Then we headed to our room and unwound. [For me, that means letting go of all the things I've seen, which means write about it, sort it out, review the pictures, write some more. Only when my brain says, "Enough!" will I stop and get ready for bed. This could be an early night for me. Joy! Hope I don't forget to think about something before I fall asleep.]
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "London's Calling."
Seaside Side Trip to Portsmouth
7 July 2011
10:15 pm BST
It seems as though we have crammed several days into one. I suppose that is the way it is when you have very limited time to spend with a family member you enjoy and have only just met. You have to make every second count, and Mom is so happy to have spent time with Aunt Naomi. Where to begin about this day?
How about breakfast? We found out part way through breakfast that our table is famous thanks to Mr. Bean. How delightful...I can see his face as I write this...see his seaside trip episode play in my memory. So much for feeling as though I had been in the Queen's Hotel before! Thanks, Mr. Bean. In case you wonder, Mr. Bean came to Portsmouth's Clarence Pier to film the famous seaside episode where a pram gets caught on Mr. Bean's car and a baby ends up going all over the pier arcade with him--even on the roller coaster for the famous dirty nappie scene. Joy of joys, we will need a picture of the roller coaster, won't we? To maximize time spent with Naomi, we invited her to breakfast so that we could talk and enjoy each other before we headed down to the passenger ferry for our ride across the harbor to the Isle of Wight.
It was our intention to go to Osborne house and take a quick tour and see the famous play house on our way back to port to catch the ferry to Portsmouth. We had to be back at the Queen's Hotel by 2:30 because Keith was coming to retrieve us. The weather was beastly, sideways winds and downpours at just the moment you'd say it was clearing up. When we got off the ferry, we decided to take the open top double decker tour of the Isle of Wight Downs. The trip would take about an hour and a half, making it possible to view a good bit of the island while someone else did the fancy driving up and down incredibly narrow streets and roads. The front third of our Island Breezeway bus had a roof, so this is the part we claimed, taking the front seats so we could see out the entire front of the bus. Good thing! I've been wanting a good picture of a roundabout, and I got it! It wasn't raining when we got on the bus, but we knew to sit where the seats were dry. Before long, the bus headed out of town for the Downs, and what a wild ride it was. As we went down our first long hill leaning to the left, all the water in the top deck washed toward my feet. Fortunately, I heard the wave coming and lifted my feet, avoiding the water that would have completely submerged my shoes. My mom and aunt were already laughing, so they didn't understand why I was laughing. With my feet firmly planted on a steel box in the corner of my seat, I did my best to get some good pictures. The first tree branch the bus nicked, sent slashes of rain from leaves all over the windshield. No wipers! Fortunately, we got into a flat area where the strong wind blew them off for a clearer view of the landscape. The road went up and down and all around the countryside, and after twenty minutes or so, the bus moved down a hill and leaned to the right, sending the tidal wave of rain water surging toward my travel buddies. They were too busy to hear the water, and they got soaked, which sent them into hysterics. You know, this should have been a wasted day, but it wasn't. When the bus came to a sudden halt on a slight incline, we could hear the water running down the steps to the bottom level of the bus. It made me think of a ship in a great storm where the water comes on board and then rolls off when the ship rights itself. The strong wind swung branches that would have been out of reach directly into the windshield, and at one point a limb fell into the open area. Did this create a sense of fear, sound alarms in our heads? No, certainly not. We were too busy laughing because the impact had sent my camera eyepiece right into my eyeglasses, popping the glass lens into my lap. Did my cheekbone smart! Hoping for no black eye. The people sitting behind us got off at the garlic ranch, which was out in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if they got off because they really wanted to go there. Of course, under other circumstances, I'd have been visiting the garlic ranch and making arrangements to have all 27 varieties shipped to my house. This was truly the wildest ride in Western Civilization. Harry Potter, look out! My bus driver is better than yours! We got off the bus thrilled with Collin, our bus driver. He asked where I am from, and I said Abingdon, Virginia, and that if he was a NASCAR fan he would know I was half an hour from the Bristol track. Turns out he is a NASCAR fan who likes Marcos Ambrose and Tony Stewart. I laughed and said that the next time a race got boring I'd call for my bus driver...Collin the bus driver, get it?!! With that, we made our way to the little train that would take us to our ferry. We were aboard in no time, and soon we were moving toward the mainland, the rain finally subsiding.
On our way to port, I was able to get excellent pictures of the Solent forts. My personal favorite has a lighthouse on it! One is up for sale, only a cool four million pounds! Hmmm. Charles Dickens's London home is up for sale for half that, so not interested! Besides, I'm a Bateman's girl now. There is only one house available for a bargain, and that's Upshaw. More money than I'd make in a lifetime is needed to fix that place up. But if I could, I would buy Upshaw and turn it into a great B&B and Writing Center in honor of Doyle (its designer and former owner) and Kipling (who liked Doyle). Imagine rooms decorated and named for Britain's best authors including mystery writers. Would you stay in the Agatha Christie room or the Doyle Suite? Would you stay in the Kipling room? Or the Dickens? I really could pull it off and make it work. It could be a base for National Writing Project teachers who tour England. Cream teas on the lawn while guests play cricket, badminton, or croquet. I've learned to dream big, haven't I? Anyway, back to the Solent forts! There are a good number of them, and you can tell they are immense when you come fairly close because I saw one of the Great Britain sailing ships in full sail along side the solent with the lighthouse on it. The rain let up by the time we got to port. We took the bus back to town and went for a cup of tea and a cake before saying goodbye to Naomi. Then we made our way back to the Queen's Hotel to claim our luggage and go outside to wait for Keith. Timing was excellent as we were outside for only a few minutes before he pulled up to collect our things.
And then were off to Reading, and we arrived in what I think was about an hour. We had a lovely cup of tea and then visited until it was time for dinner. I managed check my email for a bit, and then got back to talking to Keith about our trip to Portsmouth while Mom and Wendy were in the kitchen, fixing dinner, enjoying the birds, fox, and squirrel that come into the garden just before the evening hours. It is hard to believe that we have been here a week now. One week to go. The idea that these two weeks are a crack in time makes me look over my shoulder for the Tardis. Where's the Doctor?
After dinner, we tried to make an earlier night of it. I need to unpack my Portsmouth things and repack for the London half-day plus two full days plus another half-day. I feel pretty tired. Once I have things packed, postcards written and stamped, an outfit held in reserve for the upcoming trip to Cambridge, I am going to sleep. Who knows? Maybe I won't hear the milkman coming up the road to make his pre-dawn deliveries.
6 July 2011
11:59pm BST
It is fast becoming a habit to begin writing just before midnight and carry on with journaling for almost two hours each night. I still wake up before seven in the morning and get myself ready for breakfast.
This morning, we left the Millstream Inn and got a lift to our hotel in Portsmouth--thanks to Rob. We followed the coastline along the motorway and passed through Havant and on into the city of Portsmouth until we reached the Clarence Parade where Kipling, Doyle, and other literary greats visited whenever they were in the city. We said goodbye to Rob and made our way up the steps of the Queen's Hotel around 10:45am. I have been spoiled by friends who have seen to my every need whilst traveling. How I shall miss everyone once I head for home and get back into a routine that will be oblivious of these two weeks. We checked into our hotel and waited a while to see if Auntie Naomi was home so we could let her know we had arrived. The hotel is very nice and has a long history that includes catering to the famous as well as rescuing its patrons when fire broke out in 1891. By 1903, it was rebuilt, and it has stood strong against both weather and a couple of world wars. The Edwardian design of the hotel is airy and elegant, and I didn't mind the wait for our room to be ready--even though the idea of going up four flights of stairs because the elevator was out of order was not at all appealing after hiking around like a mountain goat for several days!
Mom couldn't get hold of Naomi, so we ventured out and found the town museum and visited two exhibits...one on bugs of the region and the other celebrating Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Interesting how Doyle and Kipling (like so many other writers) had ties to Portsmouth. It seems to me that my three tracks of study keep overlapping in unexpected ways. It is a very good thing indeed that the city showcases its connection to Doyle. We did not get to see the place where he started his practice as a physician when he opted out of being a ship's doctor for a sail to India. The museum did an excellent job of covering his adult life, both as a doctor and as a writer for The Strand. Each display had a theme, and by the time we got to the end of the exhibit, we had a very good impression of who he was and how his presence impacted Portsmouth.
We did not see Lorne House either. It is a private residence, and like Doyle's practice, it has a blue circular plaque that simply states when so-and-so lived in a certain place. Aunt Naomi, when we met her at the hotel, said it wasn't really much to see and that there was so much more to visit than we could squeeze into a day and a half. We left the hotel with Naomi and walked along the Clarence Parade to the battlements that have defended Portsmouth for centuries. Our hotel is right across from the Navel World Wars Memorial monument, and all along the Esplanade, there are tributes for different branches of service and some in honor of specific ships that were lost at sea with full crews.
We walked along the battlements and went inside to see where cannon and soldier fought to keep Britain safe from all harm, and then we walked toward the Gunwharf Quay shopping area by early evening. Of course, we had to stop in for tea at a lovely tea shop that had a display of bone china teapots in the windows. We had sandwiches, a Ploughman's plate with Stilton and Sharp Cheddar, and different kinds of cake to go with our tea. It was a lovely way to wind down the late afternoon and ease into the evening hour. As we walked toward the shopping area, I walked ahead and got to meet a few people on the Great Britain olympic sailing team as they were just coming off their boats after sailing most of the day. Four beautiful boats at the end of the dock. There were fishermen getting in their hauls, but I missed that because I was talking to the sailing team members. But I did get some pictures of fishing boats and gear that was being stowed for the night. By the time we got around to the wharf, the Spinakker Tower was closed for the night. I was disappointed to find American fast food restaurants at the wharf, probably because I was wanting another plate of fish and chips--and there wasn't a single chippy on the wharf! I made a quick stop in Marks & Spencer before we took a cab to Aunt Naomi's flat, which was only a ten-minute walk from our hotel.
We visited at Naomi's for a while, had a good chat and looked at pictures. Mom and Naomi talked about Grandma and Uncle Hugh, and we made arrangements to spend most of the next day together. Before long, it was time for us to head toward the hotel via an open shopping street with a right turn at Debenhams, which had us back to the Queen's Hotel in no time.
The wind picked up considerably after sunset, and since we didn't have air conditioning in our room, we cracked the window slightly. What a mournful sound! The wind whistled and moaned to no end, but it was rather like white sound. It didn't take long for Mom to fall asleep, so here I am listening to the wind as I write. It will soon be time for me to get some sleep. So much to think about, so much to say. But when the body and the brain are tired, you simply must give in to slumber.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "In Search of Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight"
A Voice at Bateman's
5 July 2011
11:49pm BST
Today was a totally awesome day. After a light breakfast in the friendly dining room at Millstream Inn, we joined Rob for our tour of Kipling's Sussex. Our goal was to visit three places--The Elms in Rottingdean, Bateman's in Burwash, and Bodiam Castle near Robertsbridge. Each place was at least twenty minutes from the others, which made for a rather large travel triangle. But before taking off for those venues, Rob drove down to the Bosham Harbor, which was less than a mile from our hotel.
Apart from the beauty of the harbor, there is an opportunity for storytelling that cannot be overlooked. King Canute, sometime after 1018, was praised by his people for how he had taken a torn nation and brought it together so that both the church and the economy could prosper. His men were taken to the harbor, along with King Canute and his throne, and made to stand in the water as the tide came in. King Canute, a now devout Christian, wanted his men to understand that he was not as powerful as they thought. Someone had boasted the king could stop the sea, so he sat on his throne, the tide coming in to wash against them all. He called for the sea to move back, and it did not. He did this repeatedly and then looked at his men. He said that only God could hold back the sea and that his men should think about where they placed their faith. He commanded them to stand against the tide until every last man admitted that the king was not an all powerful man as they had boasted. Nice story I would not have known about if I had not had Rob to help me with this leg of the journey.
On our way to Rottingdean, we went through the town of Fishbourne and noted a sign for the Roman Palace. Rob told us that there was a palace discovered in the 1960s when a water line was being constructed. It turns out that the Fishbourne Roman Palace site is home to the largest collection of in-situ (in position) mosaic floors in Great Britain, and archaeologists have established their completion to be around 75-80 AD. Pretty amazing! That's the way history is here, I suppose. There seems to be so much history at every turn, and not all of it is preserved. Luckily, someone had the foresight and support to protect and preserve what remains of a one-hundred room Roman palace, its floor, and its culture. No time to stop, either. We drove right on by. Perhaps someone will decide to walk the Green Roads of Britain and chronicle all the Roman remains that are protected and those that need protection. I'd go back and do it if I could.
When we arrived at Rottingdean, we parked alongside the Kipling Garden. I was just getting used to looking in the correct direction to avoid being hit by oncoming vehicles, and the thought crossed my mind that I stood a pretty good chance of being hit when I got back home. What is more, I was getting used to being on the left side of the road in a motor car. No more "three screams a mile" as Keith would quip every time I started to panic about oncoming traffic. Now, the Kipling Garden is a testament to Kipling's tenacity in all things. He accomplished things to the n-th degree and was able to assess his success rate along different avenues of choice simply by visualizing outcomes, multiple ones all at the same time to arrive at his intent. All you have to do is examine his quote about a garden and understand it. It is key to understanding the man himself. “Gardens are not made by singing "Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade.” Kipling rarely sat in the shade, and he did spend time in the garden. So, this garden he created while at The Elms waiting to move into Bateman's is still preserved. It almost succumbed to housing development, but concerned citizens worked hard to restore the garden and have it declared an important landmark. And I got to enjoy the beauty of their labors. There are excellent herbal borders, traditional English flowering plants and bushes, and impressive displays of flint pillar and wall construction. The garden is divided by purpose, and each area provides a glorious setting to enjoy the beauty of the day or to think serious thoughts about one's future. There is a corner for quiet reflection away from the main path so you are not disturbed by other visitors as you ponder away. If I could bring the sweet and savory smells of the garden to this web site, I surely would. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember, and they rush back to me. But it hardly seems fair to indulge when readers are denied access to that memory. All I can suggest is that you think about individual floral and herbal scents you have encountered and imagine them all in one place at one time right now this very second. Then you would come close to the magic that a visitor to the Kipling Garden enjoys.
After our walk through the garden, we found ourselves near The Elms and the famous pond where Kipling would sit, both as a young boy whilst visiting his Aunt Georgie and as a grown man waiting to move into his new home in Burwash. He spent enough time at the pond and The Elms to finish a couple of books and start on others. All you have to do is study the pond to know that this is a special place. There is a little island in the middle of the pond that has a plank walkway for ducks. I saw a kind of duck I'd never seen before. And all the while I'm hopping about taking this picture and that, I am aware of all the people just driving through their everyday environment.
The Grange is basically the town's museum, and its exterior was getting a rather nice facelift and cleaning. We walked inside and went upstairs to enjoy the tributes to Kipling and his uncle (Aunt Georgie's husband), Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones. Also of interest was the display of world war artifacts. There is a room in the Grange set up to resemble where Kipling spent time writing at The Elms. A good honest attempt. It just wasn't real enough for me. I guess I needed to be in the actual place to get a real sense of what it was like finishing the books that were begun at Nalaukha in Vermont. Oh, well. We had a lovely cup of coffee and then walked toward The Elms, which was on the way to Rob's car. You cannot help yourself as you go past the house. You look at the window where you know Kipling would sit quietly and write. You look up at the bedroom you know Aunt Georgie provided when he visited there as a child. The house is privately owned, and you know there is no chance of seeing the inside of the house, no chance of reaching up to the bookshelves that frame Kipling as he poses for the camera as an accomplished poet and novelist. The flint walls are awfully high as you go along the sidewalk past the side of the house. From across the street, you can see the upstairs windows, and just as you are telling the famous story to your mother of how open double deckers full of people would look over the walls and spy on Kipling's family, how one lady actually sneaked onto the property to peak into Kipling's study, how she was shocked and appalled at his rudeness when he closed the curtains, a modern double decker goes by--for real--and the people on the left side are looking over the flint walls into the house. You just stand there and gape at how some things never change! And then you see a groundskeeper up in a tree doing some maintenance work. He smiles and nods at you, as though he understands your frustration with time and history at that very moment. It's like a secret. Not to be broken.
The road to Burwash is most scenic and tranquil. It gave me an opportunity to share my observation about polite signs. The signs are everywhere, and I commented on the subliminal impact of polite signs on citizens and how there could be a valuable connection between polite signs and the demeanor of people.
Once you have paid the Trust fees to enter the property that includes Bateman's (Kipling's estate), you enter the garden that was designed to be both beautiful and functional. There are herbal borders, flower beds to maximize pollination for a longer season, beautiful fruit trees laden with fruit, the famous pear tree arbor, and whimsical shrub sculptures to keep the mind's eye sharp. One of the most vivid memories I have of the garden is one of my mother beyond the Quince trees while she was telling about her mother's homemade jams. Priceless. We walked through the garden to the front entrance to Kipling's house, and I do believe time stood still, making it possible for me to totally ignore modern people and their modern talk. It was 1910 in my mind as I went through the doors. It is odd to say I felt I'd been there before. When I went through the front door and saw all the dark wooden panels on walls and the carvings in all the furniture, I was able to reject all the "depression" stories and concerns of his biographers. It's all pretty much point of view, colored by a writer's lenses, isn't it? Kipling had his low moments just like everybody else. True, the loss of two children was a devastation because they died so young while he aged long enough to precede his King by a few days. Sad in a literary way, sad in the everyday. But people live with loss in different ways.
The dining room made me feel a silence from him, but it also hailed laughter and sharp humor or wit. The sitting room was, to me, as historic a place as the Lincoln Memorial. Important conversations, entertaining, and quiet times by the fire took place here. All the politicians, royalty, writers, and key figures of Kipling's day found their way to the peace and protection of Bateman's at some time or other. Agreements and disagreements, tea cups clinking gently on their saucers through it all. And to think about the house having electricity and heated water in its pipes while I stand with my fingers resting lightlly on Kipling's sitting room sofa is magical to say the least.
You can absolutely feel Carrie Kipling's command over the kitchen and most of the house. In a way, I think her spirit still guards her husband's privacy so he can think and write, mourn and celebrate, live as ordinary a life as possible. She had two things going against her when she came to Bateman's. First, she was an independent American woman who had her own way of doing things, and she didn't mind making people move over to her domination. Second, she kept the public away from her husband, not because she was selfish or cruel, but because it is what her husband needed her to do. He was in no position to be brusque and ruffle the feathers of his public. The stiff upper lip required that he persevere, and his wife Carrie shielded him as much as possible so he could let down that wall, let the facade of complete and utter control be set aside. Still, I wonder if she would have liked me as a person. I have a respect for her that surprises me. She was married to a very public figure, the most famous English-speaking author of the times, and I have to admit I took exception to her manner until I set foot in this house. So, if Carrie dominates most of the house, acting as an internal sentry to protect her husband's privacy and to shut out the world, where is Kipling? That thought had me moving to the stairs, and I was taken aback by the Arthurian tapestry that hung on one of the oak staircase walls. Such a lovely piece of seventeenth century finery, and it's King Arthur. Serendipitous encounter is not wasted on me, that's for sure. It was the moment when King Arthur in Tintagel melded with Kipling in Burwash. My journey was not two separate ventures, but one woven into the other, warp and weft. Peace be still, I trembled at the realization.
Like the downstairs, the upstairs of Bateman's has a traveled look with artifacts from all over the world on display or simply sitting there in everyday posture to blend in with the dark woodwork. There is a heavy Indian influence as you should expect when you consider how much time Kipling spent in India. Perhaps others felt unhappy with the foreign artifacts of the Empire coupled with the stoic British graystone manor house, but I suspect Kipling was exceedingly happy to live in this house looking the way it did. So nice.
The master bedroom is a private place, but this is not where the master bedroom was when Kipling lived there. The room is small and cramped like a ship's cabin, but it makes sense that all these furnishing were grouped with others in what is now the exhibition room where Kipling memorabilia is displayed. Still, there were clues in this small bedroom for me to ponder. The bed was personalized with a hand embroidered canopy that had his initials on one side and wife Carrie's on the other. A suit was spread out on the coverlet, and I half expected to see Kipling walk into the room and ask what I thought I was doing standing there--gaping at all the personal mementos that are exhibited. It was as if no one else was in the room as I touched his steamer trunk, standing open with a selection of cotton shirts and stiff collars. There is a painting on the wall near the trunk, a painting of knights, valorous. Alongside it, there is a note from the artist. The two hanging together inside this room does not work for me because the work is too grand for the size of the room. That is not to say that the size of the work on paper and framed is too large for the wall, but rather its impact is so great it dwarfs the room. It would never have hung here in Kipling's day. Powerful and silent. Like Kipling while he worked, I think.
And what of his study, his library? There is a portrait of wife Carrie in the room, but everything else is Kipling. To stand in that room and sense that it is exponentially larger than the four walls, is an understatement. I fell in love with the room as soon as I saw it. No barriers, no walls, just a raw sense of what mattered to this writer when he worked. I so wanted to talk to him at that moment. It was as though he had just stepped out of the room with a promise to be right back. So I looked around and tried to memorize everything in the room. I took pictures so I could keep studying the room long after I had left the house. It is a quest to acquire items identical or similar to the things he owned. He had a favorite pen and made his own ink from ink pellets. His favorite ink well came from a ship, and it is designed to not spill when the seas are rough and toss a ship about. I know his favorite pen broke and that he was never satisfied with others. His hands were speckled with ink from writing for hours each day. When he and King George acquired typewriters in 1932, he didn't much care for the new technology while Buckingham Palace used theirs for official correspondence. There is a ship in a bottle, and I'm betting it's the HMS Victory. It has to be since there is a piece of fabric from that battle in the collection of keepsakes that was turned over to the National Trust when Carrie Kipling passed away. The height of the built-in bookcases full of the world's greatest literature, history, and reference books at the time is enough to blow your mind. It's like looking at that time period's Google! And it's not just the number of books that grabs you. It's realizing that Kipling knew where every book was on those shelves and that he could refer to any number of them and know exactly where to find what he wanted to research or cite. It made me think of my husband Curt, who has wanted to shelve his entire book collection for decades. An improvement to our home will be the addition of shelves for books...books that we still value being in a home when so many other people are discarding them in favor of electronic storage to make room for other stuff. Kipling was a gatekeeper of an era, and perhaps I should be more of a gatekeeper for my own time.
The library gave me a sense of peace and contemplation with perhaps a touch of the kind of aggravation that makes the writer's eye see beyond the top layers. I could finally appreciate his genius, his frustrations, his need for peace and clarity. The room made me weep. The book collections archivist is going to email a list of books that were in his personal library. I will always remember the mood of this room in particular. Touching his personal belongings and seeing the past in my mind, it is almost possible to reach out and touch his arm.
Understand that placement of furniture is not exactly as it was when Kipling lived in the house. Many things have been moved over because the master bedroom was located in the exhibition room, which means two of their children had rooms, one being where Kipling's bedroom furniture is today. There was one room set aside for the children of the house, and it did not strike me. Perhaps it is because the room was arranged this way in the spring. Or perhaps it is because Elsie's spirit just doesn't seem to be there at all. No doubt she watches over her own Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire. I've no regrets not going there as I bought one of Kipling's novels from a collection owned by one of his neighbors--his family was clearing out his estate and sold it to me on consignment. I would have loved buying some of the ones that were published when Kipling was alive, even if the neighbor never had them autographed. But there is the expense of acquisition of such volumes, not to mention the weight of books in luggage, should they survive the some times rough journey in a cargo hold.
We wandered outside to the garden, complete with pond. It was peaceful and quiet, and I recognized the place where Kipling would sit in his later years and think over his travels, his career, the loss of two children, the Great War. On our way around the house, we passed the original stone that was placed over Kipling's remains in Westminster Abbey. It was there plain as day, right next to a group listening to someone read some of Kipling's poems. Lines for "If" drifted across the lawn and I knew my visit was at an end. After leaving the house behind, I felt a sadness. I would have been happy there for days on end just wandering and thinking and asking questions of caretakers and ghosts. If there was a place that could beckon me from my life as a teacher in America, this is it. What a dream it would be to live at Bateman's and take care of it for the National Trust. In my dreams! I have a good collection of photographs, personal impressions, and musings to fill that want. And there was that lovely Westie to think about, the one who'd been at the entrance to Bateman's. Whenever I start my memory visits to Batemans, that will be my first memory. Kipling loved terriers, and so do I. When I get another Westie, its name shall be Kipper or Kip to remind me of my day at Kipling's home.
The ride to Bodiam Castle was lively. Rob and I talked about a wide range of topics...how we like to help people, how people have different ways of learning behaviors and skills, how there were more polite road signs to marvel over, and how varied and tranquil the picturesque countryside is. Every square inch is packed with points of interest. Not much ground is devoid footsteps taken by famous leaders and their nameless followers. Centuries and centuries of history on this soil, history older than the twinkle that was borne into America. Bodiam was a picnic spot for Kipling to drive to. Before it was open to the public, Guinness bottling owned it all and cultivated the farmland for hops. Interesting stuff, that. It would have been a good drive for Kipling in one of his cars, and I had to go there because he loved it so. And when I stood at the top of the hill and looked at the castle, its lake moat surrounding it, I understood why it was special. You are so taken by its stark beauty as a ruin that looks pretty much perfect from the outside, you pay no attention to anything or anyone else. My need to be there to create writing assignments fell from my consciousness as I wandered toward the footbridge that crossed from the lake's shore to the castle's fortified gate. There are ducks and other water fowl waddling along the shore and venturing into the water. There are the biggest goldfish sorts of carp I've ever seen, some appearing to be at least two feet in length. By the time I entered the castle ruins and stood in the middle paths where they cross in the center, I had narrowed a dozen lesson ideas down to two. Oh, the stories this place could tell! I wandered and listened to the wind that blew hair across my face so as to create a veil. Was that to keep me seeing the past or the present? Here, it is possible to see both or plant yourself firmly on one side or the other. Odd experience. On our way back down to the car park, I noticed a pill box from one of the world wars. A modern defense of an ancient one. And I wonder how many people drive past both and give neither a single thought.
After all this being packed soundly into a day, Rob drove us back to Bosham via Chichester. We picked up Rob's wife Coral and went to a wonderful Chinese restaurant for dinner. We spent a couple of hours talking about a lot of subjects, related and not, to my trip. And then it was time to drop us off at the Millstream Inn, where I do believe I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "The Essence of Kipling."
11:49pm BST
Today was a totally awesome day. After a light breakfast in the friendly dining room at Millstream Inn, we joined Rob for our tour of Kipling's Sussex. Our goal was to visit three places--The Elms in Rottingdean, Bateman's in Burwash, and Bodiam Castle near Robertsbridge. Each place was at least twenty minutes from the others, which made for a rather large travel triangle. But before taking off for those venues, Rob drove down to the Bosham Harbor, which was less than a mile from our hotel.
Apart from the beauty of the harbor, there is an opportunity for storytelling that cannot be overlooked. King Canute, sometime after 1018, was praised by his people for how he had taken a torn nation and brought it together so that both the church and the economy could prosper. His men were taken to the harbor, along with King Canute and his throne, and made to stand in the water as the tide came in. King Canute, a now devout Christian, wanted his men to understand that he was not as powerful as they thought. Someone had boasted the king could stop the sea, so he sat on his throne, the tide coming in to wash against them all. He called for the sea to move back, and it did not. He did this repeatedly and then looked at his men. He said that only God could hold back the sea and that his men should think about where they placed their faith. He commanded them to stand against the tide until every last man admitted that the king was not an all powerful man as they had boasted. Nice story I would not have known about if I had not had Rob to help me with this leg of the journey.
On our way to Rottingdean, we went through the town of Fishbourne and noted a sign for the Roman Palace. Rob told us that there was a palace discovered in the 1960s when a water line was being constructed. It turns out that the Fishbourne Roman Palace site is home to the largest collection of in-situ (in position) mosaic floors in Great Britain, and archaeologists have established their completion to be around 75-80 AD. Pretty amazing! That's the way history is here, I suppose. There seems to be so much history at every turn, and not all of it is preserved. Luckily, someone had the foresight and support to protect and preserve what remains of a one-hundred room Roman palace, its floor, and its culture. No time to stop, either. We drove right on by. Perhaps someone will decide to walk the Green Roads of Britain and chronicle all the Roman remains that are protected and those that need protection. I'd go back and do it if I could.
When we arrived at Rottingdean, we parked alongside the Kipling Garden. I was just getting used to looking in the correct direction to avoid being hit by oncoming vehicles, and the thought crossed my mind that I stood a pretty good chance of being hit when I got back home. What is more, I was getting used to being on the left side of the road in a motor car. No more "three screams a mile" as Keith would quip every time I started to panic about oncoming traffic. Now, the Kipling Garden is a testament to Kipling's tenacity in all things. He accomplished things to the n-th degree and was able to assess his success rate along different avenues of choice simply by visualizing outcomes, multiple ones all at the same time to arrive at his intent. All you have to do is examine his quote about a garden and understand it. It is key to understanding the man himself. “Gardens are not made by singing "Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade.” Kipling rarely sat in the shade, and he did spend time in the garden. So, this garden he created while at The Elms waiting to move into Bateman's is still preserved. It almost succumbed to housing development, but concerned citizens worked hard to restore the garden and have it declared an important landmark. And I got to enjoy the beauty of their labors. There are excellent herbal borders, traditional English flowering plants and bushes, and impressive displays of flint pillar and wall construction. The garden is divided by purpose, and each area provides a glorious setting to enjoy the beauty of the day or to think serious thoughts about one's future. There is a corner for quiet reflection away from the main path so you are not disturbed by other visitors as you ponder away. If I could bring the sweet and savory smells of the garden to this web site, I surely would. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember, and they rush back to me. But it hardly seems fair to indulge when readers are denied access to that memory. All I can suggest is that you think about individual floral and herbal scents you have encountered and imagine them all in one place at one time right now this very second. Then you would come close to the magic that a visitor to the Kipling Garden enjoys.
After our walk through the garden, we found ourselves near The Elms and the famous pond where Kipling would sit, both as a young boy whilst visiting his Aunt Georgie and as a grown man waiting to move into his new home in Burwash. He spent enough time at the pond and The Elms to finish a couple of books and start on others. All you have to do is study the pond to know that this is a special place. There is a little island in the middle of the pond that has a plank walkway for ducks. I saw a kind of duck I'd never seen before. And all the while I'm hopping about taking this picture and that, I am aware of all the people just driving through their everyday environment.
The Grange is basically the town's museum, and its exterior was getting a rather nice facelift and cleaning. We walked inside and went upstairs to enjoy the tributes to Kipling and his uncle (Aunt Georgie's husband), Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones. Also of interest was the display of world war artifacts. There is a room in the Grange set up to resemble where Kipling spent time writing at The Elms. A good honest attempt. It just wasn't real enough for me. I guess I needed to be in the actual place to get a real sense of what it was like finishing the books that were begun at Nalaukha in Vermont. Oh, well. We had a lovely cup of coffee and then walked toward The Elms, which was on the way to Rob's car. You cannot help yourself as you go past the house. You look at the window where you know Kipling would sit quietly and write. You look up at the bedroom you know Aunt Georgie provided when he visited there as a child. The house is privately owned, and you know there is no chance of seeing the inside of the house, no chance of reaching up to the bookshelves that frame Kipling as he poses for the camera as an accomplished poet and novelist. The flint walls are awfully high as you go along the sidewalk past the side of the house. From across the street, you can see the upstairs windows, and just as you are telling the famous story to your mother of how open double deckers full of people would look over the walls and spy on Kipling's family, how one lady actually sneaked onto the property to peak into Kipling's study, how she was shocked and appalled at his rudeness when he closed the curtains, a modern double decker goes by--for real--and the people on the left side are looking over the flint walls into the house. You just stand there and gape at how some things never change! And then you see a groundskeeper up in a tree doing some maintenance work. He smiles and nods at you, as though he understands your frustration with time and history at that very moment. It's like a secret. Not to be broken.
The road to Burwash is most scenic and tranquil. It gave me an opportunity to share my observation about polite signs. The signs are everywhere, and I commented on the subliminal impact of polite signs on citizens and how there could be a valuable connection between polite signs and the demeanor of people.
Once you have paid the Trust fees to enter the property that includes Bateman's (Kipling's estate), you enter the garden that was designed to be both beautiful and functional. There are herbal borders, flower beds to maximize pollination for a longer season, beautiful fruit trees laden with fruit, the famous pear tree arbor, and whimsical shrub sculptures to keep the mind's eye sharp. One of the most vivid memories I have of the garden is one of my mother beyond the Quince trees while she was telling about her mother's homemade jams. Priceless. We walked through the garden to the front entrance to Kipling's house, and I do believe time stood still, making it possible for me to totally ignore modern people and their modern talk. It was 1910 in my mind as I went through the doors. It is odd to say I felt I'd been there before. When I went through the front door and saw all the dark wooden panels on walls and the carvings in all the furniture, I was able to reject all the "depression" stories and concerns of his biographers. It's all pretty much point of view, colored by a writer's lenses, isn't it? Kipling had his low moments just like everybody else. True, the loss of two children was a devastation because they died so young while he aged long enough to precede his King by a few days. Sad in a literary way, sad in the everyday. But people live with loss in different ways.
The dining room made me feel a silence from him, but it also hailed laughter and sharp humor or wit. The sitting room was, to me, as historic a place as the Lincoln Memorial. Important conversations, entertaining, and quiet times by the fire took place here. All the politicians, royalty, writers, and key figures of Kipling's day found their way to the peace and protection of Bateman's at some time or other. Agreements and disagreements, tea cups clinking gently on their saucers through it all. And to think about the house having electricity and heated water in its pipes while I stand with my fingers resting lightlly on Kipling's sitting room sofa is magical to say the least.
You can absolutely feel Carrie Kipling's command over the kitchen and most of the house. In a way, I think her spirit still guards her husband's privacy so he can think and write, mourn and celebrate, live as ordinary a life as possible. She had two things going against her when she came to Bateman's. First, she was an independent American woman who had her own way of doing things, and she didn't mind making people move over to her domination. Second, she kept the public away from her husband, not because she was selfish or cruel, but because it is what her husband needed her to do. He was in no position to be brusque and ruffle the feathers of his public. The stiff upper lip required that he persevere, and his wife Carrie shielded him as much as possible so he could let down that wall, let the facade of complete and utter control be set aside. Still, I wonder if she would have liked me as a person. I have a respect for her that surprises me. She was married to a very public figure, the most famous English-speaking author of the times, and I have to admit I took exception to her manner until I set foot in this house. So, if Carrie dominates most of the house, acting as an internal sentry to protect her husband's privacy and to shut out the world, where is Kipling? That thought had me moving to the stairs, and I was taken aback by the Arthurian tapestry that hung on one of the oak staircase walls. Such a lovely piece of seventeenth century finery, and it's King Arthur. Serendipitous encounter is not wasted on me, that's for sure. It was the moment when King Arthur in Tintagel melded with Kipling in Burwash. My journey was not two separate ventures, but one woven into the other, warp and weft. Peace be still, I trembled at the realization.
Like the downstairs, the upstairs of Bateman's has a traveled look with artifacts from all over the world on display or simply sitting there in everyday posture to blend in with the dark woodwork. There is a heavy Indian influence as you should expect when you consider how much time Kipling spent in India. Perhaps others felt unhappy with the foreign artifacts of the Empire coupled with the stoic British graystone manor house, but I suspect Kipling was exceedingly happy to live in this house looking the way it did. So nice.
The master bedroom is a private place, but this is not where the master bedroom was when Kipling lived there. The room is small and cramped like a ship's cabin, but it makes sense that all these furnishing were grouped with others in what is now the exhibition room where Kipling memorabilia is displayed. Still, there were clues in this small bedroom for me to ponder. The bed was personalized with a hand embroidered canopy that had his initials on one side and wife Carrie's on the other. A suit was spread out on the coverlet, and I half expected to see Kipling walk into the room and ask what I thought I was doing standing there--gaping at all the personal mementos that are exhibited. It was as if no one else was in the room as I touched his steamer trunk, standing open with a selection of cotton shirts and stiff collars. There is a painting on the wall near the trunk, a painting of knights, valorous. Alongside it, there is a note from the artist. The two hanging together inside this room does not work for me because the work is too grand for the size of the room. That is not to say that the size of the work on paper and framed is too large for the wall, but rather its impact is so great it dwarfs the room. It would never have hung here in Kipling's day. Powerful and silent. Like Kipling while he worked, I think.
And what of his study, his library? There is a portrait of wife Carrie in the room, but everything else is Kipling. To stand in that room and sense that it is exponentially larger than the four walls, is an understatement. I fell in love with the room as soon as I saw it. No barriers, no walls, just a raw sense of what mattered to this writer when he worked. I so wanted to talk to him at that moment. It was as though he had just stepped out of the room with a promise to be right back. So I looked around and tried to memorize everything in the room. I took pictures so I could keep studying the room long after I had left the house. It is a quest to acquire items identical or similar to the things he owned. He had a favorite pen and made his own ink from ink pellets. His favorite ink well came from a ship, and it is designed to not spill when the seas are rough and toss a ship about. I know his favorite pen broke and that he was never satisfied with others. His hands were speckled with ink from writing for hours each day. When he and King George acquired typewriters in 1932, he didn't much care for the new technology while Buckingham Palace used theirs for official correspondence. There is a ship in a bottle, and I'm betting it's the HMS Victory. It has to be since there is a piece of fabric from that battle in the collection of keepsakes that was turned over to the National Trust when Carrie Kipling passed away. The height of the built-in bookcases full of the world's greatest literature, history, and reference books at the time is enough to blow your mind. It's like looking at that time period's Google! And it's not just the number of books that grabs you. It's realizing that Kipling knew where every book was on those shelves and that he could refer to any number of them and know exactly where to find what he wanted to research or cite. It made me think of my husband Curt, who has wanted to shelve his entire book collection for decades. An improvement to our home will be the addition of shelves for books...books that we still value being in a home when so many other people are discarding them in favor of electronic storage to make room for other stuff. Kipling was a gatekeeper of an era, and perhaps I should be more of a gatekeeper for my own time.
The library gave me a sense of peace and contemplation with perhaps a touch of the kind of aggravation that makes the writer's eye see beyond the top layers. I could finally appreciate his genius, his frustrations, his need for peace and clarity. The room made me weep. The book collections archivist is going to email a list of books that were in his personal library. I will always remember the mood of this room in particular. Touching his personal belongings and seeing the past in my mind, it is almost possible to reach out and touch his arm.
Understand that placement of furniture is not exactly as it was when Kipling lived in the house. Many things have been moved over because the master bedroom was located in the exhibition room, which means two of their children had rooms, one being where Kipling's bedroom furniture is today. There was one room set aside for the children of the house, and it did not strike me. Perhaps it is because the room was arranged this way in the spring. Or perhaps it is because Elsie's spirit just doesn't seem to be there at all. No doubt she watches over her own Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire. I've no regrets not going there as I bought one of Kipling's novels from a collection owned by one of his neighbors--his family was clearing out his estate and sold it to me on consignment. I would have loved buying some of the ones that were published when Kipling was alive, even if the neighbor never had them autographed. But there is the expense of acquisition of such volumes, not to mention the weight of books in luggage, should they survive the some times rough journey in a cargo hold.
We wandered outside to the garden, complete with pond. It was peaceful and quiet, and I recognized the place where Kipling would sit in his later years and think over his travels, his career, the loss of two children, the Great War. On our way around the house, we passed the original stone that was placed over Kipling's remains in Westminster Abbey. It was there plain as day, right next to a group listening to someone read some of Kipling's poems. Lines for "If" drifted across the lawn and I knew my visit was at an end. After leaving the house behind, I felt a sadness. I would have been happy there for days on end just wandering and thinking and asking questions of caretakers and ghosts. If there was a place that could beckon me from my life as a teacher in America, this is it. What a dream it would be to live at Bateman's and take care of it for the National Trust. In my dreams! I have a good collection of photographs, personal impressions, and musings to fill that want. And there was that lovely Westie to think about, the one who'd been at the entrance to Bateman's. Whenever I start my memory visits to Batemans, that will be my first memory. Kipling loved terriers, and so do I. When I get another Westie, its name shall be Kipper or Kip to remind me of my day at Kipling's home.
The ride to Bodiam Castle was lively. Rob and I talked about a wide range of topics...how we like to help people, how people have different ways of learning behaviors and skills, how there were more polite road signs to marvel over, and how varied and tranquil the picturesque countryside is. Every square inch is packed with points of interest. Not much ground is devoid footsteps taken by famous leaders and their nameless followers. Centuries and centuries of history on this soil, history older than the twinkle that was borne into America. Bodiam was a picnic spot for Kipling to drive to. Before it was open to the public, Guinness bottling owned it all and cultivated the farmland for hops. Interesting stuff, that. It would have been a good drive for Kipling in one of his cars, and I had to go there because he loved it so. And when I stood at the top of the hill and looked at the castle, its lake moat surrounding it, I understood why it was special. You are so taken by its stark beauty as a ruin that looks pretty much perfect from the outside, you pay no attention to anything or anyone else. My need to be there to create writing assignments fell from my consciousness as I wandered toward the footbridge that crossed from the lake's shore to the castle's fortified gate. There are ducks and other water fowl waddling along the shore and venturing into the water. There are the biggest goldfish sorts of carp I've ever seen, some appearing to be at least two feet in length. By the time I entered the castle ruins and stood in the middle paths where they cross in the center, I had narrowed a dozen lesson ideas down to two. Oh, the stories this place could tell! I wandered and listened to the wind that blew hair across my face so as to create a veil. Was that to keep me seeing the past or the present? Here, it is possible to see both or plant yourself firmly on one side or the other. Odd experience. On our way back down to the car park, I noticed a pill box from one of the world wars. A modern defense of an ancient one. And I wonder how many people drive past both and give neither a single thought.
After all this being packed soundly into a day, Rob drove us back to Bosham via Chichester. We picked up Rob's wife Coral and went to a wonderful Chinese restaurant for dinner. We spent a couple of hours talking about a lot of subjects, related and not, to my trip. And then it was time to drop us off at the Millstream Inn, where I do believe I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "The Essence of Kipling."
Glastonbury--In Search of Arthur
4 July 2011
11:40pm
The Eagle House Hotel served us another very fine full English breakfast. I really do enjoy having this breakfast, and everything is followed up by loads of toast with jam with a huge pot of tea to go with it. What will I do when I cannot have this kind of food at home? Savor the memories! We were packed and ready to go, and we said goodbye to the hotel owner and Andrew, who ran the desk during the daytime. Such a lovely place, and I’ll miss it.
We loaded up and got ready for the big road trip up the Cornwall coast and toward Bristol. It wasn’t long before we were fueled up and zooming up the M5. It took quite a while to reach Glastonbury, and I wondered how people could get used to seeing the Cornwall or southern England landscapes and not pay attention to their manifest beauty. Then I realized I must do the same near my home. We went past Thatch Man (aka Compost Man) who stands poised, frozen in time and place. Snap on the sports setting and hope that one of the five pictures has him. After all, there is a story there…the real one and the ones kids will dream up. One has to wonder if the Green Man froze him there in stride. Was Thatch Man trying to avenge some wrong? Why did the Green Man act so harshly? You come up with the story! I’m busy writing this one!
When we got to Glastonbury, Keith found the Abbey visitors parking lot and managed to squeeze his vehicle into a space fit for nothing larger than a motorbike. I know I was holding my breath and then gaping when he managed to line his car beautifully between the white lines. I was and still am in complete and utter awe of his driving skills. I’d have walked a few miles to avoid that lot. Another reason to be grateful that I’m not driving!
As you go through the open archway to enter the abbey, you can feel a crackle in the air. And no, it’s not the power lines sizzling humidity or birds. It is the energy that comes from realizing you are somewhere you are meant to be at that moment. I’m all excited as I bounce into the building to buy tickets for four people who are really pumped up about the day.
“How many are you, then?” the man at the ticket booth asks me. Mischief is already curving his lips as he looks us over. He says yesterday was his birthday and that he’s seventy and wonders how many seniors. In England, when you are sixty, you get the senior rate for gate fees.
“Three seniors and one adult,” I tell him. Surely I don’t look sixty yet, I’m thinking.
“So you’re in charge, are you?” Well, that’s one way of putting it. I agreed and paid for the tickets. Every now and then it would come up. When we had to decide what to do next or when to eat or what to drink, someone would say, “You’re the adult. You decide.” Such fun and silliness. Talking of fun and silliness, there is an interactive board in the welcome center where you can lift the doors and read all these marvelous cartoons about a monk’s life at the abbey. I am so going to poach that idea and use it to teach something that is hard for my students to wrap around their brains! I don’t know what yet, but I took pictures so that my poaching is expert! Back to being serious…
When you leave the abbey’s welcome center and set foot on the path, you know you walk on hallowed ground. Even so, the grass lawns are scattered with families picnicking. people playing fetch with their dogs, children sitting at the pond with their feet in the water, people enjoying elevenses at the tables near the abbey café. And the awareness of those things is only vague as you survey the Glastonbury Abbey ruins and estimate how big it was before it was invaded by Henry VIII’s men, looted, vandalized, torn down in places so that the church would die and the standing walls crumble in defeat. But sometimes ruining something of such beauty and spirit can backfire. You cannot help but wonder about such things when you see that the walls of Thomas Becket’s chapel are all standing strong. The cloister foundations are down to the earth, but you can see where they were because the grass does not grow there, creating a stone shadow of the past. Walking under the ghosts of the WEST cloisters, we wander through the west entrance and across the carpet of green turf where a stone floor used to lay. We go through the entrance to two stories of chapels. Upstairs, the floor is completely gone, but there is a walkway where you can stand and see the immensity of purpose the abbey once had in Glastonbury. In one of the downstairs chapels, there are stairs to a well, which still has water that can be drawn. Then you go outside again and stand in the imaginary shade of the east cloisters as you wander past the garden and the pond to where the east wing would have been. There are corners and pieces of wall, places where the outside stones have been removed to expose the cobblestone-style construction underneath. A mighty fortress nearly destroyed centuries ago, now preserved and celebrated. As we approach the north head of the immense church and turn into the priests’ sanctuary beyond the high altar, I was anxious to get my camera ready. From the high altar, you are supposed to be able to plant your feet and go one hundred paces to the tomb of King Arthur and his beloved. Only trouble was, a man was there with his head at the high altar. It was a moment I had to remind myself that I could be grouchy about not taking my paces to the tomb or stare at the people going through rituals I didn’t understand or do any number of things to distract them from their very serious pursuits. But in the end I just had to shrug, estimate how many steps it would have taken to get from the high altar to the place where the east and west wings of the church met and continue from there. I was twenty two paces off, but I did find where historians say they found the tomb.
A few tidbits for reference. Let’s allow the monks and citizens of Glastonbury their say. When King Arthur died a valiant death at a bridge at the edge of Cornwall and England, his body was brought to Glastonbury because his Camelot was nearby (Cadbury Castle). Or if you want something more romantic, he died not far from Camelot and was brought to the abbey to be buried because he loved the church. First burial at Glastonbury Abbey, let’s say. Time passed, and when the abbey felt the tomb of the king and his lady love was at risk, they dug them up and moved them into the abbey so they could rest under the floor undiscovered. Second burial at Glastonbury Abbey. When it was clear that Glastonbury Abbey would fall to the King’s henchmen, the church dug up King Arthur and his beloved and moved them again. This time, they were moved to the Glastonbury Tor, a tower chapel on top of a high hill outside the abbey. Third and final burial. Arthur’s new tomb is right there with the cardinal and two of his men who were put to death for not surrendering the abbey to King Henry VIII’s army. And so, if you want to visit Arthur at his final resting place you have to catch a bus to the bottom of the tor and walk all the way to the top. We didn’t have time to hike up the hundreds of steps, and I was very content to hear stories of the Tor from the living history interpreters that were working at the abbey. Plus, I had seen some people on the tor path being chased (much more vivid than followed) by cows.
It was interesting to listen to tourists and residents as they wondered in low voices to each other if members of the royal family were in their midst. Again? Really? One lady thought my mom was prettier in person than on television with all those fancy hats. How sweet. We focused on the trap doors in the floor that protected the excavated painted tiles that used to adorn the floors of the abbey. It amazes me that tens of thousands of tiles must have covered the abbey floors, and this was all there was unearthed.
We went to the far circular building to the far eastern end of the abbey property. It was the kitchen, totally untouched by the demolition crew that King Henry VIII sent to Glastonbury. The chimneys in the corners, the herbs on a drying rack, food and fibers on display as a living history interpreter dressed as a monk turned the pigs on the spits. Every interesting detail was laid out for me to see, right down to the mouse gorging itself on a loaf of bread. Look at the pictures. You’ll see what I mean.
Then we walked across the turf to the church that now stands at the abbey. It is surrounded by flowers including my personal favorite, lavender. The scent of the blooms, the movement of tubular stems in the gentle breeze, the bees and butterflies moving gingerly from flower to flower to savor the afternoon…all intoxicatingly tranquil.
One last look at the proud ruin, its spires standing straight and proud, sunlight and cloud drifting past the now open window spaces, the Glastonbury Tor towering over all of it in silent triumph got me choked up. I was glad I had kept my Glastonbury Tor sparkling water bottle so I could peel the wrapper for my scrapbook. After all, there is a spring at the tor where the water comes out of the aquifers that way. Magic, it is.
We left the abbey grounds and crossed the street for tea. Cream teas for the ladies and a Ploughman’s plate with ham for Keith. What a remarkable visit. And to make it sweeter, I’d managed to mail a huge stack of post cards in the letterbox across from the town hall. There are all sorts of Green Man shops, bookstores selling books about mystical events and powers, crystal and gemstone shops, and the like. Pretty interesting fare. I had to find an ATM, so I didn’t go into any of the shops but to find more post cards. I never saw Wendy pop into The Crystal Man shop and come out with a little bag with violet leaves printed on it. [When I got back to Abingdon, I opened it per her instructions. Inside the bag, wrapped in pink tissue paper was a frog carved from serpentine taken from Kynance Cove, Cornwall. What a complete and utter surprise! How special it is to me. Thanks,.]
After gathering our thoughts, the adult in the group agreed with the driver that it was time to leave. The Tor loomed over the abbey as we drove away. It’s presence was quiet, despite its size and relevance. I have an amazing picture of the Tor, and it will go in the Glastonbury pages of my scrapbook. Ask to see it sometime. We were off to the Fox and Hounds pub in Chichester to meet Rob and his wife Coral. Lovely dinner of fish and chips again. Just cannot get enough of them, probably because I know that when I get on that airplane to come home, I’ll miss them terribly. After dinner, we said goodbye to Keith and Wendy. We’d not see them for three days. Rob and Coral made us feel welcome, and they drove us to the Millstream Inn where we were to spend two nights. Nice place, that. You should stay there if you ever go to the village of Bosham. Rob saw us to the door and said he’d see us in the morning. I really was looking forward to Kipling Day!
1:28am BST (keeping to 4 July’s reflection)
We have been going pretty much non-stop for five days now. I can walk and talk in my sleep, I think. I was able to do some correspondence on the Internet and get cleaned up for bed before 2am! Amazing!
Now it is time
for me
to fall
outside.
[Note to readers: At this point I was obviously writing in my sleep. I woke up with pen in hand, glasses still on the end of my nose. I meant it was time to fall asleep. Right.]
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "Past Bristol There is Thatch Man" and "The Power of Glastonbury Abbey and Tor."
11:40pm
The Eagle House Hotel served us another very fine full English breakfast. I really do enjoy having this breakfast, and everything is followed up by loads of toast with jam with a huge pot of tea to go with it. What will I do when I cannot have this kind of food at home? Savor the memories! We were packed and ready to go, and we said goodbye to the hotel owner and Andrew, who ran the desk during the daytime. Such a lovely place, and I’ll miss it.
We loaded up and got ready for the big road trip up the Cornwall coast and toward Bristol. It wasn’t long before we were fueled up and zooming up the M5. It took quite a while to reach Glastonbury, and I wondered how people could get used to seeing the Cornwall or southern England landscapes and not pay attention to their manifest beauty. Then I realized I must do the same near my home. We went past Thatch Man (aka Compost Man) who stands poised, frozen in time and place. Snap on the sports setting and hope that one of the five pictures has him. After all, there is a story there…the real one and the ones kids will dream up. One has to wonder if the Green Man froze him there in stride. Was Thatch Man trying to avenge some wrong? Why did the Green Man act so harshly? You come up with the story! I’m busy writing this one!
When we got to Glastonbury, Keith found the Abbey visitors parking lot and managed to squeeze his vehicle into a space fit for nothing larger than a motorbike. I know I was holding my breath and then gaping when he managed to line his car beautifully between the white lines. I was and still am in complete and utter awe of his driving skills. I’d have walked a few miles to avoid that lot. Another reason to be grateful that I’m not driving!
As you go through the open archway to enter the abbey, you can feel a crackle in the air. And no, it’s not the power lines sizzling humidity or birds. It is the energy that comes from realizing you are somewhere you are meant to be at that moment. I’m all excited as I bounce into the building to buy tickets for four people who are really pumped up about the day.
“How many are you, then?” the man at the ticket booth asks me. Mischief is already curving his lips as he looks us over. He says yesterday was his birthday and that he’s seventy and wonders how many seniors. In England, when you are sixty, you get the senior rate for gate fees.
“Three seniors and one adult,” I tell him. Surely I don’t look sixty yet, I’m thinking.
“So you’re in charge, are you?” Well, that’s one way of putting it. I agreed and paid for the tickets. Every now and then it would come up. When we had to decide what to do next or when to eat or what to drink, someone would say, “You’re the adult. You decide.” Such fun and silliness. Talking of fun and silliness, there is an interactive board in the welcome center where you can lift the doors and read all these marvelous cartoons about a monk’s life at the abbey. I am so going to poach that idea and use it to teach something that is hard for my students to wrap around their brains! I don’t know what yet, but I took pictures so that my poaching is expert! Back to being serious…
When you leave the abbey’s welcome center and set foot on the path, you know you walk on hallowed ground. Even so, the grass lawns are scattered with families picnicking. people playing fetch with their dogs, children sitting at the pond with their feet in the water, people enjoying elevenses at the tables near the abbey café. And the awareness of those things is only vague as you survey the Glastonbury Abbey ruins and estimate how big it was before it was invaded by Henry VIII’s men, looted, vandalized, torn down in places so that the church would die and the standing walls crumble in defeat. But sometimes ruining something of such beauty and spirit can backfire. You cannot help but wonder about such things when you see that the walls of Thomas Becket’s chapel are all standing strong. The cloister foundations are down to the earth, but you can see where they were because the grass does not grow there, creating a stone shadow of the past. Walking under the ghosts of the WEST cloisters, we wander through the west entrance and across the carpet of green turf where a stone floor used to lay. We go through the entrance to two stories of chapels. Upstairs, the floor is completely gone, but there is a walkway where you can stand and see the immensity of purpose the abbey once had in Glastonbury. In one of the downstairs chapels, there are stairs to a well, which still has water that can be drawn. Then you go outside again and stand in the imaginary shade of the east cloisters as you wander past the garden and the pond to where the east wing would have been. There are corners and pieces of wall, places where the outside stones have been removed to expose the cobblestone-style construction underneath. A mighty fortress nearly destroyed centuries ago, now preserved and celebrated. As we approach the north head of the immense church and turn into the priests’ sanctuary beyond the high altar, I was anxious to get my camera ready. From the high altar, you are supposed to be able to plant your feet and go one hundred paces to the tomb of King Arthur and his beloved. Only trouble was, a man was there with his head at the high altar. It was a moment I had to remind myself that I could be grouchy about not taking my paces to the tomb or stare at the people going through rituals I didn’t understand or do any number of things to distract them from their very serious pursuits. But in the end I just had to shrug, estimate how many steps it would have taken to get from the high altar to the place where the east and west wings of the church met and continue from there. I was twenty two paces off, but I did find where historians say they found the tomb.
A few tidbits for reference. Let’s allow the monks and citizens of Glastonbury their say. When King Arthur died a valiant death at a bridge at the edge of Cornwall and England, his body was brought to Glastonbury because his Camelot was nearby (Cadbury Castle). Or if you want something more romantic, he died not far from Camelot and was brought to the abbey to be buried because he loved the church. First burial at Glastonbury Abbey, let’s say. Time passed, and when the abbey felt the tomb of the king and his lady love was at risk, they dug them up and moved them into the abbey so they could rest under the floor undiscovered. Second burial at Glastonbury Abbey. When it was clear that Glastonbury Abbey would fall to the King’s henchmen, the church dug up King Arthur and his beloved and moved them again. This time, they were moved to the Glastonbury Tor, a tower chapel on top of a high hill outside the abbey. Third and final burial. Arthur’s new tomb is right there with the cardinal and two of his men who were put to death for not surrendering the abbey to King Henry VIII’s army. And so, if you want to visit Arthur at his final resting place you have to catch a bus to the bottom of the tor and walk all the way to the top. We didn’t have time to hike up the hundreds of steps, and I was very content to hear stories of the Tor from the living history interpreters that were working at the abbey. Plus, I had seen some people on the tor path being chased (much more vivid than followed) by cows.
It was interesting to listen to tourists and residents as they wondered in low voices to each other if members of the royal family were in their midst. Again? Really? One lady thought my mom was prettier in person than on television with all those fancy hats. How sweet. We focused on the trap doors in the floor that protected the excavated painted tiles that used to adorn the floors of the abbey. It amazes me that tens of thousands of tiles must have covered the abbey floors, and this was all there was unearthed.
We went to the far circular building to the far eastern end of the abbey property. It was the kitchen, totally untouched by the demolition crew that King Henry VIII sent to Glastonbury. The chimneys in the corners, the herbs on a drying rack, food and fibers on display as a living history interpreter dressed as a monk turned the pigs on the spits. Every interesting detail was laid out for me to see, right down to the mouse gorging itself on a loaf of bread. Look at the pictures. You’ll see what I mean.
Then we walked across the turf to the church that now stands at the abbey. It is surrounded by flowers including my personal favorite, lavender. The scent of the blooms, the movement of tubular stems in the gentle breeze, the bees and butterflies moving gingerly from flower to flower to savor the afternoon…all intoxicatingly tranquil.
One last look at the proud ruin, its spires standing straight and proud, sunlight and cloud drifting past the now open window spaces, the Glastonbury Tor towering over all of it in silent triumph got me choked up. I was glad I had kept my Glastonbury Tor sparkling water bottle so I could peel the wrapper for my scrapbook. After all, there is a spring at the tor where the water comes out of the aquifers that way. Magic, it is.
We left the abbey grounds and crossed the street for tea. Cream teas for the ladies and a Ploughman’s plate with ham for Keith. What a remarkable visit. And to make it sweeter, I’d managed to mail a huge stack of post cards in the letterbox across from the town hall. There are all sorts of Green Man shops, bookstores selling books about mystical events and powers, crystal and gemstone shops, and the like. Pretty interesting fare. I had to find an ATM, so I didn’t go into any of the shops but to find more post cards. I never saw Wendy pop into The Crystal Man shop and come out with a little bag with violet leaves printed on it. [When I got back to Abingdon, I opened it per her instructions. Inside the bag, wrapped in pink tissue paper was a frog carved from serpentine taken from Kynance Cove, Cornwall. What a complete and utter surprise! How special it is to me. Thanks,.]
After gathering our thoughts, the adult in the group agreed with the driver that it was time to leave. The Tor loomed over the abbey as we drove away. It’s presence was quiet, despite its size and relevance. I have an amazing picture of the Tor, and it will go in the Glastonbury pages of my scrapbook. Ask to see it sometime. We were off to the Fox and Hounds pub in Chichester to meet Rob and his wife Coral. Lovely dinner of fish and chips again. Just cannot get enough of them, probably because I know that when I get on that airplane to come home, I’ll miss them terribly. After dinner, we said goodbye to Keith and Wendy. We’d not see them for three days. Rob and Coral made us feel welcome, and they drove us to the Millstream Inn where we were to spend two nights. Nice place, that. You should stay there if you ever go to the village of Bosham. Rob saw us to the door and said he’d see us in the morning. I really was looking forward to Kipling Day!
1:28am BST (keeping to 4 July’s reflection)
We have been going pretty much non-stop for five days now. I can walk and talk in my sleep, I think. I was able to do some correspondence on the Internet and get cleaned up for bed before 2am! Amazing!
Now it is time
for me
to fall
outside.
[Note to readers: At this point I was obviously writing in my sleep. I woke up with pen in hand, glasses still on the end of my nose. I meant it was time to fall asleep. Right.]
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "Past Bristol There is Thatch Man" and "The Power of Glastonbury Abbey and Tor."
For King and Merlin!
Sunday, 3 July 2011
10:48 pm BST
Forget Where's Waldo, that famous series of picture books from the 1990s! Ask yourself a couple of more pressing questions. Where are King Arthur and Merlin? Why are they so hard to find? You cannot count on two hands the number of books that have been published about whether or not King Arthur and Merlin were real. Nor can you count on two hands the experts who claim that the mythos is based on real people who really did live a sliver of legend. So, what is a teacher supposed to do with that? I wondered these things until the moment I arrived in the village of Tintagel, which is in Cornwall. Cornwall, in case you are unaware is not really a part of England. There is no document that makes it so. It is its own, really. And when you take a look at the land and smell the air, you know in your heart, your mind, your soul that this reality is right and that it should not change. The lay of the land is so rugged the Atlantic looks gentle. The way the sun lights and warms the colors of the land, sky, and ocean is mesmerizing--especially as you approach the cliffs where the land drops off cold into the deep waters and crashing waves.
After a full English breakfast on Samsonite Churchill china at the Eagle House Hotel in Launceston, which by the way is an excellent place to stay, we made our way to nearby Tintagel. Tintagel is the site of a great castle ruin, Tintagel Castle, the birthplace of Arthur. It was the center of a great community of sailors, craftsmen, shepherds, fishermen, monks, and soldiers. And then there are the first pirates in recorded British history. Plenty to think about.
First, let me say I expected to see the pickup truck from the BBC show Doc Martin to come barreling down the road and meet us head-on whenever we were on less than a B-road of 1.5 lanes width. Such narrow roads should not be on a GPS or SatNav! Three times, we were in a pinch between two rock walls covered with vines. Or were they simply high, thick shrubs? There is neither time nor inclination to test it out when you have to back up, pop the side mirrors in, and move over--holding your breath in case you trade paint. The significance of Tintagel is a lot to think about as you wander down the main thoroughfare toward the cliffs that boast a newer castle--Camelot Castle, of course. There are two footpaths that lead to the castle. The first is pretty much hidden, so most people walk from one end of the village to the outskirts where cottages and bungalows are surrounded by full, exotic flower gardens. I was stunned to see palm trees growing there! Such a shock to see delicate rock garden flowers, hearty lavender, hollyhocks, roses, and palm trees thriving together, but it was there for me to marvel over.
I need to backtrack at this moment. Along the way, from the Visitors Center and car park, the main thoroughfare was dotted with shops. These shops were not for tourist trade, so they became far more interesting than post cards and souvenirs where others stopped. One shop was closed, a hardware shop that had a display of stainless steel housewares to catch the sun and the pedestrian's eye. Well, it caught mine, and I took a picture as there were tablecloth weights and other useful items I'd have liked in my kitchen...things I could have dragged to school in a cart for show and tell. The items in the window were not of American notion, but of Cornwall practicality. When I peered through the window, I could see handpainted ads on the plaster and very old wooden shelves with more practical Cornwall items such as heavy crockery for preserving, pails, shovels, boxes of penny nails, hammers, mallets, heavy enamel bakeware, oil cloth, lanterns and oil... Oh, I could go on and on about it. Farther down the street there was a pet supplies shop. Imagine an outcropping of building with everything a Cornwall pet could need or desire. Food, treats, blankets and bedding, waterproof and wool items for home and work (in case you have a working dog to tend your sheep). "You must take care of your animals," says the shopkeeper. "They're your workmate and company of the evenings." There were squeaky toys as well, but I resisted the temptation to buy one for my Westie, seeing how there were Westies tethered there. Their mum wasn't buying them squeaky toys, so I left the Made in China dragon in the wooden crate and walked on.
Also of interest was the Cornish bakery. The windows were hard to see with all the tourists looking for picnic fare and elevenses snacks. There were also local people in the shop looking for tea items for the afternoon. Interesting place to window shop, really. I could hear my mother and Wendy talking about the different types of pasties in the window and how they are made. It made me realize that I could easily make pasties at home, and I really shall once the weather cools off so I can make use of a very hot oven to bake the outer crust and not overcook the layers of buttery pastry on the inside. But which kind to make first? I have pictures to make the memory of that moment fresh so I can relive it anytime I can't decide what to fix for dinner.
Now back to walking toward those Cornish cliffs! We walked toward the Camelot Castle Hotel. There was a footpath to the right of the hotel drive that went through pastures to the cliffs. We took it and ended up walking between three and four miles of very steep terrain. I tried to capture the sounds of the wind and the ocean crashing against the craggy rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, but I suppose that it overwhelmed the highly sensitive microphone I purchased for recording cave sounds. There was too much of it to capture on an electronic device, so I had to rely on my eyes and ears and a camera. There are no colors in a paint box that I can name. There are no sounds to compare to what I heard. With pictures and stories, I can paint the descriptions with similes and metaphors. Yet another lesson or two there.
When you are on the cliffs, it is easy to forget that there are motorcars, electricity, Internet, and other connections to the outside world. It all drifts away, and except for the camera around my neck, I let the world fade away. I saw pirate caves where the tide was rolled back to grant access from small boats. I saw fins off the coast, probably dolphins. I could imagine Captain Kidd's ship coming around the bend of the land to put out anchor while his men rowed loot to the sleepy mouth of a cave secluded in a little cove. And when I turned around to see where another chalky trail wandered, I saw wildflowers and Cornish chough (a type of raven) perched on tufts of hearty sod. The narrow footpath to the ruins of Tintagel Castle was overseen by the Camelot Castle Hotel (a hotel built in 1899 to draw the rich and famous to the Dartmoor and chalky cliffs that meet the Atlantic Ocean (the Celtic Sea, mind you) on Cornwall's west side. The castle is an imposing figure as it looks down upon you because at this point your feet and eyes are one with the earth, and you are more of it than the long-standing building is. Everywhere you turn after taking a few dozen steps, you see something you could not see before. Even if you are observing the same landmark or nook, it looks different. New vantage points make the hues of earth, water, and sky change subtly, but you take note of it somehow. And then you move farther and farther down the path, wondering if farmers ever turn their sheep into the field on this side of the fence. The roar of the water in a cave is explosive. The sound is too big for a modest recorder, so you let it echo and growl in your brain. It's like a great lion roaring while you have your head in his mouth. No danger, but a healthy dose of respect for the lion and your mortality. That's it, really. Imagine a massive explosion of water crashing against rocks with a gasp of spray as the water is sucked back to draw power for the next affray.
And then, as the muscles in your now mountain goat legs get jumpy, you see over the crest of a hill you thought you could never climb. There it is, Tintagel Castle in ruins. The wooden walkway along the side of the cliff is over a mile long, but you don't care about that. From the top of the knoll, you can see down, down, down for what seems forever. In an unassuming cove beneath the ruins is that cave, Merlin's cave. Your eyes are riveted to it, and wonder bubbles within you to push you forward, down the incredibly steep side of the hill toward your destination. After a quick walk up the wooden bridge to the castle for a glimpse of the world from that vantage point, you wonder about medieval times, of the year 1233 when building the castle on the site of earlier kings made sense--to make the people of Cornwall feel a part of England no less. The feeling you wanted, that connection with Arthur and Merlin is not there. So, you turn away from the majesty of the ruins that stand against the elements. What a pity King Henry VIII saw fit to destroy the castle. After all, it was in Cornwall, a place that had little to do with England...a place that didn't really care how many wives and divorces and religions one king needed in his lifetime. Sadness is what I felt. Not romance with legends and knights and crusades. I just felt sadness for the silent walls of stone. Turning around probably upset the people who walked the entire ruin, but I hurried to my starting point along the suspended airy wooden track in search of destiny.
At first, I didn't even notice the modernity of the English Heritage Center where tourists usually enter and depart the area. I had walked right by it on my way to the castle. It would have been an oasis for me after walking so many miles to get to this point, but I was drawn to that cave. I had to go inside and sit there in as much seclusion as possible. There was a pilgrimage of people who were not put off by the dangerous steps down to the cove. It is eerie with a sense of whispers about the ears as you look around from your perch on a smooth rock. The pilgrimage of tourists and curious hikers in and out was not what I expected. I suppose I thought I would have it all to myself. Still, it was possible to dismiss the presence of others after a time. Let's not dwell on the enterprising American kids, probably sixth- or seventh-graders, who were self-appointed experts on getting to the very back of the cave. The boy offered to take me through so I wouldn't get my feet wet in the dark. Only one pound. The girl wanted to fill my head with her metaphoric representation of the cave's magic. It's funny, in an odd kind of way. They had an energy about them that I now admire even though I bristled at their American accents and lack of reverence for my own pilgrimage. They made me think of Henry James, for heaven's sake! And this was Merlin's day! Was I ever that young and brash? That part of long-term memory does not serve me at all! Nice children. I've spent some hours thinking about how I can make my students get that excited about what I have seen and experienced, important since my knowledge has to become their knowledge so they feel they have been here with me.
Those children are a point of reference as I close my eyes and breathe in the cave, acquiesce to its legends and myths. And when I open my eyes, there is faint light. The cave has a smell. There is a metallic odor commingled with saltwater and age. The breeze from the Celtic Sea blows through to whistle and whisper about the ears, almost a voice. Light moves in ways that are against logic and science. When I close my eyes, I can feel the keening of the ages. I can almost will myself to believe the great and powerful Merlin would have hidden from the church down here. I can understand that King Uther Pendragon felt inclined to trust magic when politics and priests failed him often. Shaky times. It is hard to give up what you feel works best, even in the face of wisdom, providence, or progress. So what is that light which hovers? Is it refraction? Or have I finally arrived at my destination, traveled eight hundred years to stare into the face of Merlin himself? The sounds and smells are constant as I stare at the fading light. Reality in the form of a father yelling for his children to retrieve their shoes and socks brings me back to my century, my moment in time.
Spell broken, I climbed back up the steps with the intention of getting some post cards and postage stamps. Then we met Keith and rode back to town in the Land Rover, a service a resident operates during high season. Was I ever glad for the ride. Thanks, Wendy. Back in town, our focus became refreshment. There were some pubs along the street. Most folks go in for meals, don't you know. There are slates that display the specials of the day. It was when I stood in close proximity to four such establishments that I realized it would be so easy to go on an Eating Binge Holiday! Too many choices and not enough hours in the day to sample everything! Not fair! So, I had to let it go and settle on fabulous cream tea. It's the cream, you see. In America, you can buy it in jars. I used to think it was good, but not anymore. There's something about freshly made that makes you fall in love with the chemistry, the magic of how flavors are bonded to each other and the human spirit. I wanted to buy a set or two of the King Arthur's pub lacquered placemats, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not because the price was unreasonable, but because there was no comma in "Arthurs." There's a popcorn shrimp (apostrophe vs. contraction) lesson for my students!
Because Dartmoor runs against Tintagel, we opted for a different route back to Launceston. That was interesting because the SatNav, named Clacking Clara because she drones on and on in her nagging tone about making turns, was set for the shortest route over the fastest. This sent the car on an interesting half-lane journey through the most remote country you can imagine. If we had had the windows rolled down, we could have heard the howl of the Hound of the Baskerville carried in the lonely wind. Wouldn't you know Keith would be blessed with two carloads of tourists coming up a narrow hill. Wouldn't you know they wouldn't back down to the little turnout (in England called passing place or wait spot) just behind them to let us down the steep hill to go past? Poor Keith had to back all the way up the hill to his wait spot. What rotters they were to not have better road manners. [Aside, in language, perhaps the person who is pulled over is in his waiting spot while the people who drive on think of the spot as a passing place since they are doing the passing by. Just an odd thought.]
We walked around the castle ruins at Launceston and marveled at the beauty of the town as the evening hours approached. At 6:30 in the evening, the idea of a heavy meal wasn't very appealing. Keith called Rob, our Kipling Day host, and made arrangements for meeting the next day after our stop in Glastonbury. The castle in this town is under the control of the Duchy of Cornwall (Prince Charles and his wife Camilla). Mom and I had tea and ginger biscuits (cookies that taste a little like buttery gingersnaps). Lovely.
* * *
As of 1:15 am...
I have spent a whole hour on writing post cards before packing up while three camera batteries charge for tomorrow. After that is done, it's off to sleep until 6:30am. This has become routine. Looking forward to seeing Glastonbury. Then we'll be off to Chichester to meet Rob and his wife Coral. The next 48 hours are going to be packed tight with the sights and sounds of history and literature.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "The Quest for Tintagel and Merlin's Cave."
10:48 pm BST
Forget Where's Waldo, that famous series of picture books from the 1990s! Ask yourself a couple of more pressing questions. Where are King Arthur and Merlin? Why are they so hard to find? You cannot count on two hands the number of books that have been published about whether or not King Arthur and Merlin were real. Nor can you count on two hands the experts who claim that the mythos is based on real people who really did live a sliver of legend. So, what is a teacher supposed to do with that? I wondered these things until the moment I arrived in the village of Tintagel, which is in Cornwall. Cornwall, in case you are unaware is not really a part of England. There is no document that makes it so. It is its own, really. And when you take a look at the land and smell the air, you know in your heart, your mind, your soul that this reality is right and that it should not change. The lay of the land is so rugged the Atlantic looks gentle. The way the sun lights and warms the colors of the land, sky, and ocean is mesmerizing--especially as you approach the cliffs where the land drops off cold into the deep waters and crashing waves.
After a full English breakfast on Samsonite Churchill china at the Eagle House Hotel in Launceston, which by the way is an excellent place to stay, we made our way to nearby Tintagel. Tintagel is the site of a great castle ruin, Tintagel Castle, the birthplace of Arthur. It was the center of a great community of sailors, craftsmen, shepherds, fishermen, monks, and soldiers. And then there are the first pirates in recorded British history. Plenty to think about.
First, let me say I expected to see the pickup truck from the BBC show Doc Martin to come barreling down the road and meet us head-on whenever we were on less than a B-road of 1.5 lanes width. Such narrow roads should not be on a GPS or SatNav! Three times, we were in a pinch between two rock walls covered with vines. Or were they simply high, thick shrubs? There is neither time nor inclination to test it out when you have to back up, pop the side mirrors in, and move over--holding your breath in case you trade paint. The significance of Tintagel is a lot to think about as you wander down the main thoroughfare toward the cliffs that boast a newer castle--Camelot Castle, of course. There are two footpaths that lead to the castle. The first is pretty much hidden, so most people walk from one end of the village to the outskirts where cottages and bungalows are surrounded by full, exotic flower gardens. I was stunned to see palm trees growing there! Such a shock to see delicate rock garden flowers, hearty lavender, hollyhocks, roses, and palm trees thriving together, but it was there for me to marvel over.
I need to backtrack at this moment. Along the way, from the Visitors Center and car park, the main thoroughfare was dotted with shops. These shops were not for tourist trade, so they became far more interesting than post cards and souvenirs where others stopped. One shop was closed, a hardware shop that had a display of stainless steel housewares to catch the sun and the pedestrian's eye. Well, it caught mine, and I took a picture as there were tablecloth weights and other useful items I'd have liked in my kitchen...things I could have dragged to school in a cart for show and tell. The items in the window were not of American notion, but of Cornwall practicality. When I peered through the window, I could see handpainted ads on the plaster and very old wooden shelves with more practical Cornwall items such as heavy crockery for preserving, pails, shovels, boxes of penny nails, hammers, mallets, heavy enamel bakeware, oil cloth, lanterns and oil... Oh, I could go on and on about it. Farther down the street there was a pet supplies shop. Imagine an outcropping of building with everything a Cornwall pet could need or desire. Food, treats, blankets and bedding, waterproof and wool items for home and work (in case you have a working dog to tend your sheep). "You must take care of your animals," says the shopkeeper. "They're your workmate and company of the evenings." There were squeaky toys as well, but I resisted the temptation to buy one for my Westie, seeing how there were Westies tethered there. Their mum wasn't buying them squeaky toys, so I left the Made in China dragon in the wooden crate and walked on.
Also of interest was the Cornish bakery. The windows were hard to see with all the tourists looking for picnic fare and elevenses snacks. There were also local people in the shop looking for tea items for the afternoon. Interesting place to window shop, really. I could hear my mother and Wendy talking about the different types of pasties in the window and how they are made. It made me realize that I could easily make pasties at home, and I really shall once the weather cools off so I can make use of a very hot oven to bake the outer crust and not overcook the layers of buttery pastry on the inside. But which kind to make first? I have pictures to make the memory of that moment fresh so I can relive it anytime I can't decide what to fix for dinner.
Now back to walking toward those Cornish cliffs! We walked toward the Camelot Castle Hotel. There was a footpath to the right of the hotel drive that went through pastures to the cliffs. We took it and ended up walking between three and four miles of very steep terrain. I tried to capture the sounds of the wind and the ocean crashing against the craggy rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, but I suppose that it overwhelmed the highly sensitive microphone I purchased for recording cave sounds. There was too much of it to capture on an electronic device, so I had to rely on my eyes and ears and a camera. There are no colors in a paint box that I can name. There are no sounds to compare to what I heard. With pictures and stories, I can paint the descriptions with similes and metaphors. Yet another lesson or two there.
When you are on the cliffs, it is easy to forget that there are motorcars, electricity, Internet, and other connections to the outside world. It all drifts away, and except for the camera around my neck, I let the world fade away. I saw pirate caves where the tide was rolled back to grant access from small boats. I saw fins off the coast, probably dolphins. I could imagine Captain Kidd's ship coming around the bend of the land to put out anchor while his men rowed loot to the sleepy mouth of a cave secluded in a little cove. And when I turned around to see where another chalky trail wandered, I saw wildflowers and Cornish chough (a type of raven) perched on tufts of hearty sod. The narrow footpath to the ruins of Tintagel Castle was overseen by the Camelot Castle Hotel (a hotel built in 1899 to draw the rich and famous to the Dartmoor and chalky cliffs that meet the Atlantic Ocean (the Celtic Sea, mind you) on Cornwall's west side. The castle is an imposing figure as it looks down upon you because at this point your feet and eyes are one with the earth, and you are more of it than the long-standing building is. Everywhere you turn after taking a few dozen steps, you see something you could not see before. Even if you are observing the same landmark or nook, it looks different. New vantage points make the hues of earth, water, and sky change subtly, but you take note of it somehow. And then you move farther and farther down the path, wondering if farmers ever turn their sheep into the field on this side of the fence. The roar of the water in a cave is explosive. The sound is too big for a modest recorder, so you let it echo and growl in your brain. It's like a great lion roaring while you have your head in his mouth. No danger, but a healthy dose of respect for the lion and your mortality. That's it, really. Imagine a massive explosion of water crashing against rocks with a gasp of spray as the water is sucked back to draw power for the next affray.
And then, as the muscles in your now mountain goat legs get jumpy, you see over the crest of a hill you thought you could never climb. There it is, Tintagel Castle in ruins. The wooden walkway along the side of the cliff is over a mile long, but you don't care about that. From the top of the knoll, you can see down, down, down for what seems forever. In an unassuming cove beneath the ruins is that cave, Merlin's cave. Your eyes are riveted to it, and wonder bubbles within you to push you forward, down the incredibly steep side of the hill toward your destination. After a quick walk up the wooden bridge to the castle for a glimpse of the world from that vantage point, you wonder about medieval times, of the year 1233 when building the castle on the site of earlier kings made sense--to make the people of Cornwall feel a part of England no less. The feeling you wanted, that connection with Arthur and Merlin is not there. So, you turn away from the majesty of the ruins that stand against the elements. What a pity King Henry VIII saw fit to destroy the castle. After all, it was in Cornwall, a place that had little to do with England...a place that didn't really care how many wives and divorces and religions one king needed in his lifetime. Sadness is what I felt. Not romance with legends and knights and crusades. I just felt sadness for the silent walls of stone. Turning around probably upset the people who walked the entire ruin, but I hurried to my starting point along the suspended airy wooden track in search of destiny.
At first, I didn't even notice the modernity of the English Heritage Center where tourists usually enter and depart the area. I had walked right by it on my way to the castle. It would have been an oasis for me after walking so many miles to get to this point, but I was drawn to that cave. I had to go inside and sit there in as much seclusion as possible. There was a pilgrimage of people who were not put off by the dangerous steps down to the cove. It is eerie with a sense of whispers about the ears as you look around from your perch on a smooth rock. The pilgrimage of tourists and curious hikers in and out was not what I expected. I suppose I thought I would have it all to myself. Still, it was possible to dismiss the presence of others after a time. Let's not dwell on the enterprising American kids, probably sixth- or seventh-graders, who were self-appointed experts on getting to the very back of the cave. The boy offered to take me through so I wouldn't get my feet wet in the dark. Only one pound. The girl wanted to fill my head with her metaphoric representation of the cave's magic. It's funny, in an odd kind of way. They had an energy about them that I now admire even though I bristled at their American accents and lack of reverence for my own pilgrimage. They made me think of Henry James, for heaven's sake! And this was Merlin's day! Was I ever that young and brash? That part of long-term memory does not serve me at all! Nice children. I've spent some hours thinking about how I can make my students get that excited about what I have seen and experienced, important since my knowledge has to become their knowledge so they feel they have been here with me.
Those children are a point of reference as I close my eyes and breathe in the cave, acquiesce to its legends and myths. And when I open my eyes, there is faint light. The cave has a smell. There is a metallic odor commingled with saltwater and age. The breeze from the Celtic Sea blows through to whistle and whisper about the ears, almost a voice. Light moves in ways that are against logic and science. When I close my eyes, I can feel the keening of the ages. I can almost will myself to believe the great and powerful Merlin would have hidden from the church down here. I can understand that King Uther Pendragon felt inclined to trust magic when politics and priests failed him often. Shaky times. It is hard to give up what you feel works best, even in the face of wisdom, providence, or progress. So what is that light which hovers? Is it refraction? Or have I finally arrived at my destination, traveled eight hundred years to stare into the face of Merlin himself? The sounds and smells are constant as I stare at the fading light. Reality in the form of a father yelling for his children to retrieve their shoes and socks brings me back to my century, my moment in time.
Spell broken, I climbed back up the steps with the intention of getting some post cards and postage stamps. Then we met Keith and rode back to town in the Land Rover, a service a resident operates during high season. Was I ever glad for the ride. Thanks, Wendy. Back in town, our focus became refreshment. There were some pubs along the street. Most folks go in for meals, don't you know. There are slates that display the specials of the day. It was when I stood in close proximity to four such establishments that I realized it would be so easy to go on an Eating Binge Holiday! Too many choices and not enough hours in the day to sample everything! Not fair! So, I had to let it go and settle on fabulous cream tea. It's the cream, you see. In America, you can buy it in jars. I used to think it was good, but not anymore. There's something about freshly made that makes you fall in love with the chemistry, the magic of how flavors are bonded to each other and the human spirit. I wanted to buy a set or two of the King Arthur's pub lacquered placemats, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not because the price was unreasonable, but because there was no comma in "Arthurs." There's a popcorn shrimp (apostrophe vs. contraction) lesson for my students!
Because Dartmoor runs against Tintagel, we opted for a different route back to Launceston. That was interesting because the SatNav, named Clacking Clara because she drones on and on in her nagging tone about making turns, was set for the shortest route over the fastest. This sent the car on an interesting half-lane journey through the most remote country you can imagine. If we had had the windows rolled down, we could have heard the howl of the Hound of the Baskerville carried in the lonely wind. Wouldn't you know Keith would be blessed with two carloads of tourists coming up a narrow hill. Wouldn't you know they wouldn't back down to the little turnout (in England called passing place or wait spot) just behind them to let us down the steep hill to go past? Poor Keith had to back all the way up the hill to his wait spot. What rotters they were to not have better road manners. [Aside, in language, perhaps the person who is pulled over is in his waiting spot while the people who drive on think of the spot as a passing place since they are doing the passing by. Just an odd thought.]
We walked around the castle ruins at Launceston and marveled at the beauty of the town as the evening hours approached. At 6:30 in the evening, the idea of a heavy meal wasn't very appealing. Keith called Rob, our Kipling Day host, and made arrangements for meeting the next day after our stop in Glastonbury. The castle in this town is under the control of the Duchy of Cornwall (Prince Charles and his wife Camilla). Mom and I had tea and ginger biscuits (cookies that taste a little like buttery gingersnaps). Lovely.
* * *
As of 1:15 am...
I have spent a whole hour on writing post cards before packing up while three camera batteries charge for tomorrow. After that is done, it's off to sleep until 6:30am. This has become routine. Looking forward to seeing Glastonbury. Then we'll be off to Chichester to meet Rob and his wife Coral. The next 48 hours are going to be packed tight with the sights and sounds of history and literature.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "The Quest for Tintagel and Merlin's Cave."
The Road to Avebury Village
Saturday, 2 July 2011
11:30 pm BST
After a Wakey Wakey breakfast, we set off for Avebury, the village in Wiltshire that is completely surrounded by a Neolithic henge. The henge is made of three rings, constructed 2600 BCE (; it is the oldest neolithic structure in all of Europe, so it is a very important place for those studying history and religion. The West Kennet Long Barrow and Sillsbury Hill are nearby, as is another white horse carved into a white chalk hillside. This henge is was erected a century before the famous Stonehenge where most tourists flock. There is a lot of history associated with this henge. When you see it, you wonder where some of the stones are. Perhaps farmers toppled them and cut them up. It is likely that a few suffered this fate. However, it is known that stones were buried in medieval times when the evils of the stones became a concern. The idea was to cleanse by burial, so many of the stones are buried in deep trenches after being toppled over. There is one stone called Barber Stone. When archeologists started working on the site, they discovered a full skeleton and artifacts buried with one stone. The archaeologists raised many stones from beneath the earth and stood them in their original positions. Under the Barber Stone, they found evidence and artifacts that indicated the deceased had been a surgeon or a barber. Interesting stuff! I walked up the West Kennet Avenue of twin stones toward the village just as ancient people had centuries upon centuries before. The stones at the bottom are smoother than the rest. I found out later that this is due to the fact that they were likely used to sharpen knives, swords, and tools over time. It is estimated that each stone on this henge weighs as average of 4o tons! Many are still underground from medieval purging and are marked with a small monument. Science is marvelous in that it can reveal what the human eye fails to see. I'd love to see a seismic image of the buried stones.
I have pictures of just about every stone on the West Kennet Avenue because they were all different. I felt each had its own story, and the Barber Stone is the one stone that told its secret. What about all the other secrets long forgotten? I wonder if people might like to make up stories for the stones. They are, after all, a lot like clouds in that you can have impressions based on what they look like or what they remind you of. For instance, there is one that looks like a great white shark rising up from the pasture where cows are grazing. There is one that has holes drilled in it. There is one that makes me think of Neil Gaiman's Purple Man in The Graveyard Book. The imagination boggles at the possibilities. There are plenty of people wandering the avenue. As I was removing my hand from the rock shark's mouth, I heard a didgeridu (Australian drone pipe used for the past 1500 years by Native Australians). Well, the geography teacher comes out every now and then, so I stopped the two men who had it so I could take their picture. I asked where they were from, hoping they were from Adelaide (where my cousin Nick lives), but no! They were from Lithuania! How did they acquire the instrument? Well, it turns out that one of the young men was room mates with a music student at a Paris university, and when that person upgraded to a better didgeridu, he inherited the old one--the one I was listening to at the Avebury Henge. Interesting, eh? Well, not fifteen minutes later a barefoot woman comes marching through with a Celtic drum? Was she local or from Wales or Scotland? No! She was from Germany--on holiday to visit ancient and medieval religious sites in England. All of a sudden, I didn't feel so much like a far flung tourist! I think that is when I started feeling at home with England and let the tourist in me subside. The rest of the day was spent looking at all the natural wonders around me as I got in touch with the history of the place, not for my classroom so much, but for me as a person. The camera didn't snap quite so many pictures as it would have. When I look at the pictures now, I see where my feet were planted at a given moment. I can smell the flowers and grass, feel the cold rocks under my fingertips, hear the birds and cows that were in the pasture ignoring the tourists who tromped down the grasses they could have grazed. It was far more than a tourist experience.
Two rather nice discoveries...I like looking at farm equipment and enjoy taking pictures of animals who live amongst ancient ruins as though everybody does. I found a combine for rolling up the wheat in a nearby field that was about ready for harvest. There were sheep and cows in the meadow with the standing stones. My favorite cows are the white ones with the milk chocolate splotches on them. There was a bull that decided to be my mother's buddy, and he followed her around so she could scratch his head and pat his neck. He was obviously a show animal because he was incredibly clean and well groomed right down to the hooves. He followed her to the gate where we had to cross the road at the oldest oak in the area. We left him on his side of the gate and got in Keith's car for a ride to the National Trust car park. Also, I love to watch the wild red kites fly. When you see them, you are amazed at how they can swoop and glide and then stand dead still in in the air like a child's paper kite on a string. Then they swoop and glide more. Over and over. And the sound of their chirping is wonderful. Not bad for an endangered species on the comeback!
The village of Avebury is a place not quite trapped in the past. After all, the people and fashion are different, not to mention the motor cars and telephone poles that bring electricity and communications to the community. It is an interesting mix...those thatched cottages, stone church with its square tower, gravestones far too old to read that stand like the worn down teeth of The Ages. And amidst the tourists, the stones, the cottages, the everyday lives of residents, there was a cricket match underway. Of course, I had to watch that. And yes, I will order a youth cricket set for my classroom so students can try their skill at pitch and at bat. Fielders should have a lot of scrambling to do, I expect. Avebury was hosting a match against another local village. I watched for what seems an hour. The batter has to hit the ball before it hits the wicket behind him. As the ball sails or rolls, fielders have to catch the ball before the batter makes his run and scores a point. The game may not look like hard work, but it is. I took at least sixty pictures of the game and edited down to a manageable number (which may still seem like far too many for some people). There were some excellent plays made, and I refuse to drop the shots associated with time. And take a look at the one where the ball is about to be caught! I'm grateful for the sports setting on the camera.
When it was time to move on to the village of Avebury, we experienced sensory overload. The flowers and buildings were a beautiful shock to the eyes, the sounds of the birds and smell of the flowers mesmerizing. It made up for the cars parked along the side of the narrow avenue that went through the village. We stopped at the National Trust building for a quick lunch of sandwiches, cake, and lemonades. Lovely. People kept looking at my mother with great interest. At first, I thought it might be the little halo of tiny black flies that swirled above her hair (perhaps they were drawn to her because she had white hair and wore white clothes...), but that was not the case. Mom was mistaken for a member of the royal family, and people were snapping her picture and whispering about why she might be dressed in disguise for an afternoon away from the Queen. After a while, we got used to it and tried to ignore such fanciful talk. I avoided the temptation to call her "Your Ladyship" more than a dozen times.
After buying some very nice blankets (called random rugs) at the National Trust shop, we loaded up the Freeman's car and headed for Cornwall, the part of England that is not officially part of England. That is where King Arthur got his start.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery under two headings: "Avebury Henge and Village" and "Avebury CricketMatch."
11:30 pm BST
After a Wakey Wakey breakfast, we set off for Avebury, the village in Wiltshire that is completely surrounded by a Neolithic henge. The henge is made of three rings, constructed 2600 BCE (; it is the oldest neolithic structure in all of Europe, so it is a very important place for those studying history and religion. The West Kennet Long Barrow and Sillsbury Hill are nearby, as is another white horse carved into a white chalk hillside. This henge is was erected a century before the famous Stonehenge where most tourists flock. There is a lot of history associated with this henge. When you see it, you wonder where some of the stones are. Perhaps farmers toppled them and cut them up. It is likely that a few suffered this fate. However, it is known that stones were buried in medieval times when the evils of the stones became a concern. The idea was to cleanse by burial, so many of the stones are buried in deep trenches after being toppled over. There is one stone called Barber Stone. When archeologists started working on the site, they discovered a full skeleton and artifacts buried with one stone. The archaeologists raised many stones from beneath the earth and stood them in their original positions. Under the Barber Stone, they found evidence and artifacts that indicated the deceased had been a surgeon or a barber. Interesting stuff! I walked up the West Kennet Avenue of twin stones toward the village just as ancient people had centuries upon centuries before. The stones at the bottom are smoother than the rest. I found out later that this is due to the fact that they were likely used to sharpen knives, swords, and tools over time. It is estimated that each stone on this henge weighs as average of 4o tons! Many are still underground from medieval purging and are marked with a small monument. Science is marvelous in that it can reveal what the human eye fails to see. I'd love to see a seismic image of the buried stones.
I have pictures of just about every stone on the West Kennet Avenue because they were all different. I felt each had its own story, and the Barber Stone is the one stone that told its secret. What about all the other secrets long forgotten? I wonder if people might like to make up stories for the stones. They are, after all, a lot like clouds in that you can have impressions based on what they look like or what they remind you of. For instance, there is one that looks like a great white shark rising up from the pasture where cows are grazing. There is one that has holes drilled in it. There is one that makes me think of Neil Gaiman's Purple Man in The Graveyard Book. The imagination boggles at the possibilities. There are plenty of people wandering the avenue. As I was removing my hand from the rock shark's mouth, I heard a didgeridu (Australian drone pipe used for the past 1500 years by Native Australians). Well, the geography teacher comes out every now and then, so I stopped the two men who had it so I could take their picture. I asked where they were from, hoping they were from Adelaide (where my cousin Nick lives), but no! They were from Lithuania! How did they acquire the instrument? Well, it turns out that one of the young men was room mates with a music student at a Paris university, and when that person upgraded to a better didgeridu, he inherited the old one--the one I was listening to at the Avebury Henge. Interesting, eh? Well, not fifteen minutes later a barefoot woman comes marching through with a Celtic drum? Was she local or from Wales or Scotland? No! She was from Germany--on holiday to visit ancient and medieval religious sites in England. All of a sudden, I didn't feel so much like a far flung tourist! I think that is when I started feeling at home with England and let the tourist in me subside. The rest of the day was spent looking at all the natural wonders around me as I got in touch with the history of the place, not for my classroom so much, but for me as a person. The camera didn't snap quite so many pictures as it would have. When I look at the pictures now, I see where my feet were planted at a given moment. I can smell the flowers and grass, feel the cold rocks under my fingertips, hear the birds and cows that were in the pasture ignoring the tourists who tromped down the grasses they could have grazed. It was far more than a tourist experience.
Two rather nice discoveries...I like looking at farm equipment and enjoy taking pictures of animals who live amongst ancient ruins as though everybody does. I found a combine for rolling up the wheat in a nearby field that was about ready for harvest. There were sheep and cows in the meadow with the standing stones. My favorite cows are the white ones with the milk chocolate splotches on them. There was a bull that decided to be my mother's buddy, and he followed her around so she could scratch his head and pat his neck. He was obviously a show animal because he was incredibly clean and well groomed right down to the hooves. He followed her to the gate where we had to cross the road at the oldest oak in the area. We left him on his side of the gate and got in Keith's car for a ride to the National Trust car park. Also, I love to watch the wild red kites fly. When you see them, you are amazed at how they can swoop and glide and then stand dead still in in the air like a child's paper kite on a string. Then they swoop and glide more. Over and over. And the sound of their chirping is wonderful. Not bad for an endangered species on the comeback!
The village of Avebury is a place not quite trapped in the past. After all, the people and fashion are different, not to mention the motor cars and telephone poles that bring electricity and communications to the community. It is an interesting mix...those thatched cottages, stone church with its square tower, gravestones far too old to read that stand like the worn down teeth of The Ages. And amidst the tourists, the stones, the cottages, the everyday lives of residents, there was a cricket match underway. Of course, I had to watch that. And yes, I will order a youth cricket set for my classroom so students can try their skill at pitch and at bat. Fielders should have a lot of scrambling to do, I expect. Avebury was hosting a match against another local village. I watched for what seems an hour. The batter has to hit the ball before it hits the wicket behind him. As the ball sails or rolls, fielders have to catch the ball before the batter makes his run and scores a point. The game may not look like hard work, but it is. I took at least sixty pictures of the game and edited down to a manageable number (which may still seem like far too many for some people). There were some excellent plays made, and I refuse to drop the shots associated with time. And take a look at the one where the ball is about to be caught! I'm grateful for the sports setting on the camera.
When it was time to move on to the village of Avebury, we experienced sensory overload. The flowers and buildings were a beautiful shock to the eyes, the sounds of the birds and smell of the flowers mesmerizing. It made up for the cars parked along the side of the narrow avenue that went through the village. We stopped at the National Trust building for a quick lunch of sandwiches, cake, and lemonades. Lovely. People kept looking at my mother with great interest. At first, I thought it might be the little halo of tiny black flies that swirled above her hair (perhaps they were drawn to her because she had white hair and wore white clothes...), but that was not the case. Mom was mistaken for a member of the royal family, and people were snapping her picture and whispering about why she might be dressed in disguise for an afternoon away from the Queen. After a while, we got used to it and tried to ignore such fanciful talk. I avoided the temptation to call her "Your Ladyship" more than a dozen times.
After buying some very nice blankets (called random rugs) at the National Trust shop, we loaded up the Freeman's car and headed for Cornwall, the part of England that is not officially part of England. That is where King Arthur got his start.
Pictures of this part of the trip can be found in the Photo Gallery under two headings: "Avebury Henge and Village" and "Avebury CricketMatch."
Want to Visit Wantage?
Friday, 1 July 2011
10:00 pm BST
We went to Wantage today--not by the big motorway, but through the beautiful Oxfordshire countryside. Once we were parked in the town center near the statue of King Alfred, we went looking for the museum. We looked around for some familiar landmarks so my mother could tell me a bit about the village when she was seventeen. About the only landmark she knew for sure was the statue of King Alfred. Everything else had aged or progressed more than fifty years, so she saw shadows of things that were commingled with what the presently are. There was the HOVIS bread sign hovering over the street, the but shop inside was not the same. The cake shop on the corner still boasted its wares below the windows, but there were no cakes inside. We found the old police station, and some vaguely familiar footpaths. Once we found the museum, we went inside for a look around. There was a lady there who gave us directions to the hospital where I was born...turns out it was a convent, so that was a lead. I bought a brick for the museum's remodel, so if you go to Wantage in a couple of years, look for the brick with LP on it, please. It's my only mark in the town where I was born--unless the Archives Sister at the convent can find record of me!
I've always told my students that I am an alien raised by human parents (just like Superman), and they have always laughed. Especially when I pull out my citizenship papers and a copy of my birth record. I was born in Wantage, but the hospital there did not have record of my birth. The town registrar did not have the exact place of my birth recorded. It was all silly fun, but when I was in Wantage in person, we got the bright idea to go to the convent and ask to see my real birth record. You see, I was born at the convent in Wantage, and my parents lived in a house where nuns used to live. It's all rather odd.
We knocked on the infirmary door and got directions to the guests entrance. We went there and rang the bell. The person who answered the door could not advise us at all, so we got the address for the Archives Sister. We have to send a formal letter requesting the details of my birth via snail mail. The convent was tranquil and full of birdsong, but the big black birds that watch as you walk through the gardens are creepy, and they drop things onto your head as you pass under their roost. Beware of black bird mischief if you ever walk up to St. Mary's along the Challow Road.
We were going to go to Oxford after the stop in Wantage, but we saw books for the Uffington White Horse whilst in the Wantage museum, and we thought that the five mile drive to the monument might be an adventure. Adventure! We stopped at the Costa Coffee for a quick reprieve. Excellent Italian blend went well with the pastry selection there, and we enjoyed getting to know each other better. You cannot ask for better hosts than Wendy and Keith Freeman, let me tell you. They have moved mountains so that I can visit the obscure places that tour buses don't frequent. After refreshment, we wandered around in nearby shops. I am now a fan of Oxfam shops because I can enjoy looking at everyday household items and speculate stories about the previous owners of the now discarded artifacts on display for sale. Story ideas there... An interesting slant--think! What would you least expect to find in an Oxfam shop in a small rural village? Try a framed poster of Smoky Mountain log cabins! Yep, I saw it there with my own eyes. What a jarring reminder of home! How on earth did it get in this Oxfam shop?
My mother and I made sure our bank cards worked. We got some money out. My mother was at the ATM getting a refresher on how to use it when a young man behind us chuckled at one of my mother's comments. His comment didn't make sense at the time, and my mother's reaction, to his chagrin, was to remind him that one day he would get old and not understand the latest computer gadgets. He looked puzzled, laughed, had a good exchange of words with my mom and then put his card in the machine. He had an expression of recognition on his face that puzzled me. I let the thought go as soon as a I saw the real butcher's shop complete with sausages displayed in a window chill case. Heaven! We got sausages for a future meal in Reading.
One of the interesting things Keith told me is that brick masons from particular towns and burroughs had distinctive brick patterns. He showed me the one for the masons who lived in the Wantage area back in the late 1800s. It boasts standard red brick with half bricks that are smoke gray glazed. I took some pictures so I would be able to note the pattern and compare it to others. That's the thing about taking your time when you travel. You learn about things that you might not have noticed otherwise, and curiosity and the love for detection make it necessary to go off on intellectual tangents to find answers to questions that pop into your head as you go about your business.
The ride to Uffington was only five miles, but the nice ladies at the museum had not told us that it was a three plus mile hike to the horse carvings and the castle that sprang from the hilltops some years later. The horse was well preserved, and the castle, a twin to Cadbury Castle (Camelot) was long gone, its foundations still impressed on the soil where you could see for miles. It made me think of Saltville where the Devonian shale melds with the Precambrian foothills to create the flat zone where the Confederacy held off Federal troops in the 1860s. So, we hiked and hiked and hiked up hillsides and down them until we got to the monument. It is incredible to think that people can create such a huge carving on the face of a tremendous hillside, hack away the earth to expose the bright white chalk so that it made the effigy of a running horse. The Uffington White Horse is 3000 years old, dating back to the Bronze Age. This hallowed ground is graced with flocks of sheep. Just because there is a landmark and historic ruin doesn't mean the land goes unused! Such lovely sheep, too! After we enjoyed our views of the White Horse and the views from the castle (minus its fortified wooden walls), we hiked back to the car and headed for Reading.
Dinner? Well, of course we had fish and chips from a local chippy that's just around the corner from the Freemans' house. My piece of cod hung off both sides of the plate and was topped with freshly cut, deep-fried chips. Malt vinegar topped it all off. What a lovely way to end the day.
Pictures associated with this blog can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "Road Trip to Wantage" and "Hike to the Uffington White Horse."
10:00 pm BST
We went to Wantage today--not by the big motorway, but through the beautiful Oxfordshire countryside. Once we were parked in the town center near the statue of King Alfred, we went looking for the museum. We looked around for some familiar landmarks so my mother could tell me a bit about the village when she was seventeen. About the only landmark she knew for sure was the statue of King Alfred. Everything else had aged or progressed more than fifty years, so she saw shadows of things that were commingled with what the presently are. There was the HOVIS bread sign hovering over the street, the but shop inside was not the same. The cake shop on the corner still boasted its wares below the windows, but there were no cakes inside. We found the old police station, and some vaguely familiar footpaths. Once we found the museum, we went inside for a look around. There was a lady there who gave us directions to the hospital where I was born...turns out it was a convent, so that was a lead. I bought a brick for the museum's remodel, so if you go to Wantage in a couple of years, look for the brick with LP on it, please. It's my only mark in the town where I was born--unless the Archives Sister at the convent can find record of me!
I've always told my students that I am an alien raised by human parents (just like Superman), and they have always laughed. Especially when I pull out my citizenship papers and a copy of my birth record. I was born in Wantage, but the hospital there did not have record of my birth. The town registrar did not have the exact place of my birth recorded. It was all silly fun, but when I was in Wantage in person, we got the bright idea to go to the convent and ask to see my real birth record. You see, I was born at the convent in Wantage, and my parents lived in a house where nuns used to live. It's all rather odd.
We knocked on the infirmary door and got directions to the guests entrance. We went there and rang the bell. The person who answered the door could not advise us at all, so we got the address for the Archives Sister. We have to send a formal letter requesting the details of my birth via snail mail. The convent was tranquil and full of birdsong, but the big black birds that watch as you walk through the gardens are creepy, and they drop things onto your head as you pass under their roost. Beware of black bird mischief if you ever walk up to St. Mary's along the Challow Road.
We were going to go to Oxford after the stop in Wantage, but we saw books for the Uffington White Horse whilst in the Wantage museum, and we thought that the five mile drive to the monument might be an adventure. Adventure! We stopped at the Costa Coffee for a quick reprieve. Excellent Italian blend went well with the pastry selection there, and we enjoyed getting to know each other better. You cannot ask for better hosts than Wendy and Keith Freeman, let me tell you. They have moved mountains so that I can visit the obscure places that tour buses don't frequent. After refreshment, we wandered around in nearby shops. I am now a fan of Oxfam shops because I can enjoy looking at everyday household items and speculate stories about the previous owners of the now discarded artifacts on display for sale. Story ideas there... An interesting slant--think! What would you least expect to find in an Oxfam shop in a small rural village? Try a framed poster of Smoky Mountain log cabins! Yep, I saw it there with my own eyes. What a jarring reminder of home! How on earth did it get in this Oxfam shop?
My mother and I made sure our bank cards worked. We got some money out. My mother was at the ATM getting a refresher on how to use it when a young man behind us chuckled at one of my mother's comments. His comment didn't make sense at the time, and my mother's reaction, to his chagrin, was to remind him that one day he would get old and not understand the latest computer gadgets. He looked puzzled, laughed, had a good exchange of words with my mom and then put his card in the machine. He had an expression of recognition on his face that puzzled me. I let the thought go as soon as a I saw the real butcher's shop complete with sausages displayed in a window chill case. Heaven! We got sausages for a future meal in Reading.
One of the interesting things Keith told me is that brick masons from particular towns and burroughs had distinctive brick patterns. He showed me the one for the masons who lived in the Wantage area back in the late 1800s. It boasts standard red brick with half bricks that are smoke gray glazed. I took some pictures so I would be able to note the pattern and compare it to others. That's the thing about taking your time when you travel. You learn about things that you might not have noticed otherwise, and curiosity and the love for detection make it necessary to go off on intellectual tangents to find answers to questions that pop into your head as you go about your business.
The ride to Uffington was only five miles, but the nice ladies at the museum had not told us that it was a three plus mile hike to the horse carvings and the castle that sprang from the hilltops some years later. The horse was well preserved, and the castle, a twin to Cadbury Castle (Camelot) was long gone, its foundations still impressed on the soil where you could see for miles. It made me think of Saltville where the Devonian shale melds with the Precambrian foothills to create the flat zone where the Confederacy held off Federal troops in the 1860s. So, we hiked and hiked and hiked up hillsides and down them until we got to the monument. It is incredible to think that people can create such a huge carving on the face of a tremendous hillside, hack away the earth to expose the bright white chalk so that it made the effigy of a running horse. The Uffington White Horse is 3000 years old, dating back to the Bronze Age. This hallowed ground is graced with flocks of sheep. Just because there is a landmark and historic ruin doesn't mean the land goes unused! Such lovely sheep, too! After we enjoyed our views of the White Horse and the views from the castle (minus its fortified wooden walls), we hiked back to the car and headed for Reading.
Dinner? Well, of course we had fish and chips from a local chippy that's just around the corner from the Freemans' house. My piece of cod hung off both sides of the plate and was topped with freshly cut, deep-fried chips. Malt vinegar topped it all off. What a lovely way to end the day.
Pictures associated with this blog can be found in the Photo Gallery. Look for "Road Trip to Wantage" and "Hike to the Uffington White Horse."
London to Reading to Wantage
Thursday, 30 June 2011
2:30 pm BST
Well, what a day! We got through customs--quickly because there was no staff to field more than a few questions about why I was entering the United Kingdom and when I would be departing. The strike did have an impact, just not a negative one. We found Keith about the time he saw us. Keith and his wife Wendy will be helping us get about while we are in England because there is not a package tour for the places I need to visit. We are very blessed to have two amazing hosts welcome us into their home. Love Keith's car (looks sort of like a Morano)--big car by English standards.
One of the unexpected points of interest is the vast array of universal road signs, which are the way I remember them--for the most part. I don't remember them being so "polite," though. The M4 is huge. Fast traffic, busy roundabouts once on the A-roads; now many of the roundabouts have traffic lights. This is a new development for me, a measure that the increased number of cars on the road requires.
10:15 pm BST
Dinner at eight was lovely chicken, organic carrots, Jersey Royal potatoes, and organic corn plus gravy. Dessert was clotted cream ice cream, organic strawberries, and a nice piece of coffee gateau. Everything tasted wonderful.
Things to eat or find come to mind naturally to my list, and it does get longer. Bovril granules, port pies, sausages,
bacon, Daddies sauce, salad cream, tea spoons (NOT teaspoons!), plate trivets, cake forks, OXO, and basic candy bar selection. I'll want a few lasting gifts for family members as well. Guess I'll recognize them as I go along.
Keith has warned me that Internet is not fast and everywhere like it is at home, so I will go for days without a cell phone or email. Ought to be interesting. Hope I don't have withdrawals!
Tomorrow we are going to Wantage (now located in Oxfordshire) , and when we get back to Reading, we will enjoy some fish and chips. Most interesting thing to happen today? That would be a mama fox and her three babies coming into Wendy's back garden to eat nuts, seeds, and food scraps.
2:30 pm BST
Well, what a day! We got through customs--quickly because there was no staff to field more than a few questions about why I was entering the United Kingdom and when I would be departing. The strike did have an impact, just not a negative one. We found Keith about the time he saw us. Keith and his wife Wendy will be helping us get about while we are in England because there is not a package tour for the places I need to visit. We are very blessed to have two amazing hosts welcome us into their home. Love Keith's car (looks sort of like a Morano)--big car by English standards.
One of the unexpected points of interest is the vast array of universal road signs, which are the way I remember them--for the most part. I don't remember them being so "polite," though. The M4 is huge. Fast traffic, busy roundabouts once on the A-roads; now many of the roundabouts have traffic lights. This is a new development for me, a measure that the increased number of cars on the road requires.
10:15 pm BST
Dinner at eight was lovely chicken, organic carrots, Jersey Royal potatoes, and organic corn plus gravy. Dessert was clotted cream ice cream, organic strawberries, and a nice piece of coffee gateau. Everything tasted wonderful.
Things to eat or find come to mind naturally to my list, and it does get longer. Bovril granules, port pies, sausages,
bacon, Daddies sauce, salad cream, tea spoons (NOT teaspoons!), plate trivets, cake forks, OXO, and basic candy bar selection. I'll want a few lasting gifts for family members as well. Guess I'll recognize them as I go along.
Keith has warned me that Internet is not fast and everywhere like it is at home, so I will go for days without a cell phone or email. Ought to be interesting. Hope I don't have withdrawals!
Tomorrow we are going to Wantage (now located in Oxfordshire) , and when we get back to Reading, we will enjoy some fish and chips. Most interesting thing to happen today? That would be a mama fox and her three babies coming into Wendy's back garden to eat nuts, seeds, and food scraps.
Trans-Atlantic Nap Time
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
11:00 pm EST
The cabin lights are low. I'm tired--finally! Dinner will be served in 90 minutes. That does not compute! It is part of the strategy to get me ready for the five hour leap in time. When we land in London, we will be ahead of hometown time by five whole hours. That ought to be interesting at bedtime. Will I want to stay up five hours past my new regular bedtime? I think I may be starting to get excited! We are speeding along the runway, which makes my writing very jumpy. Lift off...NOW. I cannot take pictures of the Atlanta skyline as I am in the very middle of the plane (16C) on this Delta Flight 10, a B767-400ER (know that from the "Be Safe" brochure in the seat pocket!). The extra leg room in Economy Comfort is worth the extra money. Mom says to thank Mr. McGlothlin for the nicer seats. The flight attendants have just made an announcement that the customs workers in England have voted to go on strike. This means we could be ages getting through the interview process of officially entering Great Britain. Joy!
So, what do I do, write about? Well, the most impressive exhibit in Concourse E was the recycle and reuse coutoure. I took pictures of the clothes because it's hard to imagine the four designer dresses I admired. Dress One: Coke and Diet Coke cans cut into flower petals and sewn on a delicate dress. The dress had matching handbag and high heels. Amazing! Dress Two: At first I thought the long coat was made of dark trash bags that had been shredded, but NO! The designer had stripped audio and VHS tape from their cases. They were then looped like ling ribbon candy and sewn to a cotton duster coat. Mind boggling! Dress Three: This was a basic black dress with recycled paper cut in a repeating floral pattern a lot like a tessellation on massive recycled paper sheet cut precisely from white. Dress Four: Well, it has Target shopping bags cut and gathered to make a rumba skirt on a dress with pouf sleeves. There's a head piece with Target flowers. Truly amazing display of creativity and ingenuity.
Chicken dinner is being placed on my tray. Signing off now. Hope my ADD doesn't turn into ADHD! I'm stuck in the middle and think it's best to just go to sleep after I finish my post-midnight dinner.
Pictures associated with blog can be found in the Photo Gallery under the heading "Flight to England."
11:00 pm EST
The cabin lights are low. I'm tired--finally! Dinner will be served in 90 minutes. That does not compute! It is part of the strategy to get me ready for the five hour leap in time. When we land in London, we will be ahead of hometown time by five whole hours. That ought to be interesting at bedtime. Will I want to stay up five hours past my new regular bedtime? I think I may be starting to get excited! We are speeding along the runway, which makes my writing very jumpy. Lift off...NOW. I cannot take pictures of the Atlanta skyline as I am in the very middle of the plane (16C) on this Delta Flight 10, a B767-400ER (know that from the "Be Safe" brochure in the seat pocket!). The extra leg room in Economy Comfort is worth the extra money. Mom says to thank Mr. McGlothlin for the nicer seats. The flight attendants have just made an announcement that the customs workers in England have voted to go on strike. This means we could be ages getting through the interview process of officially entering Great Britain. Joy!
So, what do I do, write about? Well, the most impressive exhibit in Concourse E was the recycle and reuse coutoure. I took pictures of the clothes because it's hard to imagine the four designer dresses I admired. Dress One: Coke and Diet Coke cans cut into flower petals and sewn on a delicate dress. The dress had matching handbag and high heels. Amazing! Dress Two: At first I thought the long coat was made of dark trash bags that had been shredded, but NO! The designer had stripped audio and VHS tape from their cases. They were then looped like ling ribbon candy and sewn to a cotton duster coat. Mind boggling! Dress Three: This was a basic black dress with recycled paper cut in a repeating floral pattern a lot like a tessellation on massive recycled paper sheet cut precisely from white. Dress Four: Well, it has Target shopping bags cut and gathered to make a rumba skirt on a dress with pouf sleeves. There's a head piece with Target flowers. Truly amazing display of creativity and ingenuity.
Chicken dinner is being placed on my tray. Signing off now. Hope my ADD doesn't turn into ADHD! I'm stuck in the middle and think it's best to just go to sleep after I finish my post-midnight dinner.
Pictures associated with blog can be found in the Photo Gallery under the heading "Flight to England."
Delta's Flight Brochure Says "Be Safe"
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
7:08 pm EST
Delta Flight 5400. It's still hard to believe that we are on our way to London via Atlanta. We are on the plane from Tri-Cities to Atlanta, and there is a man to my left (who is easily fifteen years my senior) playing video games on his iPad 2. He is firing ammunition at locations perched on stilts, and he is totally absorbed--missing the view from his window. That view is of the Appalachian Mountains as they drop in altitude to blend in with the rebuilt South. The seats in front of me are reclined so that my tray is pressing into my rib cage slightly, and the men in those seats are sawing off logs like nobody's business. I would be nervous were it not for the fact that my mother is right next to me. This isn't real yet, I say. And she's not surprised by my declaration. Leaving home didn't play out the way I planned. The only rough part of the day was leaving the dogs and Curt at home while I travel. Still, I cherish the time I will get to spend with my mom. We've never been able to travel together, and it means a lot that she is with me.
I am still in a weird teacher-mode. I want to have kids use the safety brochures in the seat pocket as a model for writing directions. Really!! (I have even written down that the "Be Safe" brochure for this plane is for Model CRJ 200 EV. Now, that's just too much, isn't it?!)
Pictures associated with blog can be found in the Photo Gallery under the heading "Flight to England."
7:08 pm EST
Delta Flight 5400. It's still hard to believe that we are on our way to London via Atlanta. We are on the plane from Tri-Cities to Atlanta, and there is a man to my left (who is easily fifteen years my senior) playing video games on his iPad 2. He is firing ammunition at locations perched on stilts, and he is totally absorbed--missing the view from his window. That view is of the Appalachian Mountains as they drop in altitude to blend in with the rebuilt South. The seats in front of me are reclined so that my tray is pressing into my rib cage slightly, and the men in those seats are sawing off logs like nobody's business. I would be nervous were it not for the fact that my mother is right next to me. This isn't real yet, I say. And she's not surprised by my declaration. Leaving home didn't play out the way I planned. The only rough part of the day was leaving the dogs and Curt at home while I travel. Still, I cherish the time I will get to spend with my mom. We've never been able to travel together, and it means a lot that she is with me.
I am still in a weird teacher-mode. I want to have kids use the safety brochures in the seat pocket as a model for writing directions. Really!! (I have even written down that the "Be Safe" brochure for this plane is for Model CRJ 200 EV. Now, that's just too much, isn't it?!)
Pictures associated with blog can be found in the Photo Gallery under the heading "Flight to England."
Five Days? Really? But I'm Not Ready!
Friday, June 24, 2011
I suppose I should have listened more deeply to Steve Sizemore when he said the whole experience would be like a dream. In a dream, you watch yourself react to events and people. You drift along with mild control most times. That is what the last few months have been like. My whole family is not going on this trip. My parents were going with me, but in the end, it was just my mom coming along. Sometimes that has been tenuous, and hard as it is to believe, I have been fine with it all.
It's been a matter of backup plans all along, a figurative fog that rolls in with the tide of reality that this really is happening. When I go about my everyday routine, the dream is tucked away; everything is normal until it's time to take care of something tied to the trip or when someone mentions the award that has afforded me such a mesmerizing dream. I finished the school year, the best year I've ever had, on June 3. When my room was packed up for the summer by June 16 (took an extra three days to get everything labeled in files they way they ought to be), I took a day off to visit my friend Keela up in Marion. She's amazing, a wonderful friend and educator. We had lunch and talked about the Summer Writing Institute classes we are running for the Appalachian Writing Project.
The dream got really strange right after lunch. I got a phone call about my dad being put in the hospital. Funny thing, dreams. When you are aware of them, you can try to manipulate the plot. Only the Dreamweaver messes with your mind. Dad spent three days in the hospital, so I didn't spend hours and hours agonizing over what to teach/facilitate at the summer institute in Russell County. I gathered my best presentations, art supplies, copies of the best graphic organizers I invented for my students, and a smorgasbord of what I call the Writer's Toolbox. The rest of the week was intense--lots of imagery, details to process and analyze, some of the nicest, talented teachers I've ever had the honor to help. They took the concept of the reluctant writer and ran with it, so the week flew by far too quickly. I miss these teachers!
It is Friday evening. My online UVA-Wise CTE class wrapped up today, and every one of my students will finish the work on time. What a relief that is! Imagine me getting on a plane when one student is not finished and needs my help. I'd be so torn, and the dream would transition to a nightmare. But no need to go there since things went smoothly. I got the hard case "InvisiShield" put on the iPad 2 that the McGlothlin Foundation helped me purchase. Do you know I still have to learn how to use all the attachments? I had planned two weekends for learning, and dream things happened. Dad's oxygen levels are low, so my mom is a good bit worried about the trip. Rightly so. But it's all a dream, and when the fog thins or rolls away, all the drama will go with it. I'll either be completely ready or I won't. I will have my mom along or I won't. I will hyperventilate or I won't. I should email Steve Sizemore and let him know he is right about the dreamscape a McGlothlin teacher-scholar walks through. But I'm afraid I'll wake up.
I suppose I should have listened more deeply to Steve Sizemore when he said the whole experience would be like a dream. In a dream, you watch yourself react to events and people. You drift along with mild control most times. That is what the last few months have been like. My whole family is not going on this trip. My parents were going with me, but in the end, it was just my mom coming along. Sometimes that has been tenuous, and hard as it is to believe, I have been fine with it all.
It's been a matter of backup plans all along, a figurative fog that rolls in with the tide of reality that this really is happening. When I go about my everyday routine, the dream is tucked away; everything is normal until it's time to take care of something tied to the trip or when someone mentions the award that has afforded me such a mesmerizing dream. I finished the school year, the best year I've ever had, on June 3. When my room was packed up for the summer by June 16 (took an extra three days to get everything labeled in files they way they ought to be), I took a day off to visit my friend Keela up in Marion. She's amazing, a wonderful friend and educator. We had lunch and talked about the Summer Writing Institute classes we are running for the Appalachian Writing Project.
The dream got really strange right after lunch. I got a phone call about my dad being put in the hospital. Funny thing, dreams. When you are aware of them, you can try to manipulate the plot. Only the Dreamweaver messes with your mind. Dad spent three days in the hospital, so I didn't spend hours and hours agonizing over what to teach/facilitate at the summer institute in Russell County. I gathered my best presentations, art supplies, copies of the best graphic organizers I invented for my students, and a smorgasbord of what I call the Writer's Toolbox. The rest of the week was intense--lots of imagery, details to process and analyze, some of the nicest, talented teachers I've ever had the honor to help. They took the concept of the reluctant writer and ran with it, so the week flew by far too quickly. I miss these teachers!
It is Friday evening. My online UVA-Wise CTE class wrapped up today, and every one of my students will finish the work on time. What a relief that is! Imagine me getting on a plane when one student is not finished and needs my help. I'd be so torn, and the dream would transition to a nightmare. But no need to go there since things went smoothly. I got the hard case "InvisiShield" put on the iPad 2 that the McGlothlin Foundation helped me purchase. Do you know I still have to learn how to use all the attachments? I had planned two weekends for learning, and dream things happened. Dad's oxygen levels are low, so my mom is a good bit worried about the trip. Rightly so. But it's all a dream, and when the fog thins or rolls away, all the drama will go with it. I'll either be completely ready or I won't. I will have my mom along or I won't. I will hyperventilate or I won't. I should email Steve Sizemore and let him know he is right about the dreamscape a McGlothlin teacher-scholar walks through. But I'm afraid I'll wake up.
The Healing Powers of Storytelling
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Yesterday, I was all bummed out because I had to let go of my dream to ride on the Scottish steam train that goes from Fort William to Mallaig. I've wanted to ride that train since 1986, so it was a tearful time that made me glad I was home alone.
Today, things brightened up because my friend Donnamarie Emmert, a professional storyteller (yes, you can get a Master's Degree in Storytelling), visited my school for over an hour. She wowed and mesmerized 313 sixth- and seventh-graders with her famous manner of telling yarns and haint tales. It takes a lot of talent for anyone to capture the hearts, minds, and attention spans of children too old to be babied and too young to get too big for their breeches, but Donnamarie managed to do just that and more. She has perfected her craft. She is in her own, and she knows how to share the unique flavor of what is truly Appalachian while she gives of herself. She made me step back from yesterday's upheavals and embrace a special moment in time. Donnamarie was so brilliant that she paled the bright neon cupcakes that were served in the cafeteria to kick-off summer vacation. It was a lovely way to spend some award funds, and I really need to have Donnamarie visit at least once a year. This was a humbling day. A day for my angel babies, who will be leaving me until mid-August.
To view pictures taken while Donnamarie was at Wallace Middle School, look for "Donnamarie Emmert, Storyteller" in the Gallery.
Yesterday, I was all bummed out because I had to let go of my dream to ride on the Scottish steam train that goes from Fort William to Mallaig. I've wanted to ride that train since 1986, so it was a tearful time that made me glad I was home alone.
Today, things brightened up because my friend Donnamarie Emmert, a professional storyteller (yes, you can get a Master's Degree in Storytelling), visited my school for over an hour. She wowed and mesmerized 313 sixth- and seventh-graders with her famous manner of telling yarns and haint tales. It takes a lot of talent for anyone to capture the hearts, minds, and attention spans of children too old to be babied and too young to get too big for their breeches, but Donnamarie managed to do just that and more. She has perfected her craft. She is in her own, and she knows how to share the unique flavor of what is truly Appalachian while she gives of herself. She made me step back from yesterday's upheavals and embrace a special moment in time. Donnamarie was so brilliant that she paled the bright neon cupcakes that were served in the cafeteria to kick-off summer vacation. It was a lovely way to spend some award funds, and I really need to have Donnamarie visit at least once a year. This was a humbling day. A day for my angel babies, who will be leaving me until mid-August.
To view pictures taken while Donnamarie was at Wallace Middle School, look for "Donnamarie Emmert, Storyteller" in the Gallery.
McGlothlin Awards for Teaching Excellence at Radford University
April 12, 2010 Bondurant Auditorium, Preston Hall
I keep thinking my imagination has gone wild. I know I heard my name being called. I know I shook Mr. McGlothlin's hand and spoke to an auditorium full of folks. I know I went to the reception and floated home on a cloud. For the life of me, I am in a fog. I know I forgot to thank my present principal, David Lambert, for all his support this year. I feel understood. I also forgot the name of my community college, my parents, and my husband! Not to mention my daughters! Have to go to work in the morning, so goodnight!
For pictures taken on the campus of Radford University, look for "Pictures of the McGlothlin Awards" in the Gallery.
I keep thinking my imagination has gone wild. I know I heard my name being called. I know I shook Mr. McGlothlin's hand and spoke to an auditorium full of folks. I know I went to the reception and floated home on a cloud. For the life of me, I am in a fog. I know I forgot to thank my present principal, David Lambert, for all his support this year. I feel understood. I also forgot the name of my community college, my parents, and my husband! Not to mention my daughters! Have to go to work in the morning, so goodnight!
For pictures taken on the campus of Radford University, look for "Pictures of the McGlothlin Awards" in the Gallery.
We'll Cross That Bridge When We Come to It!
Saturday, April 9, 2011
It's three days more waiting...and I keep discovering connections to Rudyard Kipling. My mother talked to a relative yesterday who could see the Lorne Lodge (home where Kipling and his sister Alice lived for six years, Southsea, England) from her house. Today, while I was looking for the new box of printer ink, I found a CD with Kipling's recorded voice reading some of his poetry. It sends chills down my spine, and every last hair on my forearms stands at respectful attention to the memory of a generous, retired English teacher who mailed it to me five years ago...someone I have never met.
I keep dreaming of places to visit, keep planning photographic opportunities with my hands squaring the air that is only inches from my face as I try to visualize what Kipling saw when he stood at the pond at The Elms. Did he imagine crocodiles giving elephants noses whilst living in his aunt's home? Did it help him bide his time as he anticipated moving to Bateman's, his newly acquired home in Burwash? Does anyone know which of the Just So Stories was finished at Nalaukha in Vermont and which ones he finished at The Elms? If I run my fingers across the spines of the books that wait for him in his now silent library, will I feel the tingle of words flow from my imagination to the pen or keyboard? Will the smell of ink from his typewriter ribbon take me back to a time of the Great War? To the moment of accepting the first Nobel Prize for Literature for a book that was published first in English? Will holding the actual book he declares in his own hand was written for his daughter Josephine give me a sense of his incurable grief? To sum it all up, will a trip to England to walk where Kipling walked, to write where he wrote, to eat and sleep where he lived his days and nights have an impact on who I am as a person and as a teacher? ABSOLUTELY!
And even as I try desperately to tuck this big dream away, little bits of it spill out...a thought, a snippet of information that shows up randomly in conversations about other things...in innocent musings that emerge from the thick fog of sleep as I ready myself for waking to a job I can't wait to get to each morning. And while I don't care to be away from my classrooms for the weekends, I seem to be in need of this particular weekend to put my dream into some sort of manageable perspective. After all, hoping with all my might that I become the next McGlothlin Teacher Scholar means I am hoping that two very amazing teachers do not. I don't know their dreams. I only know mine. Can their dreams wait two years for another try? Can mine?
The wait. It's most humbling. I know that on Wednesday, I will be in my classroom...business as usual. Life as I already know it will go on, and I will be happy in it because of my students. But what if I am the chosen one? How will life change? How will I go about creating lessons from the adventure of a lifetime, lessons that bring my experiences to my students so that they feel they went with me on this journey? The shadow of a bridge is showing through the fog. What does it hold in store? I want to create a travelogue so all my students can follow along so we can all learn together. Stephen Dedalus of Seamus Heaney's A Portrait of a Young Artist would tell us we have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Rightly so.
It's three days more waiting...and I keep discovering connections to Rudyard Kipling. My mother talked to a relative yesterday who could see the Lorne Lodge (home where Kipling and his sister Alice lived for six years, Southsea, England) from her house. Today, while I was looking for the new box of printer ink, I found a CD with Kipling's recorded voice reading some of his poetry. It sends chills down my spine, and every last hair on my forearms stands at respectful attention to the memory of a generous, retired English teacher who mailed it to me five years ago...someone I have never met.
I keep dreaming of places to visit, keep planning photographic opportunities with my hands squaring the air that is only inches from my face as I try to visualize what Kipling saw when he stood at the pond at The Elms. Did he imagine crocodiles giving elephants noses whilst living in his aunt's home? Did it help him bide his time as he anticipated moving to Bateman's, his newly acquired home in Burwash? Does anyone know which of the Just So Stories was finished at Nalaukha in Vermont and which ones he finished at The Elms? If I run my fingers across the spines of the books that wait for him in his now silent library, will I feel the tingle of words flow from my imagination to the pen or keyboard? Will the smell of ink from his typewriter ribbon take me back to a time of the Great War? To the moment of accepting the first Nobel Prize for Literature for a book that was published first in English? Will holding the actual book he declares in his own hand was written for his daughter Josephine give me a sense of his incurable grief? To sum it all up, will a trip to England to walk where Kipling walked, to write where he wrote, to eat and sleep where he lived his days and nights have an impact on who I am as a person and as a teacher? ABSOLUTELY!
And even as I try desperately to tuck this big dream away, little bits of it spill out...a thought, a snippet of information that shows up randomly in conversations about other things...in innocent musings that emerge from the thick fog of sleep as I ready myself for waking to a job I can't wait to get to each morning. And while I don't care to be away from my classrooms for the weekends, I seem to be in need of this particular weekend to put my dream into some sort of manageable perspective. After all, hoping with all my might that I become the next McGlothlin Teacher Scholar means I am hoping that two very amazing teachers do not. I don't know their dreams. I only know mine. Can their dreams wait two years for another try? Can mine?
The wait. It's most humbling. I know that on Wednesday, I will be in my classroom...business as usual. Life as I already know it will go on, and I will be happy in it because of my students. But what if I am the chosen one? How will life change? How will I go about creating lessons from the adventure of a lifetime, lessons that bring my experiences to my students so that they feel they went with me on this journey? The shadow of a bridge is showing through the fog. What does it hold in store? I want to create a travelogue so all my students can follow along so we can all learn together. Stephen Dedalus of Seamus Heaney's A Portrait of a Young Artist would tell us we have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Rightly so.
So, Just How Did This Whole Thing Start?
Friday, March 25, 2011
When I was seventeen, boyfriend Curt Phillips took me along to his best friend's house. It was a twist of fate that took twenty-three years to come full circle. Neil Raines's dad, Dr. Bob Raines, came home from the school board office to find the three of us sitting at the kitchen table drinking hot tea with cream and sugar--an unusual thing since everyone in the Raines household drank the "American" way. Dr. Raines sat and talked to me for about half an hour while Curt and Neil went down to the basement to look at some stereo equipment. Dr. Bob asked me what career field I was interested in. I mentioned teaching was not a good idea because although I was a strong student, I felt my learning dis/Abilities would keep me from getting a job. He stared hard when I said I thought I could be an excellent secretary and office manager. There was another conversation a week later where Dr. Bob said he had done some checking, and he felt strongly that I would be an excellent teacher, that he had a knack for picking people out. I do believe I rolled my eyes at him. In the end, he slapped his hand on the kitchen table and told me that I was a natural born teacher and didn't have any business doing something else. Now, I know I scoffed at him behind his back. Looking back, I think he noticed.
I went to college for a year and a bit, married Curt (God bless him), got a great clerical job that lead to a secretarial/office manager position that led to an accounting position that led to lots of good income and career opportunities that led to having two children and quitting my fast track career cold turkey. When my oldest daughter EmilySarah entered kindergarten, I entered school with her--with toddler Amanda in tow. When Amanda was two, she started going to school every day while I tutored struggling students four days a week. On days that Nonny Phillips could not keep Amanda for half a day, I took her with me. She toddled around in the school library or sat at the table while I listened to wee ones read to me. By the time EmilySarah was in second grade, Amanda would sit quietly with students in the classroom while I helped with reading and math. I was a free teacher's aide with a three-year old who learned her math facts right along with her sister. I wasn't even aware that she was actually learning math facts until Mrs. Case asked, "What is 7 - 3 + 1?" Amanda answered first--with the right answer! Scary moment! Finally, the day came where both girls were in school at the same elementary school. One day, they both looked at me as I pulled into the parking lot to walk them in. I'll never forget their pained expressions as they asked me not to get out of the car. They needed me to give them some space so they could be normal kids. What did I do? I went to another school and volunteered part time and cut back my teacher's aide hours at their school. For three years, I volunteered at those two schools, got promoted to emptied janitor closets with desks and dry-erase boards. Then the two principals of those schools had me substitute teaching. Tutoring transitioned into being an on-the-spot jack of all trades. I was happy with my tiny world of instruction. One day, principals Juanita Raines (Dr. Bob's wife) and Gary McCool talked to me about going back to school to get my teaching license. I looked into it.
I can remember the day I visited two campuses that took non-traditional students (like me...a middle-aged woman looking for her true identity). The first campus, as soon as my feet hit the pavement, didn't strike me. And in case I didn't get the idea straight off, the admissions person I spoke to tried to encourage me to enroll at their annex because it was designed for "older students." I got in my car and drove to another campus, parked my car, and found a lovely lady in Admissions. Mrs. Lang shook my hand, asked me a few questions. At the mention of Dr. Bob, she picked up the phone and called him. She was all smiles when she told me how to find Dr. Bob's office. I walked up the long brick path to McGlothlin-Street Hall; it was like the yellow brick road--only plain, just waiting for me to paint my own way to success. I knocked on Dr. Bob's door on the third floor. "Well, it took you long enough to take my advice," he greeted. And that is the full circle.
Beginning with the summer 2000 semester, I had to go to Virginia Highland Community College and get all the required transfer credit classes I could squeeze in. Ultimately, I got an AA Degree in Education (and gave one of the commencement addresses at VHCC in May 2002 as the summer graduate representative for 2001). Every professor I had at my local community college had an impact on who I am as a person and as an educator. While I have a deep admiration for the English and History Departments at VHCC, there are others I look back on as make or break. The first is Julie Little. All the biology classes were full, and I had to go begging for a standing-room only spot. I don't know what possessed her to override her roster, but I'm still thankful. She made biology come alive, and I can still hear her comparing and contrasting meiosis and mitosis. Pre-Calculus class could have killed my dream, but Dave Smith is a very patient, kind man who didn't mind explaining and modeling how to solve problems over and over again. Ben Jennings brought a poet by the name of Owens to the college. I didn't like poetry so much, so I listened to this writer read his works THREE times! The next morning, I wrote my first Appalachian culture poem. And then there is Gary Aday, who looked at me one day in class and said that I had to get over my fear of public speaking if I was going to teach. So grateful to him right now! Every time I do a presentation before a few dozen or a few hundred people, I think of him.
I entered Emory & Henry College the fall of 2001. After lots of cautions about working too hard and burning out, I got a work study job in the Neff Center; I got to learn the inner workings of an education department and thoroughly enjoyed working for my professors (including Dr. Bob who would say in his classes that "some of us take longer to learn or listen to advice than others"). There was so much to learn about reading and writing--and then there was the content material in math, science, social sciences, and special education. I teach full inclusion English Language Arts, so my experiences with a class for exceptional children had a lasting effect on my views about diversity and education for all. There were English classes I didn't have time to take, but the ones I took made me stretch and grow, especially the class that undid my preconceived ideas about Irish literature and culture. I wrote my first chap book, and attended many lyceums that have lived on in my lesson plans. In 2003, I graduated with highest honors and got the commencement address speaker (Doug Wilder) to sign my diploma. (His address was on leaving the lucrative, profitable career track to become public servants.)
And then I was a grown-up, a survivor of a crazy mid-life crisis that landed me at Wallace Middle School, where I have been teaching ever since. But that's not the end of the story, is it? I became a member of the Appalachian Writing Project Cohort #4, which gave me insight on how to make writing a seamless act no matter what I was teaching. Perhaps that is where I learned how to craft lessons that motivate people with multiple strategies on near-simultaneous tracks. Soon after that, I went on to get my Master's Degree in Reading at Emory & Henry College in 2007, a valuable experience that has helped to transform how I teach my students. This experience helped me understand the dis/Abilities of others, but it also helped me understand myself. It has taken me since my first teaching day in August 2003 to realize how far I have come, and that with my students, I still have far to go!
When I was seventeen, boyfriend Curt Phillips took me along to his best friend's house. It was a twist of fate that took twenty-three years to come full circle. Neil Raines's dad, Dr. Bob Raines, came home from the school board office to find the three of us sitting at the kitchen table drinking hot tea with cream and sugar--an unusual thing since everyone in the Raines household drank the "American" way. Dr. Raines sat and talked to me for about half an hour while Curt and Neil went down to the basement to look at some stereo equipment. Dr. Bob asked me what career field I was interested in. I mentioned teaching was not a good idea because although I was a strong student, I felt my learning dis/Abilities would keep me from getting a job. He stared hard when I said I thought I could be an excellent secretary and office manager. There was another conversation a week later where Dr. Bob said he had done some checking, and he felt strongly that I would be an excellent teacher, that he had a knack for picking people out. I do believe I rolled my eyes at him. In the end, he slapped his hand on the kitchen table and told me that I was a natural born teacher and didn't have any business doing something else. Now, I know I scoffed at him behind his back. Looking back, I think he noticed.
I went to college for a year and a bit, married Curt (God bless him), got a great clerical job that lead to a secretarial/office manager position that led to an accounting position that led to lots of good income and career opportunities that led to having two children and quitting my fast track career cold turkey. When my oldest daughter EmilySarah entered kindergarten, I entered school with her--with toddler Amanda in tow. When Amanda was two, she started going to school every day while I tutored struggling students four days a week. On days that Nonny Phillips could not keep Amanda for half a day, I took her with me. She toddled around in the school library or sat at the table while I listened to wee ones read to me. By the time EmilySarah was in second grade, Amanda would sit quietly with students in the classroom while I helped with reading and math. I was a free teacher's aide with a three-year old who learned her math facts right along with her sister. I wasn't even aware that she was actually learning math facts until Mrs. Case asked, "What is 7 - 3 + 1?" Amanda answered first--with the right answer! Scary moment! Finally, the day came where both girls were in school at the same elementary school. One day, they both looked at me as I pulled into the parking lot to walk them in. I'll never forget their pained expressions as they asked me not to get out of the car. They needed me to give them some space so they could be normal kids. What did I do? I went to another school and volunteered part time and cut back my teacher's aide hours at their school. For three years, I volunteered at those two schools, got promoted to emptied janitor closets with desks and dry-erase boards. Then the two principals of those schools had me substitute teaching. Tutoring transitioned into being an on-the-spot jack of all trades. I was happy with my tiny world of instruction. One day, principals Juanita Raines (Dr. Bob's wife) and Gary McCool talked to me about going back to school to get my teaching license. I looked into it.
I can remember the day I visited two campuses that took non-traditional students (like me...a middle-aged woman looking for her true identity). The first campus, as soon as my feet hit the pavement, didn't strike me. And in case I didn't get the idea straight off, the admissions person I spoke to tried to encourage me to enroll at their annex because it was designed for "older students." I got in my car and drove to another campus, parked my car, and found a lovely lady in Admissions. Mrs. Lang shook my hand, asked me a few questions. At the mention of Dr. Bob, she picked up the phone and called him. She was all smiles when she told me how to find Dr. Bob's office. I walked up the long brick path to McGlothlin-Street Hall; it was like the yellow brick road--only plain, just waiting for me to paint my own way to success. I knocked on Dr. Bob's door on the third floor. "Well, it took you long enough to take my advice," he greeted. And that is the full circle.
Beginning with the summer 2000 semester, I had to go to Virginia Highland Community College and get all the required transfer credit classes I could squeeze in. Ultimately, I got an AA Degree in Education (and gave one of the commencement addresses at VHCC in May 2002 as the summer graduate representative for 2001). Every professor I had at my local community college had an impact on who I am as a person and as an educator. While I have a deep admiration for the English and History Departments at VHCC, there are others I look back on as make or break. The first is Julie Little. All the biology classes were full, and I had to go begging for a standing-room only spot. I don't know what possessed her to override her roster, but I'm still thankful. She made biology come alive, and I can still hear her comparing and contrasting meiosis and mitosis. Pre-Calculus class could have killed my dream, but Dave Smith is a very patient, kind man who didn't mind explaining and modeling how to solve problems over and over again. Ben Jennings brought a poet by the name of Owens to the college. I didn't like poetry so much, so I listened to this writer read his works THREE times! The next morning, I wrote my first Appalachian culture poem. And then there is Gary Aday, who looked at me one day in class and said that I had to get over my fear of public speaking if I was going to teach. So grateful to him right now! Every time I do a presentation before a few dozen or a few hundred people, I think of him.
I entered Emory & Henry College the fall of 2001. After lots of cautions about working too hard and burning out, I got a work study job in the Neff Center; I got to learn the inner workings of an education department and thoroughly enjoyed working for my professors (including Dr. Bob who would say in his classes that "some of us take longer to learn or listen to advice than others"). There was so much to learn about reading and writing--and then there was the content material in math, science, social sciences, and special education. I teach full inclusion English Language Arts, so my experiences with a class for exceptional children had a lasting effect on my views about diversity and education for all. There were English classes I didn't have time to take, but the ones I took made me stretch and grow, especially the class that undid my preconceived ideas about Irish literature and culture. I wrote my first chap book, and attended many lyceums that have lived on in my lesson plans. In 2003, I graduated with highest honors and got the commencement address speaker (Doug Wilder) to sign my diploma. (His address was on leaving the lucrative, profitable career track to become public servants.)
And then I was a grown-up, a survivor of a crazy mid-life crisis that landed me at Wallace Middle School, where I have been teaching ever since. But that's not the end of the story, is it? I became a member of the Appalachian Writing Project Cohort #4, which gave me insight on how to make writing a seamless act no matter what I was teaching. Perhaps that is where I learned how to craft lessons that motivate people with multiple strategies on near-simultaneous tracks. Soon after that, I went on to get my Master's Degree in Reading at Emory & Henry College in 2007, a valuable experience that has helped to transform how I teach my students. This experience helped me understand the dis/Abilities of others, but it also helped me understand myself. It has taken me since my first teaching day in August 2003 to realize how far I have come, and that with my students, I still have far to go!