Remember

London is filled with memorials.  I've always found memorials to be fascinating.  I wanted to know more about the people memorialized, the soldiers and statesmen, the volunteers and those who sacrificed bravely or not so bravely (yet they still sacrificed).

I feel the same way about cemeteries and graveyards as I do about memorials.  It seems so sad that a block of stone or a chunk of metal may be all that is left to remember someone or their deeds by and yet, someone thought enough of them to erect something to remember them by. And I wonder, who were they?  What did they accomplish? What were their lives like? How did they die? And, finally, how will I be remembered?

Memorials seem to mean more in the hazy light of dusk or the dim light of dawn.  I remember visiting the memorial for the 26 Martyrs of Nagasaki in early evening.  I was in awe of what the martyrs had done and it's easy enough to say, "Oh, I would have done the same thing." But there is no way to know that for sure and I pray I am never tested in such a way. 

It was incredibly peaceful and quiet.  The tourists were gone for the day.  I remember sitting in front of the memorial with a couple of classmates.  We had slipped away in our free time and, on a whim, had made for the memorial.  Our whole class was to visit the next day but we wanted to go right then and I'm so glad we did.   When we went back the next day, the reflective spell had been broken, the light too bright, the people too noisy.

My time in London was short and I passed by most of the memorials on my way somewhere else like the Churchill War Rooms and the National Gallery, where the few are immortalized, pausing only to snap a photo and wonder very briefly about the many being remembered in a broader way.  I want to go back to London someday and spend my early evenings, wandering some of the memorials.  As the light dims, I want to run my fingers over the names of places from whence came brave and scared men and women and remember them.

This year, the last known WWI veteran died in England.  The Great War was to be the last war yet we are still fighting.  We have yet to learn from history, yet to learn from our mistakes.  Sometimes I wonder, have we forgotten? Have our memorials become so much scenery?  It is too easy to pass by on our way somewhere else and not remember.

 Election Day is tomorrow and Veterans/Armistice Day is in a week. I may not always have the highest regard for those in charge of our country or those who want to be in charge and I am certainly glad I do not have to fight for my country.  But others have fought for my freedom, men and women, and it is only right that I take a little time out of my day to remember them and utilize the rights I've been given.

So, today, I voted. And I think, next week, when the light is dimming, you'll find me up at Washington Park, walking one of the memorials, running my fingers over names of those who are gone but not forgotten.  They never will be forgotten if we will only take the time to remember.

A Day of Rest

Early morning in Hyde Park

I was reminded recently that I haven’t posted here for a while and that I have not finished posting about my London adventure.  All I can say is, Easter happened and then it got busy at work.  Enough excuses, on with the tale.

Several years ago, I went to Italy and toured cathedrals and basilicas.  I remember walking through St. Peter's, marveling at the vast space and feeling... nothing.  The next day, I dragged my traveling companion across Rome to St. Maria della Vittorio to see the Bernini "Ecstasy of St. Theresa."  The church was situated on a very noisy square, with construction all around, yet, when we walked in, it was quiet and meditative. All that could be heard were gentle whispers and hushed footsteps.   It was a sacred space and rather than walk around as tourists, we chose to sit quietly as penitents and worship.  I realized I “got” more out of the experience when I approached the cathedrals and churches as intended, not as museums but as a houses of worship and prayer.

Guarding the City

So, when I traveled to London, I was determined to go to church when I got there, again, not as just another tourist.  I had lists of every church’s services.  Evensong, morning prayer, Eucharist, I wanted to do it all but settled on going to mattins and Evensong at St. Paul’s and an Advent Carol service at St. Bride’s.  I was told, by those who know, that the choir at St. Bride’s is excellent so I really wanted to hear them.

The day started, yet again, with a lovely jaunt through Hyde Park.  Have I mentioned how much I loved Hyde Park?  There were few people about, just some joggers and dog-walkers.  Though the sky had been cloudy when I woke up, the air was crisp and clear as I started out, the sun was shining, it was an absolutely gorgeous start to the day.  I decided to walk along Oxford Street on my way to Fleet Street which would get me to St. Paul’s for church.  This took me past several Wren churches, Twinings (meant to go there but ran out of time) and the Royal Courts of Justice.  I arrived to late for mattins and too early for Eucharist, so I haunted the back streets of the City for a while, following the footsteps of Shakespeare and searching out Samuel Johnson's house.  It being Sunday, most everything in the City was closed (in fact, later in the day, I made my one and only visit to a McDonald's to use the bathroom; it was the only thing open), but I got to see Johnson's cat, well, at least the cat's statue.

The estimable Hodge

As I look back on my trip, it seems I spent a lot of time walking, rather than seeing "sights."  But I feel I saw plenty.  Maybe not as many museums and exhibits as I hoped, although I managed to cram quite a bit into my short stay, but I still managed to see many things.  Like street signs that tickled my fancy (Knightrider Court, anyone? How about Sermon Lane?), a statue of a cat, tea shops and pubs older than the US.  I went to a Eucharist service and heard the Stravinsky Mass, sat under the dome of St. Paul's and listened to Evensong.  If I had more time, perhaps I would have gone back to "see" the traditional sights, climb to the Golden Gallery, maybe take the full tour of St. Paul's or explore Johnson's house.  I certainly want to go back and hear the choir at St. Bride's.  You see, in all of my to-and-fro-ing, I got the times mixed up for the Advent service at St. Brides's. 

Thinking it started at 6:30, I enjoyed a leisurely dinner and scrumpy cider at a pub, watching some football (the real kind), only to get to the church and realize I was half an hour too late.  Dashed to St. Paul's to see if I could still get in for their 6:00 Advent service but the doors were closed.  For a few seconds, I couldn't decide if I should go across London Bridge to Southwark or back down Fleet Street for St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  St. Martin's won out and with only about twenty minutes to spare, I started sprinting back towards Trafalgar Square.   Now, I realize, I had just completed a marathon the month before, so I was still in some semblance of running shape but running in boots, wearing a sweater and coat, with a bag is a very different thing from running with proper shoes and running attire. 

It was a day of spiritual rest but not necessarily one of physical rest.

The day ended with more Apple Crumble in the crypt of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Seriously addicted.

Never Never Land

Lichen on iron railings in Kensington Gardens

"I have a place where dreams are born and time is never planned.  It's not on any chart, you must find it in your heart... Never Never Land." ~ Peter Pan (the musical).

Half-way through my trip to England, I spent a leisurely day, walking through Kensington Gardens and perusing some of the galleries at the Victoria and Albert.

I had a lot planned for the day.  The morning was to be spent at the Victoria and Albert Museum (art and craft and fashion, oh my) and then a stop at the Science and the Natural History Museums across the road.  However, forces conspired to alter my plan, including but not limited to my own body and the batteries in my camera.

First alteration to my plans: I slept in.

Really, I can't blame my body for rebelling that way.  I was on vacation, after all, and so far, the latest I had awoken was before 7 am.  All those early flights and early sunrises were taking their toll. So, I didn't really begrudge the sleep.  Obviously, I needed it but the extra sleep pushed back the day.  Cross the Natural History Museum off my list.

Can you hear him playing?

Second alteration to my plans: Peter Pan and the fairies of Kensington Gardens.

I adore Hyde Park and the Kensington Gardens.  Right now, if you were to ask me where I wanted to live, if I could live anywhere in the world, I would say across the street from the gardens.  Imagine living on one side and working on the other.  Who needs a car when your commute could be a 15 minute walk through such a lovely park? And, they have an allotment (community garden to Americans).  Seriously, plant me there now.

The last time I had walked south through the park, I had walked on the Hyde Park side of the Long Water and the Serpentine, enjoying the sounds of Bing Crosby wafting from various game and craft booths.  On this day, I strolled along the Kensington Gardens side.  It was a much quieter walk and along the way, I found Peter Pan, playing his flute, with rabbits and squirrels gamboling at his feet.

 I must confess, I generally do not like squirrels (I have some living currently in my living room wall... ick!) but these bronze squirrels were actually quite cute and whimsical.  I spent quite of bit of time, walking around the statue, trying not to get into other people's photos.  Finally, after remembering I was planning on doing other things that day besides sit at Peter's feet, I tripped along my merry way to the museums, only to have my interest drawn in another direction.

I blame the fairies of the gardens.  Because of them, I saw magic in everything.  Another pedestrian became a modern goose girl, with her avian court hanging on her every word (all right, maybe they were just hoping for crumbs).  A gnarled, worn tree became a fairy hide-out.  My way led me under the Carriage Drive, through a tunnel.  What secrets lay on the other side?

 At the Serpentine Gallery, I turned right, enticed by leaf-strewn walkways and lichen-covered railings.  In the distance, I could see the spiky outline of the Albert Memorial.  I did not find it to  particularly beautiful, especially from a distance but it intrigued me.  And I'm glad I sought it out because I found these:

Bison!

Watch out, he spits!

That ain't no clay pigeon up there.

The memorial is surrounded by a gilded railing and at each corner of the railing, stood a set of statues representing a continent (America, Africa, Asia and Europe).  Although I can't find anything specific relating why these particular continents are represented, I'm assuming they refer to the continents where the English empire extended.

All very serious and noble, I'm sure, a worthy memorial to a man who devoted himself to the arts and his people.  Exquisite carving as well.  Yet, the sight of a carved bison, elephant, a bull and a camel were enough to get me giggling.  It's those fairies, I'm telling you.

I ate my lunch, sitting on the steps south of the memorial.  My whole morning was now gone.  Scratch the Science Museum off the list.  That left the Victoria and Albert Museum and, as that museum was one of my must-sees for London, I wasn't going to be deterred.  I took one last walk around the Memorial and found one last gift from the fairies.

A single golden leaf, blown against the railing.

 I finally continued on, past the Royal Geological Society where I met Dr. Livingstone (in statue form) to the V&A.  My initial visit (yes, I went more than once and I'll explain why in just a second) was slightly confusing.  My Rick Steves guide didn't quite match up with the V&A map as several galleries were being refurbished behind "hoardings."  What a wonderful way to describe the walls that hid the unfinished galleries.  I felt if I could just find a keyhole to peek through, I would find treasure beyond my imaginings, like a dragon's hoard.

One last bit of whimsy, a Chihuly chandelier at the V&A

The V&A can be overwhelming; I think I read somewhere that it has over 12 miles worth of corridors.  You certainly can't see it all in one day and appreciate it all.  I was going to try but then the third and final alteration to my plans:

My camera ran out of batteries.

After documenting what I could and trying to resurrect my tired camera, I left the V&A and strolled back home, through that wonderful park again.  It's even more magical as the sun goes down; you can almost hear the fairies flying through the air.

I started the day with my time planned and it slipped away from me, in the best possible way.  I spent the day dreaming and living in my own kind of Never Never Land.

An Atypical Tourist

Matilda, based on the book by Roald Dahl

I love to travel and I love to do the touristy things but what I really love is getting off the beaten path and doing non-touristy things.  Which is why, on my first full day in London, I was taking the Tube out to Leytonstone for a voice lesson with Jane Streeton.  Who goes to another country for a voice lesson?  I do, apparently.

And it was on Jane's recommendation that I bought a ticket for a West End musical, "Matilda."  West End musicals, those are typical for tourists in London, yes?  Of course, part of what really excited me about going was that the theatre was at the Seven Dials.  What's the Seven Dials, you ask?  It's an intersection of seven streets and the reason I wanted to see it was that the area was mentioned in an Agatha Christie mystery (I have a little bit of a thing with Agatha Christie mysteries; as a teenager, I collected them and I still have quite a few).

The Seven Dials

 

 

Apparently, I'm also the kind of tourist who will seek out a location mentioned in a book, even if there is nothing else to recommend the location.  No historical fact, no great happening.  It was in a book, that's good enough for me.  When I was still in Bath, I reveled in walking down streets that had been mentioned in an Austen novel.  Milsom Street, Westgate Buildings; part of the reason I chose my hotel was because it was off of Laura Place.  Later in my stay in London, I sought out Gracechurch Street and Cheapside, because Elizabeth Bennet's aunt and uncle had lived there.  I like knowing that these places existed and are real.  It makes the stories and novels seem true, as if they really happened or, at least, could have happened.

Even Matilda could not escape this peculiar facet of my tourist persona.  Sure, I heard about it from Jane (Streeton, not Austen) and she recommended it based on the press reviews, but the other reason I was excited to see it (aside from the theatre being in the Seven Dials) was that it was based on one of my favorite childhood books, "Matilda" by Roald Dahl.  If you haven't guessed by now, I'm a bit of a bookworm.

The Borough Market

Well, after my waxing eloquent on literary locations, I'm almost rather embarrassed to say, later that day, I went to the Borough Market in Southwark 'cause I saw it on TV, well, Netflix.  Yep, it's mentioned several times on a Jamie Oliver show and since I like farmers markets and buying locally, I felt I just had to check it out.  It was bustling and lovely and I wish I could go every week.  I actually spent an inordinate amount of time in the Market, trying to get my bearings.  I kept getting turned around and coming out of where I didn't want to be.  Looking back on it, it was a little like The Maze (another book!), except with food.

Speaking of food, I found the best pie stall (http://www.pieminister.co.uk/) and the cutest, most delicious shortbread owls you have ever eaten.  Mmmm... so tasty!  I think I need to start making pot pies at home.  Especially if I can recreate the Heidi (goat cheese, spinach and sweet potato); I definitely want a copy of their cookbook.  Both of the stalls sell online and deliver but not overseas (pout), unless you are David Beckham, in which case, Pieminister will deliver to the US (then again, if you are David Beckham, you can pretty much get anything you want, anywhere you want).  There was also a nice little stall selling chai tea but I can't remember the stall's name.  It might have something to do with my spilling my chai all over their table and, after helping them clean it up, fleeing in embarrassment.  Or not.

Southwark Cathedral

Before I left Southwark, I spent some time at the Southwark Cathedral, first sitting outside, listening to the bells peal, and then stepping inside the cathedral for a quick walk around the sanctuary.  Incidentally, Southwark Cathedral, though not mentioned in any book I've read, still has numerous literary connections, associated with Chaucer, Dickens, Jonson, Harvard and Shakespeare, to name a few.

It's not an optical illusion - the church is crooked.

Southwark Cathedral was the first church I visited in England.  A graduation ceremony had just ended so the sanctuary was filled with chairs and people lingered here and there, chatting, taking photos.  I did my best not to get in anyone's way, while taking a few photos of my own.  The cathedral has a unique feature.  Most churches and cathedrals built with a traditional or medieval floor plan, are built in the shape of a cross with the entrance at or near the base of the cross.  Though Southwark also follows this model, the cathedral is slightly crooked.  When you stand in the nave, looking towards the altar, or along one of the side aisles, you can clearly see the sanctuary turning ever so slightly to your left.  It's not a mistake, the building hasn't settled and although it was heavily damaged in the Blitz, that's not the reason either.  No, the building was deliberately built crooked to remind us of Christ's body, broken on the cross.  To me, this is yet one more example of how cathedral and church architecture was used to aid worship.  I know any place can be a sacred space but there is something about the lofty space of a well-built cathedral, the arches drawing my eyes up, the very shape of the space, that seems to speak to my soul.

And so it was, after taking a moment to pray and light a candle, that I left the cathedral feeling refreshed after my long day traversing London and went home, to feed my soul in another way.

 I ate my Heidi pie.

My first view of St. Paul's, across the river from Southwark.

An American Thanksgiving in England

I celebrated American Thanksgiving last November by eating a full English breakfast.  I even ate some of the mushrooms.  My family will know how amazing it was that I even let a mushroom touch my lips (the mushrooms were somewhere between meh and all right; I still don't really care for them).

On the train to London

After breakfast, I packed my bags, did some last-minute wandering and shopping (souvenirs and Christmas; killed two birds with one stone) and hopped on a train bound for Paddington Station.  My time in Bath had been refreshing, a good stop-over as I acclimated to the time and vacation mind-set.  I look forward to going back and maybe spending a few days in the archives at the Fashion Museum or taking a picnic lunch on the full Skyline walk.  I'd be happy just to wander the streets again.

But, onward to London!  I had booked a "cheap and cheerful" (translation: budget) studio flat just north of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park.  The flat was located on the fourth floor of a rather ugly modern building with a narrow closet of a lift.  I have vague memories of getting momentarily stuck in a lift the same size while in Rome.  I chose to take the stairs.   Besides, since I didn't bring my running gear, I had to get my exercise in somehow.

The flat itself was cozy and simply decorated.  There was a kitchenette if I wanted to make my own meals although I'll admit, other than cheese sandwiches for picnic lunches and cereal in the mornings, I didn't do any cooking.  The bathroom was small but not as small as some I've seen and it had a nice deep tub.  All in all, the flat was nice enough that I was comfortable and felt safe on my own but not so nice that I felt obligated to spend more time in the flat to get my money's worth.

Passing under the Carriage Drive
on the Hyde Park side.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived but at that latitude, the sun was already low in the sky.  I had nothing planned for the evening so I just decided to go for a stroll through the Park and see where my feet led me.  They led me through Hyde Park, under the Carriage Drive, along the Long Water, with ducks and geese and swans and birds I don't know the names of galore.  I walked through the Winter Wonderland fair (heard a lot of Bing Crosby crooning over crowds) and past a beautiful steam engine on display.

My family has a thing for trains and though I may not know all the details about how a steam engine works, I still find them beautiful.  So, when I saw this beauty, I took a couple of pictures.  I didn't know why it was on display, if it was a permanent exhibit or part of the Winter Wonderland.  It was my dad who actually Googled the engine number later and found that it had a long history, built in the 1930s but gained stardom in the last decade as none other than the "Hogwarts Express".  That's right, even without meaning to, I visited a Harry Potter artifact.  I only wish that I had known what it was at the time. 

All aboard the Hogwarts Express!

By the time I exited the Park, the sun had set and  it was beginning to get dark.  My feet continued down Constitution Hill, past Buckingham Palace (hello, your majesty) and onward to Westminster and that iconic landmark, Big Ben.

Not the clock,
Nor the tower,
But the bell that tolls the hour.

Standing on Westminster Bridge

So the rhyme goes.  I didn't hear it toll that night as I was getting hungry (a full English breakfast will last you a long time but eventually, you do get hungry again) and I didn't stick around long enough to hear the bell toll.  I did mug for my camera in front of the famed clock tower and was asked to take someone's photo with their camera.  I chickened out on asking anyone to take mine.  Good thing I have long arms; I ended up taking most of my pictures of me myself.  I really need to work on that whole asking thing for my next trip.

I followed Whitehall to Trafalgar Square with the idea of finding someplace to eat.  I settled on the Cafe in the Crypt at St. Martin in the Fields where I had more non-traditional Thanksgiving fare in a very non-traditional setting.   Porkchops and veggies, cream of broccoli soup and apple crumble with custard (Porkchops, huh?), eaten over someone's gravestone.  It's not called Cafe in the Crypt for nothing. 

Have to say, it was both cool and disconcerting.  I felt disrespectful scooting my chair in as it scraped across a stone set in the floor (pardon me, so-and-so, didn't see your gravestone there).  At the same time, it intrigued me and I wondered about the nameless people (the names and dates were almost completely illegible due to time and wear) who were buried below me.  I wondered what their stories were; this was the closest thing to a monument they got.  It's a puzzlement.

OK, off-topic confession: I seriously fell in love with the apple crumble and custard.  More than once, I went to the Cafe during the week, just to have the custard.  Don't ask me why; I wouldn't be able to tell you.  Something about the sweet custardy-goodness over crispy crumbley crust and apples... yum.

Not a bad view, even if it was a choral concert
 and not an organ recital.

As I had entered the Cafe, I had seen adverts for a performance for that evening of Mozart's Requiem at St. Martin in the Fields and after stuffing myself silly, I went to the ticket counter to inquire about tickets.  They still had tickets available, though only for seats with obstructed views and/or no views.  My response? I don't need to see as long as I can hear.  And boy, did I hear.  It was a perfect way to end my first night in London, listening to the beautiful choral strains of Mozart.

A Year Later

It's been a year since Northern Japan was struck with one of the largest earthquakes ever recorded.  It's been a year since a devastating tsunami swept inland and wiped towns and villages off the map.  It's been a year since the Fukushima Dai-Ichi nuclear plant went into melt-down and sparked the worst nuclear disaster in history.

I remember watching video after video last year, unable to turn away, my heart in my throat.  I remember thinking, it all looked so unreal.  We watch movies and marvel at special effects that look real; here I was, watching something so horrifyingly real, I couldn't comprehend.

Watching the videos of the tsunami last year, I was struck, not only by the horrific scenes being carried out before my eyes, but also the sounds.  Cars scraping and crunching together; houses and buildings sliding away and the constant sound of rushing, black water.  I had never imagined the sounds that would accompany such destruction.  These were not videos shot from a safe distance, high above; these were in the thick of it, to the point that you wondered how the person filming it even survived and you watched, worrying that the witness would get swept away.

The images that followed, the mountains of debris, the crumpled houses, the boats left on dry land or even on top of buildings defied belief.  I got constant email and Facebook updates from friends and family in Japan, describing in chilling detail how awful it was and yet saying that it was even worse, that it couldn't be described, it had to be seen to believed.  Well, we did see and we still couldn't believe.  We saw an apocalyptic landscape beyond anything anyone could have imagined and we couldn't comprehend.

In recent days, newspapers have been publishing photos showing how far the clean-up has come.  The more recent photos of cleaned up areas only seem to emphasize how total, how complete, the destruction was.  What had once been neighborhoods, with tidy houses and postage-sized gardens, you first saw piles of debris filling the screen; the next shot, the debris cleared, you could see for miles, as if the neighborhoods had never been.

There were scenes of hope as well.  A woman, looking dazed and shell-shocked in one photo, reunited with her little boy in another.  A road, sunken and broken, remade.  Children going back to school.  There are signs of life, signs of rebuilding, but they are small and quiet.

Silence, where once there was sound, is deafening.  Vast space, where once there was life, is crushing.  I imagine the silent emptiness and my heart still breaks for this country and its people.  I dream of seeing Japan rebuilt and thriving again but, like so many of those who are still living this triple-disaster, I wonder how long it will take.  The only thing I know for sure, it may take longer than the world is willing to remember but, I can promise the people of Japan, some of us will never, ever forget.

My thoughts and prayers will always be with you, people of Tohoku.  I believe you will prevail.  Ganbare!

P.S. I'm still making pins in support of the rebuilding efforts in Japan.  If you would like a pin, please click on the link below to donate to MercyCorps.

https://www.mercycorps.org/fundraising/lynelletarter

ありがとうございます。(Thank you very much).

Finishing Bath - Day 3, part 2

Bath was my "pillow" city, the place where I got my bearings as I adjusted to the time difference.  My long walk on the Skyline Path the day before meant I missed breakfast at the hotel.  Instead, I had breakfast at a lovely little cafe, tucked underneath the Pulteney Bridge, down the stairs I had explored my first night, and spent the rest of the day basking in the beauty of Bath and enjoying the excellent Fashion Museum.  I spent nearly as much time in the gift shop as I did in the museum, trying to restrain myself from buying the entire shop (I was good, I only bought two books).

The Assembly Rooms (current home of the Fashion Museum)

For a few minutes, while I poked my head in the Assembly Rooms above the Fashion Museum, I imagined ladies dressed in long white gowns (for white muslin was the thing in Jane's time) and men in evening dress, everything all politeness.  But it was too nice a day to stay indoors and I followed my feet back outside to wander some more.

For most of the day, I just wandered.  It was relaxing to have no plans, no schedule to keep, no work to do.  My autumn was a stressful one, filled with lots of things, constantly going from one thing to the next.  This was my chance to just be and I grabbed it with both hands.

The elegant facade of the Royal Circus...

 I ambled through the Circus and around the Royal Crescent.  The Royal Crescent makes me think of Jane Austen novels.  The Crescent was never mentioned in any of her novels, as near as I can tell, but the idea of them seems the epitome of a Jane Austen novel.  So elegant, genteel and refined on the face of it, with class and breeding on display.  All the while, what lies behind is cluttered, angles and rooms and walls going every which way.  Looking at the Crescent from behind, I was struck by how gossipy it looked, as if an elegant lady was hiding her giggles behind her hand or fan.

... the less elegant, but just as interesting, rear.

For the rest of my trip, I found myself fascinated with the "behind" as well as the "front".  Oh, as an aside, that was my one complaint with the Fashion Museum.  Too often, the aspect or detail of a garment that intrigued me was the part that was hidden from view.  I have to get back there and actually book a study table so I can really examine the beautiful garments they have.

Finally, I ended my day with tea at the Regency Tea Room.  Located above the Jane Austen Center, the tea room was the perfect ending to a lovely day.  A couple of scones, some rhubarb-ginger jam, a cup of tea and...

... Colin Firth.

Following the Breezy Call - Day Three

"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers..." ~Thomas Gray

I had little planned for my time in Bath.  Sure, as a Jane Austen fan, I could go to the Jane Austen Center but I'm also a Rick Steves fan and his book didn't rate the Jane Austen Center as a must see.  Anyway, I'd heard or read that Jane didn't particularly liked Bath so I wasn't really there for her.

Now, a friend who has been to Bath (and knows me really well) did recommend the Fashion Museum and that I did see.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I found a unique benefit to traveling to England in November.  Sure, the daylight hours are more limited but that also means, you don't have to get up before 5 am to watch the sun rise.  And watching the sun rise over the "antique towers" of Bath (yes, I know Gray was talking about Eton College but I think the terms apply here) was amazing.

I woke about 6:30 and slipped out of the hotel a little after 7.  Before I left the States, I had thoughts of running while on vacation.  Sadly, my running gear didn't fit in my suitcase (I was determined to stick to carry-on size) but I had done some research into where I would have run and in my research, I found something called the Bath Skyline Walk.

The Bath Skyline Walk is a walk of about 6 miles that meanders across various fields, by-ways and hidden places.  It shows you expansive views of Bath and narrow paths.  You'll be joined by locals, walking their dogs, and, maybe even a cow or two (make sure you wear boots, I was really glad I did).

I wanted to get back to the hotel in time for breakfast so I chose to follow the shorter route 3 milr route as opposed to the longer 6 mile route.  It took a little bit of switching back and forth between GoogleMaps and the National Trust map of the walk to get my bearings but just when I was about to despair that I wouldn't find the the trail, there it was.  A tiny little National Trust plaque with an equally small arrow by a kissing gate on Bathwick Hill, just opposite Cleveland Walk.  Now secure, I made my way through the gate.  And found two different paths going in slightly different directions.

I chose the path that seemed to go in the direction I wanted; I needn't have worried.  The paths converged at the next gate.  The path then led through several fields and gates, each with its own view of Bath glowing in the rising sun, its own view of neon pink clouds set against a slowly brightening violet sky.  I found a small farmhouse tucked away in a narrow little valley, never mind that it's on the map.  I still feel as if I discovered it.

I kept my eyes open wide so as to see anything and everything.  I took pictures left and right, up and down.  Whatever caught my eye, I captured, as a photograph, as a memory, no matter if it was lofty or ordinary.  It all seemed extraordinary to me.  A bright red mailbox, set in stone.  The engineering required to build a stone wall with no mortar.  Cables radiating from a pole, against a crystal blue sky.  It was all beautiful to me.

Once past the fields and downs, I was joined by commuters and school children on the paths.  Can't say I would mind walking that route to work everyday.  The path led to narrow backstreets and then I walked past the University and the golf club.

There I found the last main sight on the Skyline walk before descending back into Bath, Sham Castle.  Sham Castle is literally a fake castle, a folly.  And folly is the perfect word to describe Sham Castle.  A single turreted wall, set in a field, reportedly built to "improve the prospect" of a wealthy Bath homeowner.  It just seemed silly.

However, as I stood there, looking at this wall, in a field, no real castle to be seen, I was struck by a sense of whimsy.  The sun seemed to be shining on one side of the wall but not on the other.  The grass really seemed to glow a brighter green on the other side.  It made me think of Narnia and all the gates to other worlds that existed in the Narnia books and for a second, I wondered a couple of things.

One, did C. S. Lewis ever walk the Skyline path?

Two, what would happen if I walked through the gate?  Would I still be in Bath?  Or would I be transported to another, magical world?  Or even worse, what if I wasn't and the magic spell was broken?

I chose not to break the spell, I didn't want to lose the magic.  Besides, I had already walked through the magical door, that morning when I followed "the breezy call of incense-breathing morn, the swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed" (Thomas Gray, Elegy) and found myself tracing steps that dreamers have followed for years.

I Am Arrived in Bath - Day Two

Almost there!

I arrived in Bath, bleary-eyed after the long flight from Vancouver and additional three hour bus ride from Heathrow.  I slept most of the bus ride dozing but each time I woke, I almost had to pinch myself to believe I was actually in England.  The bus made its way southwest from Heathrow through Reading, stopping in Cirencester and Chippingham but always returning to rolling hills, low hedgerows and the occasional country village and, finally, swooping down Bathwick Hill into Bath.

There is something about Bath.  Something beautiful and refined.  I gloried in it as I strolled down Pierrepont Street and across the Pulteney Bridge.  Despite the cars, buses and lorries careening down the narrow streets, there is a feeling of Georgian elegance that permeates everything.  It is a beautiful city, with a warren of streets of warm, golden-stoned buildings.  My hotel, the Kennard, was located in the middle of such a street off Laura Place (where Lady Dalrymple and the Honorable Miss Carteret of Persuasion stayed).

The first night in a trip like this is always best spent acclimatizing yourself to the time.  I like to take a stroll, find some food and generally just keep moving before I crash into a jet-lagged coma.  It's also a great way to get the general feel for an area as well.  As the city quieted down, I meandered side streets and squares and ended my early evening with that most English of customs, tea.  My first tea was a light Darjeeling with a Sally Lunn bun and homemade ginger butter.  The bun was toasted and similar in taste to brioche or shokupan; it was the ginger butter that made it fabulous.  Ginger butter is now on my list of things I want to keep in my life.


On my way back to the hotel, I passed a little staircase leading under a building.  Though still early in the evening, the sun had completely set and it was dark.  Still, I wanted to explore and I was determined on this trip to explore everything that interested and intrigued me.  So, despite the creepiness or maybe because of it, down the staircase I went and discovered a riverside walk that gave me a unique view of the Pulteney Bridge.

Guildhall and Pulteney Bridge from across the Avon.

Hidden byways can lead to magic places.

Once back at my hotel, I enjoyed another English custom via the telly...

Eastenders.

In Transit - Day One

Library Square, Vancouver, BC

Portland to England by way of Vancouver, BC.  I don't make it easy on myself but that was the cheapest flight option when I booked my flights back in February.  I didn't mind; I like Vancouver.  I even chose the longer layover so I could leave the airport and roam a bit.  I thought to go to the Capilano Suspension Bridge for the day.  And, as an added benefit, spending the day roaming Vancouver meant that I might just be able to sleep on the plane.  I love flying but I have to be dead tired to sleep on a plane.

I did actually sleep on the plane a bit; I had stayed up rather late... ok, I'll admit it, I never went to bed that night.  I was trying to finish items that I wanted to take with me, namely a winter coat (it's still draped on my dress form, lining-less) and my Londinium sweater.  I was done knitting Londinium, it just needed to be blocked and buttons sewn on.

Actually, I tried blocking it Saturday night but it was still damp over 24 hours later.  It was taking forever.  I finally unpinned it and tossed it in the dryer (I know, I know, I can hear your gasps from here) on air only, no heat; I had briefly entertained thoughts of putting it in the oven but after the Yarn Harlot's trials with that method (part of her sweater got singed), I was not about to risk it.  Well, the sweater felted a bit in the dryer and shrunk a little but I rescued it before it got too bad.  Unfortunately, it was still damp so I took the unfinished coat off of the dress form and draped the sweater on the dress form and ran for my hair dryer.

I then got a case of the giggles as I stood there, bleary-eyed, "hair-drying" my sweater.  It was was just before my giggles graduated from giggles to full-on maniacal, sleep-deprived laughter, that my cab arrived.  I grabbed my suitcase, my carry-on, the drier but still damp sweater and my "Burberry" raincoat and ran out the door. (Aside: my "Burberry" raincoat is a coat of my design using Burberry material obtained at my last job at the fabric store.  I also have an "Armani" skirt and my new winter coat is a "DKNY" coat.)

The flight from Portland to Vancouver is brief.  You barely have time to get settled in and the "fasten seat-belt" sign is on again.  If you sleep on the plane, the time goes even faster.  I watched the lights of Vancouver, WA as we took off, looked away for a second (fell asleep), and there we were descending into Vancouver, BC.

Because I was leaving the airport, I had to go through immigration in Vancouver.  The immigration official peppered me with questions.  How long would I be in Canada? (One day.) What was I doing in Canada? (In transit, on vacation.)  Where was I flying from? (Portland, OR.)  Where was my final destination? (London.) Why was I flying through Canada? (Air Canada had the cheapest flights).  What did I do in Portland? (I worked for a financial company.) Doing what?

At this point, I was getting a little fed up.  I've traveled many times, to many places and I've never gotten the grilling he was giving me, even in Manila which had the strictest security I had ever seen.  He finally let me through but I couldn't figure out why I had gotten to play 20 Questions with Immigration.  It was only after talking it over with my brother later that I realized, my itinerary, which had seemed the epitome of common sense to me, was actually a red flag to immigration officials leery of possible drug smuggling.  What I saw as a great chance to spend a day exploring a lovely city, he saw as a chance to drop off illicit substances while "in transit."

All I had to do was go from the "i" to the 3.

Guess I'm not as innocent looking as I thought.  And my run in with immigration was just the beginning.

You see, my day in Vancouver didn't go as planned.  It took me a while to get my train ticket and batteries for my camera (I think I walked the length of the concourse at least five times) and ride the train downtown.  Once downtown, I set off in search of Canada Place (# 3 on the map to the right) so I could ride the shuttle to Capilano.  Silly me, though, I did not consult the map when I got off the train and I walked in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go.  Even my many stops at Starbucks (there was, literally, one on every block) to use the free WiFi could not put me straight.  Nor could I figure out Vancouver's bus system.   I walked by Library Square (#7) a lot (see photo above).  After wandering the downtown core for an hour or so, I admitted defeat, gave up my title of Queen of Public Transit, declared it an almost tapioca day and went to lunch.

Chicken with sauteed gnocchi and pancetta with lemon sage sauce.

I then had a very stern talk with myself, determined that I would find the good in the day.  Nothing terrible happened, just some minor inconveniences.  I was on my way to London.  I didn't go to Capilano but I got to know downtown Vancouver better.  Got to go to a nice bookstore (and missed most of the quick torrential rain while in said bookstore), had an excellent lunch.  The prosecco cocktail helped improve my mood as well.  Also the following entry from my journal:

"Trippy moment, sitting in an Italian cafe in Vancouver and hearing Kiyoshi kono yoru (Silent Night in Japanese).  I love traveling."

And, it's true.  I love traveling, even when things don't go just right, I love traveling. But I did learn my lesson.  If you want to wander, by all means wander.  If you want to go somewhere specific, check the map before you get lost.  It will go a lot easier on you.