Unroyal, But No Less Fairytale
Annie and I, who share the same birthday (nothing like instant friendship over a date), spent the first two coach hours discussing our romantic entanglements. She also suggested I change my accomadations to put a bunk bed in my little cupboard above the stairs, herself being the bunk mate. As fun as it would be, I don't know if Sister Seely is too hip on the idea.
Our first stop was a little place called Bodiam Castle, owned by the Bodehams back during the 1300s. They're not actually royal--the castle was given to them to ward off invasions from the north. The profs tried to convince us that alligators still live in the moat, but considering all the ducks floating on the surface, nobody was fooled. It was a beautiful day, full of blue sky and wispy clouds, and the castle sat at the top of an emerald hill. I didn't realize how big a moat would be--it was at least fifty feet from bank to wall, and in some places, more than that. The profs tried to convince us that alligators still live in the moat, but considering all the ducks floating on the surface, nobody was fooled. Big black carp swam below ("Look, I can see the piranha!" said another group of kids visiting).
We had to cross three bridges to get inside the courtyard; it was hard to tell what the original walls were supposed to look like, considering madcap grass growing where it wasn't supposed to. But I found the "vat" in the dungeon and several hexagon-shaped rooms with thin windows and wood floors, all perfect for Princess Fiona of course. After five different people asked me to take their pictures, I fled up a random spiral staircase and stayed at the top for several minutes, just looking out over the countryside. Apparently Nikki was calling my name from an opposite tower, but I just wasn't looking that way.
Far from the Jungle
Our next stop was the humble abode of Rudyard Kipling. Most of us just went along with our profs' enthusiasm (they'd never been before) without too much hassle--we'd all seen the Jungle Book, right?
What we didn't expect were the most luscious cottage gardens, vegetable walks, bushes of wysteria eating the house, roses, a lily pond with schools of goldfish the size of dewdrops; the grass was lush in the soft breeze, tall hedges obscured a distant sheepfield, and beech trees stood like sentries along nature-made trails. I sat on a log and just soaked up a sunray, thinking that heaven must be something like this.
His house was an English cottage yes, but it was furnished with copper plasters of Mowgli, tapestries of tigers, watercolors of Riki-Tiki-Tavi, woven baskets, African bureaus, bookshelf after bookshelf, screens of Krishna, gold painted wallpaper now worth 2.2 million pounds, bamboo furniture...Kipling clearly couldn't let go of Bombay or England. I think I understand him much better; there is a drive in us all to "settle down for good" in a place like heaven, but heaven can be many different places, with many different people. How does one choose the "best" one?Can we wander perpetually and find rest in that?
The Battle of Hastings
Reluctantly, we headed out toward Battle Abbey, where took place the famous war of 1066--William the Conqueror fought Saxon king Harold on a grassy moor surrounded by trees, Saxon swords at the top of the hill, Norman longbows at the bottom. Dr. Seely and most of the class traipsed around the field, following a beautifully marked trail that played out the battle sequence step-by-step. The woods were the setting for French retreat, and the far side was where they attacked again from the east, waving their bows and flags and killing Harold with an arrow in the eye. I looked over the calm, grassy hills and imagined dead men cast about like so many rag dolls, the clash of sword and shield, the cry of victory for the Normans. Considering what a tragedy it was for natural English peoples, it is celebrated through memorializing that Abbey (which we definitely had no time to see). Regardless, it was really amazing to see the impact that war has on the feel of land and how this town reveres it.
Monk's House
Virginia Woolf lived in a little cottage an hour from Hastings, in an utterly charming village of gardens and christened houses. Dr. Tate told us that she came here more and more frequently as the years went on. I don't blame her; the cottage garden, the greenhouse, her little pond and workshop of blue writing paper was utterly enchanted. Woolf and her husband are memorialized in stone in their garden, his bust tired and warn, hers ghostly and ethereal. There's something to be said for the places where people die, particularly the way she did--every step in her garden felt watched, reverent like the trenches were because of the ghostly steps that had been there before. She was a sad woman; her pictures are melancholy and aloof, tortured artist among Keats and T.S. Eliot. It was odd to be in her place of sanctuary that clearly turned against her in the end.
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