Sunday, October 31, 2010

Day 58: Dreams of Oxford

Halloween Liz's parents are here, as are a set of brand-new elders. I hope this London November rain won't convince them that a mission is a bad idea. I sat and read Preach My Gospel during sacrament and felt all the more determined to finish that darn Old Testament before going in myself. Brother Eden shaved his soul patch, much to Jani's dismay. There was so much SOUL in that patch. Everyone was so antsy in Primary, and this is like the third week in a row. Some kids are really doing their best to poison the rest, I think. What to do? You can't call these boys sissies, let alone strangle them. I have to teach 8-11 next week, and I'm a little concerned for my sanity. Too Expensive After scarfing some fantastic roast beef and sweet potatoes (couldn't help it, we all were starving), I surfed awkwardfamilyphotos until the fireside started. My favorite is actually not a picture, but a letter with Thanksgiving dinner instructions to her family--sooooo awkward reading it, you're laughing, and then you think of that sad, sorry sap the hag is married to. I guess everything funny is founded in something sad. The fireside was led by head of college at Oxford, a Methodist minister, named Professer Walder. His lovely tenor voice ensured that we found his topics of interest more fascinating than usual; Rachel confessed that she knew all along that homework was a bad idea from the start and she was just ahead of the curve. At Oxford, you have one class, one professor, one booklist, one essay a week, and some really fantastic discussions are the result of reading and studying and thinking and writing. That's MY kind of study. I think that's why I want to be an Honors graduate--we get to go and experience academia through study and discussion and culture, and I love soaking in that atmosphere. All our homework is stifling creative thought, I think. If I had oodles of cash, I would love to go abroad at Oxford. But maybe I just need a really smart book club to fulfill that need in the future.

Day 57: Lost (Again) and the Raddest Costume Party Ever

Great Portland Street I tell you, you're absent for five seconds to get to the loo, and everyone except you knows about the Halloween party and has been thinking about costumes all week. All this was unbeknownst to me; this Saturday, I went to find Leicester Square by way of Picadilly Circus, hoping to see Chinatown as well. Of course I went without a map. My perfect navigation skills had never failed me before. As every other person would have predicted, I marched purposefully off in some direction. I ended up walking the length of Great Portland Street, far from Picadilly, Regent's, and Leicester Square. I bought an adapter for my alarm clock, hoping it would work, and then I sat for a few hours in a Starbucks, reading my book, safe from the sudden torrential rain. It was a delightful afternoon, full of walking and chocolate frappacino and a Korean baby looking over his mother's shoulder at me. The solitude and perfect agency of being on one's own is full entertainment for a full Saturday. American Halloween Home before the evening, and I decided to do a bit of homework. Girls came in and out of the classroom, asking what I was going to be for Halloween. After the third time of this, I asked why in the name of all that is holy I would dress up in a country where only Satan-worshippers celebrate All-Hallow's Eve and no one has heard of trick-or-treating. That's when I heard about the party. Naturally, I didn't think it was a big deal. I didn't have any means for a costume, and I assumed that most of the girls would be in the same boat. That evening, the party started at 7pm. I claimed to be a pedestrian, a Canadian, a Jehovah's Witness, a plainclothes officer, changing the answer every time someone asked. The Halloween party turned into some sort of fashion show down the stairwell; Napoleon Dynamite (Rachel) looked less-than-thrilled, despite having a liger (Amanda) at his command. Michael Jackson (Morgan) had a white glove and fedora; a paper bag princess (Annie) appeared next to the three fairies from Sleeping Beauty; Sarah Palin (Claire) could never be confused with Mary Poppins (Jani), and even the two guys appeared as Big Ben (two guesses who) and Santa Claus. My favorite was an angsty Bella Swan (Lauren), who wore horrible flannel and a white t-shirt, stuffed pregnant, labeled "Cullen in the Oven". The costume that won overall was Mount Rushmore--the four girls powdered their hair like german composers and wore a heroic white sheet that could not have been comfortable. So many pictures that evening--I turned out to be the only person who did not dress up. I took pictures instead. The servery was packed and hot--I slapped frosting and candy corn on a cookie and left. I tried to do some work, or at least to just sit somewhere--but Penny kicked me out in two different places. Happily I found Katy, Julie and Emily not participating in the festivities; I spent the rest of the evening chatting and laughing with them, overhearing the victory tunnels for the profs ("Saint Tate! Saint Tate!") and the cheers for Dr. Seely's victory at eating donuts on a string. I've discovered it is impossible to spend the day solitary and spend the evening in a party with more than forty people. But it was a rad party nonetheless.

Day 56: WALES TRIP--Water, Blood, and Spirit

Reflecting Eternity Our last weekend trip is at an end. It was really delightful to end on such a high note; we stopped in Herefordshire to see Benbow Farm. A congregation of Methodists met nearby; hundreds of people, who realized that their religion was deficient somehow. They decided to fast and pray for a messenger from God to bring them the full truth. A few days later, Wilford Woodruff arrived to tell them about the restored Gospel. One Brother Benbow offered them the pond on his farm to be used as a baptismal font. Hundreds were baptized in one day. We stood on the banks of this little pond, bundled up against the chilly mist. Some of the girls went up and read the history of Benbow farm; Nikki got up and told her conversion story, which left most of us in tears. Dr. Tate got some great pictures of us, just looking into the suprisingly clear, calm water, imagining the excitement of so many baptisms. I looked in and thought about serving a mission myself, hoping that those I teach would feel the stirrings of something long-forgotten , something like eternity tugging at their hearts and minds, feeling something familiar. Such a cool place. Similarly cool was Gadfield Elm chapel, the very first LDS chapel in existence. The building we visited had been rebuilt and rededicated by the church, had a little visitor's atrium with pictures and video recordings. The chapel has gorgeous walnut pews and a little Protestant organ; Jordan sat and played hymns they would have sung some 160 years ago. Penny led the music and we had a good time singing hymns like A Mighty Fortress is Our God, A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief, and the Spirit of God. So delightful. I wandered outside to take pictures and found Tony lingering there. "You didn't want to come in? It's a bit cold out here." "No. I hope you don't mind." I was about to ask why when several girls came spilling out of the building at once, wiping tears from their cheeks and piling onto the bus. Apparently they all climbed up into the loft, where a little television screen was. Morgan pressed a button and there was President Hinckley, talking about the Gospel going to all the earth, come from England. Everyone started crying. I was sorry to have missed out on such a spiritual experience...I turned around, still wanting to talk to Tony, but he had disappeared. It still bothers me. I guess the trip home was a lot different this time. It was our last overnighter, and we felt peaceful and a bit more patient with ourselves and with each other. Where does homework fall in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Day 55: WALES TRIP--The Big Pits

An Early Start So sleepy this morning...the studying parties are lasting even longer, especially since the profs are requiring that our work be complete BEFORE a weekend trip. Makes for some crabby folks come morning. Not me, per se...although this morning was the unparalleled worst morning I've had since being here--I heard galumphing up and down the stairs until 2am, and getting up at 5:30 was like something out of The Ring. My mind was so absent it took until the hotel to realize that I hadn't packed pajamas, a towel, or pants for the next day. Fail. But the oddly loud bus ride was enough to put everyone to sleep. More than once, I woke to total silence from all passengers, even the ever-conversational profs in front. I suspected that they were trying to help little Andrew sleep; he had a white patch taped to his eye and he was sitting like a sad resident of a nursing home. That morning, the two boys were having a little too much fun down in the kitchen, whipping each other with wet rags; unfortunately Beno aimed a little too high, hit Andrew in the eye, and got some particle of food or soap stuck in his eye. The bus drove west, under a blanket of misty grey; the hills became more numerous, greyer, and covered in boulders from the Ice Age. Tony told an uplifting story about two tourists hiking out in those Brechen Beacons and died from exposure. The rain was so misty we must have been driving straight through the clouds; no houses or any other buildings to speak of, until we approached the old mining headquarters.

Blackout


Ever since learning about the Welsh language, back in Brit Lit 1, we learned that their famous stories were passed through odes and minstrels on harps, rather than epic poems found in Celtic culture. We were pushed through a line to the "lobby", where jolly Welshmen with silver whiskers and hands like dried hams fitted us with tin mining hats, flashlights (head-torches), shredded belts with heavy batteries and gas masks (we eyed these nervously). But our cute tourguides were more than thrilled to see us. We got a full earful of the Welsh accent (my favorite thus far, after Sister Becky) and snatches of songs. Looking very out-of-place, most took out their cameras to document our equipment--the guides told us to put them all in "this bucket", as well as our watches, phones and iPods, so as to avoid something blowing up in the mines. The guides laughed and we packed nervously into the clanking chain-linked lift.


The tour was fascinating. I have ancestors that spent generations below ground, shoveling coal onto horse-drawn cars, pale from exhaustion, lack of food and able to see the sun on Sunday only...hence the name, if you can believe it. The Big Pit Coal Mine was the largest mine in Wales, until it closed (like every other mine) in the eighties. Wales has the highest unemployment in Europe because every man and brother and son was working. Before then, it was every Welsh PERSON working below. We passed grey piles of dirt and rocks, smelling sulphur and coal dust, walking on railtracks and ducking under low doorways. He stopped us in the first room and asked us to shut off our torches. In the complete blackness, I couldn't see my hand a milimeter in front of my face. Our guide told us,


"The wee six-year-olds working down below opened and closed the doors to let carts go through. The doors made sure that if one part of the mine caved or blew, the other parts would stay intact. An investment. But the children couldn't hold candles because of the breeze. It might sound daft, but the miners would tie the little'uns to the doors because they would get scared and try to run away. Bit dangerous."


We were all thoroughly unnerved after that. The guide told us about the horrible governors of mining towns like Merthyr Tydfil who paid the workers tokens instead of wages. Like Chuck E Cheese, the tokens, got at an exorbitant price, were redeemable at the most expensive general store in town. A day's tokens got a loaf of bread and half a bottle of milk. Because there was no money and no other jobs, an entire family would go underground just to feed themselves. Incidentally, the missionaries had incredible success in mining towns.


Andrew trailed behind us in a wheelchair, slumped over with his eyes squinted shut. As interesting as the stables were (horses were reported dead in a cave-in, but not people), I was so distracted by Andrew's predicament, all I wanted to do was get out of there and off to Cardiff to find a hospital.


Railway Fame and Alternative Eateries


After the tour, we were encouraged to got through the more museum-y section of HQ. There were pictures of the blackened workers, old tin tubs where they bathed, quotes and political signs when the mine finally closed down; some men sat down and cried, afraid to lose those men they'd made such good friends with. It reminded me of the cameraderie you see with military troops. Only soldiers share the reality of war, and no one at home will ever understand what they went through. So with the mines.


We ran into a cute little girl, probably ten or eleven, and her younger brother. She talked to the Seelys about going to boarding school in Merthyr Tydvil, and was proud to tell us the longest word she knew (and repeated it probably five times before we were satisfied.) According to Wikipedia, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch is a railway station on the island of Anglesey in Wales, is the longest place name in the Welsh language. 51 letters long in the Welsh alphabet, the name can be translated as "St Mary's church in the hollow of the white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool and the church of St Tysilio of the red cave". However, it was artificially contrived in the 1860s as a publicity stunt, to give the station the longest name of any railway station in the United Kingdom.

Cardiff was the site for our hostel. Students went on a quest to find the Hard Rock Cafe, which was closed down. Nikki, Andrew, Ben and Liz weren't so lucky; they managed to wander in and actually try to order in a gay pub (complete with rainbow flags and signs) before a nice drag bartender told them where they were. The funny part was that me and Katy walked by that same pub and Katy announced to everyone what it was from a mile away. Literally. So much for our oh so streetwise men.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Day 54: Clapton's Favorite Seat

Studying is for Freshmen

Yeah, I definitely hit and missed this time. I guessed as best as I could, but the best part of the morning aside from hot sausage and hash browns was taking a shower before Austen. (For all you fans of Emma out there, Frank Churchill represents France and Mr. Knightley represents England. The first interesting conversation we've had in this class.)

After class and a bit of practicing the organ, Kaitlyn, Nikki, Sarah, Rachel and I headed out for Green Park and the venerable Hard Rock Cafe. Compared to the torrential rain of yesterday, I could not contain my enthusiasm upon seeing the blue sky again, not to mention emerging out of something that resembled peak-time travel. The road looks like Grosvenor Square, with all the embassies and pale white flats. I guess Hard Rock was as American as any U.S. Embassy.

Milkshakes

The guy at the front sounded a bit Scottish, and he was enthused to hear some girls from Utah, California and Washington had come all the way from the States to eat. He said he'd have a table for us in half an hour. Sitting on wickerwork just outside the bar, Nikki groaned with hunger and Rachel beamed with enthusiasm. I fretted about money until I heard about fantastic chocolate milkshakes.

The Cafe was packed that afternoon. I looked up to see the Fender Lead II belonging to the one and only Eric Clapton. He'd given the Cafe his guitar way back when, as a permanent reservation (still working to this day). Then the Who found out about it, and Pete Townshend declared that HIS guitar was just as good as Clapton's, so his is mounted on the wall next door. Looking around and sipping the darkest chocolate shake ever, I saw costumes from Elvis and Prince, Keith Moon's drums, signed posters and records--I kept craning to see who they belonged to, until Rachel told me to go down in the basement.

It was like all my dreams had come true at once. Regular people were eating nonchalantly like cows on grass, while framed on the wall behind them were the Gold Madonna album and Beatles' Platinum records, next to guitars belonging to Marilyn Manson, Jon Bon Jovi, Kiss, the Sex Pistols, and the Ramones. Floating in a glass case was a sky blue Mosquito with two necks, quite possibly the most beautiful rock instrument I've ever seen, belonging to Van Halen. I passed by the island many times, just to see the guitar again.


After the muffled squealing in our informal tour downstairs, we walked over to the Hard Rock Shop. The place had monstrous posters of Kid Rock, Heart, Gene Simmons, Dave Matthews, and Steve Perry all tacked above towers of Hard Rock sweatshirts, t-shirts, earrings, and other overpriced bling, even umbrellas. We finally got down into the Vault, some ten or fifteen of us looking around nervously.

A boy appeared to "lead us around"--our ridiculously good-looking tourguide was thin and sallow, with long dark hair and a gigantic smile made even bigger by the fact that he was higher than a kite. Rachel got a picture with him. (We abused her for the rest of the day.) The Vault was much closer quarters than the Cafe, so we were even closer to the awesome--there was a Kurt Cobain guitar, another Clapton, the stock sheets for all four Beatles (my favorite; they invested in corn, wheat, and all sorts of fruit). You know you're famous when they make your face into an American Express card. The guide asked what rock we liked best, and I piped up with "punk and psychedelic". He looked confused, probably because the p is the only thing that connects the two.

One last round complete with squealing, and we finally had to leave. Rachel's group shot must be the only thing to remember her soulmate by--but I guess she could just get a picture of Paul McCartney. At least one bigger than an American Express card.

Day 53: Communal Suffering

Our first religion test inspired panic, fear, anxiety, and the weird raucousness that occurs just before the apocalypse. Some kids barricaded themselves in the only quiet place in the house (the stuffy library) only to discover that other students were surfing Youtube and laughing more loudly than anyone thought possible. Some announced hourly trips to the Food & Wine to get more Dr. Pepper and Magnum Bars. Some stalwart study groups worked for twelve solid minutes at a time, breaking to sing Disney or N'Sync to just get through it. I stood this last group for about twenty-four minutes before I went upstairs to study properly, only to find a horde of girls learning some sort of rap cheerleading routine in the classroom. Thanks to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and some really loud headphones, I could finally settle down to learn about the apostalic mission in detail.

I won't lie, group study guides inspire more uneasiness (and sometimes suck up more time) than just individual study. When it's obvious that one whole section of questions was researched on Wikipedia rather than class notes, it's enough to ruin faith in the entire ordeal. But, even so, everyone on their laptops, looking panicked about the imminent ruin just hours away, empty bags of chips and soda bottles scattered everwhere--I can't help but smile and calm down myself. Dr. Seely can't fail us all, right?

Day 52: Irritated People in the British Library

Another Magna Carta

The British Library is a pain to visit. After you figure out a non-work entrance (none of which are titled or have doors), you are uncomfortably introduced to an old guard clearly irritated at having to check bags that morning. Then the students upstairs glare at your touristish gait as you amble through their reading rooms like some cardless invader—but of course, none of them are willing to point you in the right direction. But upon discovering (purely by accident) the quiet darkened gallery, I was surprised to find it so unintimidating and decided to stay.



The Sacred Texts section calls for a second look; after admiring the gold-leaf lettering of ninth century Bibles, the illuminated Jain, Sikh, Hindu, and Buddhist texts are utterly stunning. Off to the side of Sacred Texts was a room titled MAGNA CARTA. Like the one in Salisbury, these copies lay under several inches of bullet-proof glass and offered little space to see. After I had finished congratulating myself on seeing three copies of the Magna Carta in such quick succession, I began to investigate the other information in the tiny vestibule. There were bishops’ revised documents, a video explaining the main ideas, and a timeline from 1100 to after 1776. It was here that I learned about the political turmoil that precipitated its drafting. What a political triumph that even the king was now subject to rule of law!



It was then that I began to compare these two originals with the Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral. If the document has such obvious political ends, why is it found in a monstrous chapter house? Is it a sacred document, or merely the triumph of the papacy against malicious King John? And what does it have to do with the growth of Christianity in England?



The Charter’s original drafting is evidence of entrenched Christianity in the political scene of thirteenth century England. King John was a despicable character when it came to taxes and arbitrary punishment, but I suspect that it was his conflicting with Rome that encouraged the barons to voice their displeasure. In the aftermath of Canterbury being left without a succeeding archbishop, John naturally favored one of his own men so as to influence this church stronghold. Pope Innocent III put up a fight and eventually excommunicated the king and pulled most of the clergy. Although the peasantry did not revolt against the king, they no doubt mentioned their displeasure and even fear of non-salvation to their barons. If the king could reject the Pope, that could be tantamount to rejecting God, which no doubt inspired hellfire fear. The question then became “Who is greater, the king or God?”



To the politically-strapped barons, the answer was plain. The king would have to be subject to the same laws as the rest of God’s children. The spiritual implications of the Magna Carta really struck me in Salisbury’s chapter house; without arbitrary punishment, regular people began to see the limits of royal power, gain faith in God (who has unending power) as well as dependable laws, and thus find conviction in God and country, rather than just one or the other. Naturally the Magna Carta could not cure all the troubles of throne and Rome: it would be several centuries before Henry VIII would claim them both together and pave the way for the Reformation in England, but no longer did people have much to fear from a monarch’s bad moods or immoral decisions. I believe it was this document that led Christianity to spread so widely across Europe—by limiting the king’s power, the larger influence of Catholicism would reach the far corners and mold the nation.

Day 51: WWI and D&C 138

Of the fireside, this is the best way to redocument what Dr. Tate talked about--he sent an email of the links to this dissertation, one in the Ensign, and one in BYU Studies. For all the members, I highly recommend reading it.

"Dear London students,
It was nice to be able to share with you last evening a topic dear to my heart. A couple of you expressed interest after the fireside in seeing the article(s) on which it was based. In case others of you may also be interested, here are links to pdfs of them: the short version in the December 2009 Ensign http://www.lds.org/Static%20Files/PDF/Magazines/Ensign/English/2009/EN_2009_12_15___04212_000_015.pdf and the much fuller (and more fully documented) BYU Studies version http://byustudies.byu.edu/showTitle.aspx?title=7241 .
Best wishes,
Dr. Tate"

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Day 50: A Random Day in Greenwich

Why tests on Saturday?


After getting through the Great War Exam in sixty seconds flat (matching artists with their memorials or paintings), I sat downstairs at the table, trying to invent some plans for the Saturday. Mandy and Rachel saw that I was sitting there and asked what I was doing. Honesty was on my side; they then invited me to accompany them to Greenwich for a delightful day trip. The weather was lovely, and I'd never ridden the DLR or heard of half the places we were going.

Construction

It was me, Amanda, Mandy, and Kaitlyn who headed out the door. Still warm out, and lots of sun. The ride on the DLR meant we were accompanied by Rick Steves' brilliant day trips, a bunch of strollers, and the whole of north London. First stop was a Victorian tunnel that passed underneath the Thames altogether--the idea of a bridge built in the late 1800s underneath a river was a little disconcerting. I imagined pale yellow slabs lit by unsettling phosphorescent lighting of the tube stations. We passed a rugby pitch and sandwich stand, stopped for a few pictures on the Thames, and then realized the tunnel was closed for construction. Amanda was disgruntled.

That construction disrupted our chance to get on the Cutty Sark, but it didn't matter; that historic river boat was closed for the season as well. We reboarded the DLR and headed to Lewisham (the lamer way to get across the river) and saw a few stormclouds huddled over the Docklands. Rain started to fall on our way to the Queen's house; after seeing the Crown Jewels, Amanda was excited to see one of the places where the elite live. We were stopped at the door by a cute Japanese lady who told us the house was closed due to a wedding. Amanda really looked like she wanted to sock the bride, Kaitlyn and I were amused, but Mandy was losing her faith in her ability to plan the day trip after all. We were headed to the Prime Meridian, and she bemusedly suggested that it had probably been moved to Sweden or something.

Back on Schedule, Plus a Little Extra

But the Prime Meridian was definitely still there. It was a painted red line, with a big sign announcing the latitude and one of those mariners' compasses. We walked through a famous astronomer or sailor or something's house (paranoid about the crowds and pickpockets, we didn't stay long), oohed at a primitive telescope, and headed to the National Maritime Museum. We saw the prince's barge (even more ridiculous than the Lord Mayor's carriage), Shackleton's sailboat he took to Antarctica, paintings by Constable and Turner, miniatures of masters and slaves, more figureheads, pirate's doubloons, compasses and telescopes, old maps, and (my favorite) Lord Nelson's uniform--the one he'd been wearing when he was shot on deck the Victory. Kaitlyn thought they were lying--the bullet actually entered in through his left shoulder and exited his right side, above the hip, which punctured at least one lung and was a slow, painful death. Sailing life--what a madness. The average Briton on the street struggles to remember the Duke of Wellington (bit of a poor politician, him), but they all remember Lord Nelson and how he beat France once and for all.

Our day at Greenwich ended with a quest for dinner. We managed to find the Greenwich Market (Saturday was a craft market, rather than clothes or music or antiques or pictures), but every day there were stands for pasta, jambalaya, rice cakes, chocolate fruit kebabs, sausages, mulled wine, even horchata. We milled around looking for food; I got some African (?) rice and vegetables, which tasted like potato soup and jambalaya had a child; really delicious stuff, I couldn't quite stomach buying the same dish with goat meat, so I opted for vegetarian. Amanda got spiced cider (non-alcholic sure is hard to find), and the others got rice and pasta. It was a splendid way to end our day trip; night started to fall, and the Christmas lights twinkled all over the villages as we rode over in the DLR. I had no idea south London was so unlike the city--I sure hope I can go back.

Day 49: FIELD TRIP--The HMS Victory, Cadbury World, and that Place Where Lydia Eloped With Mr. Wickham

To the South


It was Penny's idea, and subsequent petition, to take everyone to Portsmouth. We imagined walking on the stone walls of Lyme in the freezing ocean air and rain--accordingly, we all showed up at the coach with Wellies and trenches and umbrellas, prepared for the worst. But it was unnecessary; our arrival in Portsmouth revealed the most glorious sunshine and blue sky, reflected on the calm Atlantic. We emerged onto old cobbled raods, reminiscent of Liverpool, and saw two ships that looked straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I was all vestiges of delight--so much so that Katy and Emily could only laugh at me.

We were the second tour, so we whiled away some forty-five minutes in the Maritime Museum, which had everything from female uniforms to miniature battleships to modern military technology blurbs. I spent some ten minutes on a military helicopter training demo, complete with joysticks, buttons, and monstrous consoles--I could not get off the ground without failing. And neither could anyone else, from what I heard. The most fun we had took place upstairs in the Figurehead Museum. We were hard-put to find any traditional mermaids--more common were Welsh dragons, slaves from Madagascar with enormous comic lips and eyes, and even characters from Turkey and the East Indies with earrings and turbans. It was marvelous to see these treasures of the British Empire, and yet unhappy to consider the effects of colonization.

My favorite place had the largest textile artifact in the world--the Victory's main sail. It lay splayed out in over 90 square feet, under cool yellow lighting and punctured by over 90 shots from bullet and cannon fire. In the background were scenes from Master and Commander, my very favorite period movie (we'd watched it on the way, and Penny couldn't handle the violence--I was so enthused to see something blow up again after all the Austen flicks). I wish we could have gotten closer to the canvas sail and investigate; it's probably wise that we were left squinting in a dark room to see it all.

On Board

Our tour finally began--we hurried over to the HMS Victory, the cutting-edge warship that mostly guaranteed England would never get along with France again. I barely caught one picture outside the ship before we headed up the gangway; the white sails rustling against the blue sky, held up by spiderwebs of taut ropes. I was all smiles, remembering beaches and little rowboats from back home. The gangway flexed and bounced up and down as we thundered up and said jovial hellos to our tour guide. He was a dark-haired, bookish sort of man who had a nervousness about him we hadn't seen in any guide yet. Accordingly, a white-haired supervisor shadowed our tour, constantly trying to calm his greenie down (10 years vs. 10 weeks' experience).

Ben and Andrew suffered most; they had to crouch under every single ceiling on board, with the exception of Nelson's deck; this was where a wreath lay, the spot where Admiral Nelson was shot and fatally wounded. We saw Nelson's dress uniform in a glass case next to his quarters, where the doors were fastened about the table and china. The guide showed us how a cannon is fired, how the jumpback is cushioned, and how English cannons kicked the trash outta French and Spanish guns (lock, stock, and barrel=less than 60 seconds, vs. three minutes). Underneath the guns were the quarters where hundreds and hundreds of hammocks were hung from the beams with 18 inches or less of room to sleep. This was where the men worked, slept, ate, and cleaned themselves (however they did that). Bit cramped. The kitchen and boiler could have fit on a twister board.

The deck below that held the medical quarters--one look at the screws, scissors, and hack saw convinced us that the tour guide was right ("Life was hard back then. We're softer now. We would die on the operating table.") The ceiling was less that five feet now. We headed down below even further to the gunpowder room, which was air-tight and protected from stray rats. Barrels and barrels of black gunpowder, kept two floors below the actual guns. Our mousy tour guide was replaced by the red-faced Englishman, who explained that, "God put the English Channel there for a bloody good reason." We cracked up--the whole rest of his tour was colored with anti-French comments, and we (being Americans) felt right at home. The guide took us back upstairs to where Lord Nelson finally died. His last wish was not to be buried at sea, however; the physician had a job figuring out how to keep a corpse onboard long enough for him to be buried in London (St. Paul's Cathedral). Since the sailors had far too many barrels of rum lying around, it made the most sense to pickle his body in one of them...? Three weeks or so later, they pulled a perfectly preserved Nelson out of there and his most loyal men drank the rest of the rum. Quite possibly my favorite part of the tour.

Mr. Darcy's Match

Our biggest problem was that we all realized we had fifteen minutes to get back on the coach. Plenty of time--except it was imperative to get to Cadbury World and make purchases at the outlet store. We struggled to get there, and saw Penny just barely leaving as we arrived. I was irritated; she said, "Everyone needs to get on the coach!" like it was our fault we were the second tour. I stayed for five minutes and found communist quantities of chocolate I desperately hoped were nonexistent in America, just plain chocolate and a string of caramels. Amanda Poppe summed it up; "The looks on their faces on Christmas morning will convince them that I was ALWAYS their favorite sister." We ran back to the coach and realized our stress in line was unnecessary, as it was a short day anyway.

Our next stop was just as beautiful as Cadbury world; the seaside, at Brighton. The pier had a full-out carnival/amusement park/casino arcade. None of us was interested in anything except finding a loo for the first twenty minutes, but we definitely got some great pictures, considered what rides we'd hit had we the money, and shrugged off the restaurant's outrageously priced fish and chips. Down at the beach, the kids from Utah (some of whom had never been to the ocean before), we slogged through the pebbly bars to the frothy tide, some ditching shoes and socks and rolling up pantlegs. I was so excited, even after a wave dowsed my shoes--it was the first time I'd ever been to the Atlantic, and I reveled in the cold sea so familiar to me. I even saved a pebble and stuck it in my Beatles bag. Such a beautiful day, and one we got to spend with the seagulls everywhere we went. Shame there was a gay parade out in front of the palace as we headed home to London. But five-pound night was destined to be a success.

Day 48: Training at the Family History Centre

Family History, I am doing it

Learning the tools for family history was a lot less painful than I thought it would be. The training centre is chock-full of pamphlets titled "Surname Mapping", "Digital Parish Records", and "Family History in the British Isles". I grabbed a stack of these and promptly forgot to sign in. One sister came to visit and asked what country I was interested in. I told her Wales and I could almost hear her eyes rolling--everyone in Wales is named the son of the father, hence names like Johnson, Jackson, Jacobson (sen), Christiansen, and Samson. What a pain and fixed only when we all die, I'm sure.

She was polite enough to help me get a start on a line that has plagued my mother for some years--my grandmother Danielle. I can trace it back to a great grandmother named Eliza Rustlebury. Using all online sources--freeibm.com, thegeneologist.com, ancestry,com, and several other sites that gleaned rather a lot of censuses. I did find Eliza's father, Peter Rustlebury, but I struggled to find her mother Mary in any marriage or birth record. Of course, only 20% of all records or less are found online, and the rest are on microfilm. Two hours of marvelous searching and frustration and struggling, and I felt so cool finding Peter Rustlebury and realizing that he needed temple work done. Only two hours, and someone else linked to my family. I was positively skipping down the underground subway to South Kensington.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Day 47: FIELD TRIP--Sandham, Salisbury, and Stonehenge

Stanley Spencer


So the boiler broke. Bad week, as some of these girls haven't showered for four days (reasons unknown. Our bathroom is beginning to smell like a toxic orchard...). The water is icy cold. I stood in the shower in my sweatshirt and basketball shorts to wash my hair under the jet of Arctic and had a minor headache all morning.


The weather could not have been more glorious had we imagined it--or so we thought, as we optimistically left our coats on the coach to wait outside Sandham Chapel. The wind hit us full in the face and let us know that autumn had arrived--but a fall in the north is like nothing we'd ever experienced. Nikki complained that she looked homeless, but we were all jealous of her thermals and beanie (like a short Kurt Cobain, who I don't think was homeless) as we shivered and hopped around to stay warm.


The chapel itself is tiny, though the ceilings are high. Two rows of wooden chairs lined the walls, and a white altar and silver crucifix stood at the head, underneath the Resurrection scene. It was so beautiful to see it up close--the three walls within, from ceiling to floor, were covered in murals from the first World War, all painted by Stanley Spencer. His figures are round and scenes softly realistic. After so much Otto Dix (famous for grotesque war portrayals) there were no trenches on the walls, no blood, no battles, no dead...Spencer depicted men getting ready for bed in the bunk, men eating jam and bread in the hospital, men camping out before an ambush, filling their waterbottles, doing laundry. They were holy in being neither pro-war nor anti-war, simply celebrating men uniting through a tough situation (the understatement of the century).


The Resurrection depicts dead soldiers climbing out of the ground, picking up the white crosses that marked their graves, and giving them to Christ (a small, seated figure near the top) like they would turn in rifles at the end of the war. There are men shaking hands with dead friends, mules standing up to walk again, soldiers caressing their restored limbs. Spencer apparently was not invited to the dedication of this chapel because he painted animals into the resurrection. I wondered about that, and didn't know if the Church had a stance on that. I think we believe every creature will be restored just fine...at least, it makes the most sense.


Chawton House


We drove another hour to Chawton and the home of Jane Austen--not her childhood home, but the home of her most productive years. ("Look, letter magnets," said Ben. "...'Beiber is God'...")The garden was lovely; I made friends with a black housecat out in the sun, by the laurels. The house was like Beatrix Potter's, where we all were encouraged to snoop as much as we liked. Several girls sat at the piano and played (it was dated from 1810), dug through the drawers and cabinets, admired the costume dresses in every room, and followed illustrations from Pride and Prejudice on the landing upstairs. People are so surprised to see the tiny tent beds shared by two people, but it makes complete sense as heat was a problem. We saw letters and drafts of her novels preserved in glass, silk slippers and gloves, powderboxes, china, handwritten music books...the stewards were enthused to tell us anything and everything about the place. I wondered about Jane's reasons for declining her one proposal, made when she was 27.


Everyone (minus Ben and Andrew) confessed to a favorite book/character/movie, especially in the gift shop. I LOVE the version of Persuasion Penny Bird hates, so I'm resigned to the fact that we might have to forego it altogether. I don't understand why the hate! I'm a pretty well-versed individual as far as films are concerned (more than Penny, anyway), and I thought the spirit of the book is really conveyed well in the movie. Sheesh. And the love-affair with the five hour version...I can't stand anyone except the leads, which makes every episode one heckuva pain to get through. One question I have is why all parents in Austen's novels are negligent, idiots, jerks, tyrants or just bad parents. It's like watching Disney channel. Were her parents that way? Can't heroines come from good houses?


Not Another Cathedral


Salisbury Cathedral is number nine in this parade of antiquity...at least, I think it's nine. It's the tallest tower (404 feet, and leaning), the largest cloisters, the largest close, houses a lot of modern art (controversy, naturally), and is home to one of four original Magna Cartas. The chapter house has this stone frieze featuring the major Biblical stories from the Creation to Moses in the wilderness, using stone figures that are utterly charming. The Magna lies under bulletproof glass, rather like the Declaration, except this yellow parchment is nearly 800 years old. The writing was beautiful and I kept looking up at the translation...the principles of Rule of Law to govern really paved the way for America's Constitution and a lot of other countries' freedom.


The modern art found its way in gorgeous stained glass, the high altar, sculptures, and my favorite was the font, which looks like a bronze bowl with four pinched corners where water spilled over...very reminiscent of the reflection pool on Temple Square, but apparently the congregation has had some angry people. Whatever, I think as people we worship a bit differently than the people from hundreds of years ago and our sacred spaces should reflect that. The font looked like a cross, after all. Not traditional, but didn't tradition cause a lot of problems in the first place?


Prehistoric Rocks

More freezing wind, but the weather is better than the desktop picture. Everyone was amazed at how small Stonehenge is. Right off the road, on a grassy hill like some shepherd's cottage. No point in having a tour guide here, as we don't know where Stonhenge came from, when it was constructed, who constructed it or why. Aliens, I suppose. Apparently they dug up some bones they identified as being from Switzerland (how could they possibly know that?) suggesting that Stonehenge was once a place of pilgrimage. The trouble is, we can't get close to it because of some accident some years ago.


So we girls do what we do best: Jumping Pictures. Dr. Seely was a riot--he got in every group and jumped with the rest of us. Penny declared that she doesn't understand jumping pictures, but Emily replied, "Stonehenge is way more exciting when you're in the air." The grassy hills went on forever, dotted with sheep who couldn't have cared less that we were there. We did the best we could in the frigid wind, smiling into the sun. It's one of those spots that really brings home the fact that you're in England, you know what I mean?


This Coach is Bigger Than You


Ted booked it back into London, shaving some thirty minutes with his smooth maneuvering. I can't imagine bus drivers go one day without just wanting to flatten some gormless hatchback or pedestrian. We made it back so early it was light enough for four of us to get Tuk Tuk. Urggh, so full of coconut chicken...next five-pound night, I'm sticking with Nando's.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Day 46: Regents Park, Family History, and Four Short (pfft) Ballets

Auditions

Religion took place in the Family History Centre in Hyde Park Chapel--we were all looking forward to sitting down at computers and getting started on our names, but we sat down for some two hours, intimidated by the lady running the place, and trying to ask questions that sounded semi-intelligent. A pair of casting directors came into the room looking for actors; the Church will film a New Testament movie starting April 2011 in Salt Lake (naturally; the place looks like the Middle East to a tee) and they were looking for chicks who fit the part: Kaitlyn, Devri, Briann, and Olivia were all shoo-ins. Amanda volunteered to be the in the first pioneer movie that came her way. Whether any actually tried out, I don't know--Andrea and I blew out of there to hit Regents Park and do yet another Austen field study.

More picturesque spots. Andrea is the best person to be with when visiting nature of any kind; she was the one with the camera. Once we found the entrance, we walked along the pond and watched the pigeons, geese, ducks, and swans call to each other and hoot at tourists. The weeping willows looked so like Monet's--it was even a beautiful day, or would be until we got on the Tube. Since I didn't have my camera, my assignment would have to be done with the help of Mr. Google Images. Don't tell Penny.

Too Cultured

So I forgot to bring my prom dress to London...? Afterdinner activities involved choosing outfits, hairdos, makeup and shoes to go out to the ballet. I threw on a church dress and some flats in two minutes--bit early that, as I was forced to read the ballet synopsis on Emily's floor due to the hairspray and perfume cloud hovering over the top bunks. The excitement in the air was infectious--girls need a chance every so often to primp up and go out in public (see Jane Austen for further details), and the ballet was a perfect opportunity. I confess I felt poorly dressed compared to everyone else; there was satin and sequins and bling out the yin-yang. I wish I had a cooler dress to at least wear to the opera. Ah, well.

Pictures on the stairs (I ran to the nearest Food and Wine to buy some chocolate) and then off to the Royal Opera House. We got more pictures by the front doors while Beno pretended to be Secret Service (black suit, Skullcandy, it worked) and someone performed a very British With or Without You out in Leicester Square. Atmospheric to a tee. We went up all the escalators and passed the bar, restaurant, those weird glass-blown chandeliers, some cheerful bellmen and made it out on house right's topmost balcony.

Shame about not having any binoculars. After the first ten minutes of the show tune, I realized that we would be lucky to see anything with subtext. Fortunately I was sitting just in front of Ben and Andrew, and each interlude meant I could hear what they thought. Unfortunately they were surrounded by sighhing girls entranced by the costumes and tiaras--and since they care about their welfare too much, I didn't hear anything too honest. I concluded that I've been utterly spoiled by BYU folk dancers--once you get bored by one kind of dance, they bring on new dancers and do something totally different. This was two hours of straight ballet.


The second movement was a Greek couple trying to figure out what's the matter with each other. It was really cool, actually--I think at that point, I was so starved for some purpose or story that I was enthused to see a ballerina try to get whatever her man was hiding--he had to leave the country, so says my synopsis, and couldn't marry her. Sad days. After that, I really had no interest in the shows. Choreography for ballet versus the musical, for example, is incredibly limited and repetitive.


But everyone else liked it. The encore was stand up and applaud for ten minutes while the leads bowed to each other ("No, you're awesome!") When they start congratulating each other, I think it's time to leave. I left in such a hurry that I abandoned my sweater and had to go back to look for it. Katy, Julie, Emily and I wandered through the labyrinthian opera house only to find the place entirely locked up (the show had ended no more than ten minutes ago!). But a nice usher pointed us to the desk downstairs, and when he whipped out that darn sweater, we couldn't contain our compliments at how the place was run.


The Tube company was a lot less cultured than the ballet lot, so that by the time we got home, I felt balanced and peaceful once again.

Day 45: Monk Turned Mormon

Shedding Our Sheltered Upbringing

Our fireside this eveing was the highlight of the whole day, Primary entirely exhausting and redemonstrating to me that Book of Mormon names are a stupid idea. The speaker was one Brother Stewart, a man suffering ceberal palsy and dependent on chairs and his trusty cane. He's a cute man, with a shiny bald head, a round, happy face, and a handful of teeth missing. His presentation involved several photographs and certificates. Dr. Seely, of course, was all smiles. His gentle tenor voice had us all enthralled in his story.

He started off with his parents; mother, one saucy player, and father as the patient victor of her heart. He was born in 1946. Apparently he was the shortest choir boy they'd ever had in Norwich--the rector would stack two or three lectern Bibles on his bench so he looked uniform. (Cute black and white picture of him garbed out to sing). When he was sixteen or so, he determined that he wanted to be a monk. After a year of training (free, no commitment on either side, but living monk standards) he entered the Benedictian abbey for four full years. Those were years of manual labor, snatches of sleep, prayer, long hours of silence, and education. By the end, he decided to become employed by the Church and was appointed deacon, and subsequently parish priest (beautifully handwritten certificates, embellished with the diocese crest).


Despite these efforts, he found himself in Her Majesty's Royal Air Force as a chaplain. I learned that under the Queen's orders, the chaplains (appointed specially by the Church) are the same rank as any officer they're addressing. Such a ruling came to a head when Father Stewart would try to hold services on time; the Admiral lived some two hundred yards from the church, would hop in his car and stroll into services late. But the Admiral warned the chaplain (as he was the highest officer there) that they could NOT start without him. So Father Stewart, still staunch from his abbey years, decided to stick it to the man and start on time, with or without the Admiral. He didn't give us details, but sure enough the Admiral walked in late and was irate that they'd already started. Meeting in the chaplain's office after the service, the Admiral expressed these views. But Father Stewart merely said, "By the Queen's command, you don't outrank me and we will start on time while I'm in charge of this parish." They got along great after that.


His conversion story started the same as a lot of religious intellectuals' begin; he was bored and invited the elders in for a bit of fun. It took some doing, but he read the Book of Mormon and did a lot of praying and told them he believed things were true, not understanding where the words were coming from. The only trouble for the cartwheeling missionaries was the fact that he would lose his job, his house, his pension, his credibility anywhere if he got baptized. But he made the decision to do it. And naturally, the Anglican Church thought he was insane and told him to take a few months and think about it (but they did quit paying him). He broke with his dad and had to reconcile a year later, and really had every calling in the church handed to him (being in the UK) in the first five years of being in it. Minus bishop. He doesn't understand why ANYone would want to be bishop, which I completely agree with.


It was a great story, ending with his marrying a gorgeous woman just six years ago and getting a six-foot-eight stepson. It really brought home to us the sacrifices people here made and still make to be members, as well as the blessings that come from such conviction. There isn't a strong membership as far as numbers, but they're stronger than we are. His testimony that the Church is true was so beautiful, coming from a man with such theology and training, who had come through so much for his faith. I hope he's as happy and at peace as he looked.

Day 44: Recovering

A slow day, full of what should have been homework, but instead was punctuated by a lovely, unexpected walk through Hyde Park. I was still in basketball shorts and was wandering downstairs when Bethany invited me out. We spent the afternoon ambling across the paths toward the pond, which was full of geese and squealing children. The sunny day vanished quickly and my basketball shorts became a really dumb idea--we took shelter in a little gazebo with a woman and a stroller and stayed to talk for a long time.

People give a lot of advice about things they don't understand much about, myself included. I guess putting a label on things, prescribing what will kill the pain, and self-help is part of human nature, whether it's a desire to actually help or solve the puzzle. Maybe that's where people's problems come from. But isn't there a spark of divinity when we don't want to hear the unfixed stagnancy without trying to create some order?

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Day 43: NORTH TRIP--Preston, the Temple, and Liverpool's Docks

Church Sites

Leaving a beautiful place like Ambleside is made easier under stormy clouds and certain rain. We arrived in Preston coach station and met our tour guide, a young hip member who handed out headphones so he could talk to us clear down the block (a brilliant idea, given the traffic and terrific rain). I was in a dress and wellies again, girded only with a trenchcoat to ward off the certain rain--but I was optimistic.

Off we went into the square, where the first elders arrived to see people waving banners and brawling over the current political campaign. One of the banners read "Truth Will Prevail!" and the apostles liked it so much, they adopted it for the mission. Looking around, we saw museums, a medieval building turned jewelry shop which had been there since Shakespeare's day, Subway, some stands, a few planted trees in the flagstones, and the monstrous WWI memorial. Preston square was also President Hinckley's very first experience (first day) street-contacting, and he made an appearance several years ago to the same spot; our guide happened to be going around with a non-LDS group, and he promptly abandoned them after seeing the prophet on the steps of the museum. President Hinckley was able to relate some fantastic mission stories about serving in England, and how much he loved Preston.

We walked first to the home where the elders lived, and where (subsequently) Heber C. Kimball was attacked by a legion of devils for an hour and a half before the elders remembered they HAD the priesthood and cast them out. It's a back alley, blackened brick window built into the wall, and owned by someone who doesn't seem to be getting any offers (after the devils story got out, I wonder why). The Church is hoping to purchase the place and restore it to its original state.

Victorian England was the same in Preston as it was in London; poverty, STDs, poor sanitation, overseers taking advantage of their workers, children with no clothes, factories, etc; but I've never seen a place where the poor workers lived so close to the rich. On the next road, after the piddly mission home, was the "circus", the swank uppity class, whose doorsteps had a coal chute for the bath boilers below, a letter-box, potted plants, jewel-colored doors and silver or gold knockers. I wanted to stick my hand in a coal shute and leave a black handprint on the pristine white walls. Our guide told us that because the gap between rich and poor in the 1800s had grown so vast, many of the wealthy left Preston altogether, in favor of places like Bath, Brighton, or the countryside. Nobody liked living in the modern industrialization, not even those profiting.

We went down to the gardens where the Church has a few plaques commemorating the meetinghouses (no longer existant) where the elders taught thousands who later were baptized. A gentle mist began to fall as we descended to the riverbank, trying not to slip in the mud (that was me), and trying to hear what the guide was saying (his battery failed every sentence or so). At last we stood on the bridge. The River Ribble was pocked with heavy raindrops (someone passed me her umbrella, it turned out to be Andrea) and cruised calmly into the bay like a landslide of magnesium. This was where George Watts won his little footrace and was the first baptized in the British Isles, the first of thousands who later came to Salt Lake.


Walking through the streets of Downham like a slow-moving centipede of multicolored umbrella shells, it was amazing to me how many people had been prepared, through the poverty of the Victorian Period, through the Temperance movement, through a complete lack of church or some other cause, to listen to the elders and be baptized. There were 33,000 members in the UK, and only 11,000 in Utah before they all emigrated. They're the lifeblood and ancestry of the Church. It's been so cool to do family history and find out that eight of my ancestors all came from different places and are now buried in the Salt Lake Cemetery together.

From Preston to the States


The Preston temple was absolutely gorgeous--we all were full of Subway or McDonald's (we've arrived at the part where we've lost our adventurous appetites and could really go for an American cheeseburger like every single day...something with ketchup, right?) so we stood out front and took pictures, chatting with the temple patrons coming out. Some of the girls really went overboard--come on, guys, it's the temple. Sheesh.

It took a bit of time to get from Preston to Liverpool--I was so excited to stop and look, even if it would be just for a few minutes. We walked (marched) toward Mursey on cobbled roads, passing a monstrous anchor in front of the emigration museum, enthused that it wasn't raining. This is the place where Titanic was built and shoved off--my own ancestors had left on LDS-run ships to Boston, had stood on these same docks, waiting their turn for checks and ward assignments. The water was pale, steely grey; it sloshed up the docks under frigid wind. There was Ireland, right across the river. And there was the Atlantic, where every ship set sail--even those that fought the Spanish Armada. It makes you feel real small standing on such historic docks, having come full-circle from brave family members who landed in America to make better lives for themselves. I didn't waste time in a museum in Liverpool--I just stood there on the docks, soaking it all in.

Half the students were left on those docks, actually--their luggage was tossed out, and they gathered to discuss hostel plans, train tickets, and most importantly, the Magical Mystery Tour. We said goodbye and loaded again--I sat in the back with Katy, having left Julie and Emily in the Beatles' hometown. We drove back onto the highway on Penny Lane and past those strawberry fields. I didn't think those were real. If I had more money, staying in Liverpool would have been such a fun outing. Instead, Katy and I chilled on the coach and watched Northanger Abbey and My Boy Jack, drinking a grande hot chocolate (had to pee like Seabiscuit). I hope spending so much time on a bus won't wreck my back too permamently.

Day 42: NORTH TRIP--Where Fashionable People Holiday

Dove Cottage

What is the point of having a spectacular third floor view of the lake if you shut the curtains? City girls, pfft. Glad I'm not one of them. I slept in this morning--most of the other girls hiked the five miles or so to Dove Cottage, William Wordsworth's former abode. Tony braved the winding lake roads in his Westbus and deposited 15 or so of us outside what would have been a charming cottage if it weren't for the darn museum thing and giant gift shop blocking it from view. Silly. We arrived just as the hikers got there--Bethany's face was really red, and Molly was a little wet (apparently she'd been wading in her wellies and the rocks tripped her up). I was glad I didn't go--I didn't have the shoes or the coat for it this time, as pretty as it now doubt was.

The tour guide was a cute red-headed thing who spouted off so many random facts I felt like I'd been hit by a train. (It didn't help that I know almost nothing about Wordsworth. The guy who wrote about wandering lonely as a cloud?) Right. I learned he had a dog named Pepper. His single sister wrote about the house and rooms in great detail, making her invaluable in recreating their lives. They had a pantry half-outside for refrigeration. He lived with something like seven other people in the tiny house. He wrote his most famous stuff there. Someone burned a ring in the landing upstairs from setting down a coal bucket.

I don't understand what it is. We don't visit Monet's house or Sarah Bernhardt's house. Just because we can pick up a pen and put coherent words on a page, do we find commonality with Keats and Shakespeare and Wordsworth? We don't imagine becoming a famous painter or famous actor in this life (not really), but we're attracted to the places of famous writers. It's almost as if we look in Wordsworth darkened sitting room and yard on the bank and think, "Oh, if I just had this house! If I came in the spring, when all the daffodils were in bloom, I would have written about them too. It's not all that hard to write--I do it all the time. I could be as famous as Wordsworth."

The trouble is, we none of us could have done what he did. It's easier to swallow when we talk about prodigic musicians or brilliant chemists; maybe it's just hard for us to admit the fact that something as everyday (in students' eyes, as annoying) as writing is masterpiece in embryo. We simply lack the capacity to take our grocery lists and insipid blog entries and grow them up into something so lovely.

Grasmere

The local village boasted some lovely shops, sheep fields, an old church, and a spot of blue sky. We went in search of lunch and found world-famous gingerbread like nothing we'd ever tasted before. There were roses, a giggling brook and a wishing well next to the hat shop. We stumbled upon Wordworth's grave (literally) in St. Oswald's cemetery.

I realized that Bethany's face had stayed red from the hike at least two hours. Rachel told me she was feeling really sick and we should probably take it slow. Grasmere didn't demand anything of us; unlike spots in London, this village seemed to invited us to sit on benches under willow trees for the entire afternoon. We ambled at our leisure, carrying morsels of gingerbread and other goodies until we were forced back to the coach. We stopped at the car ferry and were shuttled across the lake toward the hills.

The Movie Lied, Again

We'd mysteriously lost Ben, Andrew, Sarah, and Nikki in the transfer from Grasmere to Ambleside. But our immediate concern was more pressing; Beth was looking a lot worse after the gentle ferry ride and Sister Tate took her back to the hostel. It was some walk we had to make to Hilltop Farm, but the weather still held up beautifully. Hiking through other peoples' property is a little foreign to Americans, but like in Sheffield, there is a little footpath cutting a swath through everyone's yard. We kept close and I was hard-pressed to hear anyone complaining, despite the steep incline. We trekked through dark woods on pebbly trails; along the lake edge, watching sailboats and the Queen's swans; down broad walks past pubs and inns; across farmer's lawns, fields, and cottage gardens. It was shocking how varied the walk was--everything was so gorgeous. But man, they weren't kidding about the "Hilltop" part.

After her smashing success in London, Beatrix Potter bought this farm and was undoubtedly pleased to leave the city. Her family had summered here when she was a little girl, where she began to draw animals that would later become Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, and Jeremy the Frog. The farmhouse is NOT the same one they use in the film--that was another property she owned. So everything looked so new! I was surprised to find a little sheep yard amongst the vegetables and walled garden--the ewe was interested to find me there and let me pet her (my first sheep in England belonged to Beatrix Potter!).

The house didn't have a guided tour or anything, so our goal was to ask all the stewards what they knew. Unfortunately, we all started talking about college and what the heck we were doing in the UK that we gleaned very little--but I saw her wedding picture with William Heelis and they were actually smiling. I'm glad her life had some semblance of a happy ending--you can't do much but hope that in a house full of framed Jemima Puddleduck, workbooks, and Peter Rabbit in blue china sets. I did learn that Heelis was a painter, as was her father and mother (her mother was best, actually), but Beatrix was the only one who turned her talent into profit, for which we're very grateful; she donated some 4,000 acres (wealthy woman) to the British Peoples in her will. Although we're only in the Lake District for 30 or so hours, we were so pleased to find it untainted from the so-called modern industry that was all the rage in Victorian England.

The night ended with several hours with Beth and her roommates--she'd come back and, after several hours of sleep, felt much better. We chatted about boys, the future, and those ridiculous hypothetical questions girls ask each other when all other subjects have been exhausted. I'm so glad to be with such bright, introspective girls. I feel less motherly around them than I do the others, which I'm sure is evidence that they'll all achieve great things in future. It was great way to end the night off--absolutely no homework, but who can do homework when the trees dance and the moon shines off the lake just so?

Day 41: NORTH TRIP--The Edge of the Roman Empire

Another Pilgrimage

We left the hostel fairly early in the morning, feeling that we'd experienced enough of York to both love it and to leave it. I think the hostel food killed it for a lot of students--most of these girls have never tasted the spoils of a public school cafeteria, and they complained of bowel discomfort most of the way to Ambleside--between interludes of North and South, anyway.

Durham is half cathedral, half-university ("Why can't we study here?" a bunch of people said). It's also the site of several saints' bones, including St. Bede (no longer the Venerable, for all you buffs out there), St. Cuthbert, and St. Oswald--or at least his head, buried with Cuthbert. Our tour led us around the cathedral and pointed out the gorgeous Romanesque pillars and rounded arches, and Nikki and I couldn't pay attention because we were staring at the stained glass. It was modern, made in the eighties--and absolutely stunning. The Joseph in Egypt window was lush and full of purples, reds, and yellows; some seemed Impressionistic, like a Monet transposed into glass, with vague droves of people traveling north to some paradise, all swept through and overwhelmed with color. Absolutely beautiful.

The best part was the famous cloisters, used to film passing periods in Harry Potter. Naturally we had to take some solid pictures before hitting the tiny gift shop and out into the town for some lunch. If it wasn't for Andrea's red hair, we never would have made it to the coach on time.

Like Hell

After all of North and South (thank Buddha, everyone needed to stop squealing whenever Thornton showed up, or stop squealing in general). I got to chat with Katy, Julie and Emily in the back. Katy talked about our next stop. Bede's world is a glorified museum, but most of it is outside, like that Shakespearean farm we visited. But over the summer, apparently girls thought Bede's World was a theme park. They were so excited that they disembarked and positively sprinted toward the front doors. One of the girls turned back to the profs, a little confused at the enthusiasm, and asked, "Is this an amusement park?" Katy was near a veteran of the program, who muttered, "Like hell."

But Bede's World was far from hell. It was cloudy out, but not too cold to walk around. I skipped out on the museum bit altogether and went with some girls out to visit the animals, all of which are identical to the ones seen in Bede's day --giant cows, some draft ponies, really oddly colored geese and chickens and ducks. I stayed by these for some ten minutes, talking to them--the ducks were all chasing a white one, who had something in his mouth. Girls came over and started watching too--except we realized the duck was trying to eat a frog. Having no teeth, the frog was being slowly squashed and whacked back and forth, limbs flapping, like a dog thrashes a chew toy. We watched in horror as the duck half choked and dropping this poor frog, who stopped moving after a while. Dumb duck--you don't EAT frogs.

After that little scene, Nicole, Jess, Rachel and I discovered a kid's playground, complete with slide, pirate ship, zipline, and bird's nest swing. We played hardcore for about fifteen minutes and I decided that recess being ten minutes long is a genius idea. On the far end of the playground is the Jarrow church where Bede's writing chair is kept. The ruins of the monastery are behind it. I found it less interesting than the playground and promptly returned before heading back to the coach.

Northern England

We were all so exhausted at this point from sleeping badly in the manger-like hostel beds that we all slept through the rest of the afternoon. I woke just in time to see the village of Wall before we stopped again. Hadrian, Roman Emperor, built a massive wall that still stands in Northern England, used mostly to build livestock walls. We stopped at the border of Scotland (the border of the Roman Empire) and walked up to the wall. Nothing but cold wind from the north. I wrapped my trench tight and tried not to tread in mud while I talked to the sheep on the hill (they were a bit skittish). We stood on the wall and looked out toward "Scotland" and the barbarians no doubt living in those hills. Grace had the brilliant idea to do the wave while we all stood on the wall there--it took some five minutes to get it all, but we were successful. A wave on Hadrian's wall, at the end of civilization as we knew it.

It was hard to get back to sleep after that. I looked out the window at the vanishing daylight and could only see misty green hills for miles. It was hazy and dreamlike, like the sleep that hangs around your eyes in early morning, or flashbacks in sitcoms. The lakes looked like they had emerald forests sunk under the water, and not a human light could be seen. The land felt so old because it had never been settled--the nearest lights of Ambleside at seven or so felt like a perversion, even though dark was gathering fast.

We settled into our hostel and had some dinner (a much nicer hostel than in York, with the Pier in our backyard). I wandered out into the night and sat on a bench by the water, unnerved by the total lack of waves. It was all black water, like tar, holding up empty sailboats. Ducks and geese huddled up on the beach to sleep, like so many river rocks. I sat for a long time just looking until the rest of the group came out, took loud pictures, trespassed on other peoples' docks, and ran at all the sleeping birds, forcing them frightened back into the black water. Count on stupid Americans to ruin a perfectly calm night in Ambleside.

Day 40: NORTH TRIP--Composed on an Autumn Evening in York

York Minster

A shame that my first hot breakfast here was in a hostel, but the English accoutrements (baked beans, tomatoes, and ham rather than bacon) were charming. I was even brave enough to try black pudding, which is pig's blood mixed with cereal. The disturbing part was that it was really tasty, and a lot like sausage. We walked the old Norman battlements in the heart of the city, taking band pictures and trying to steer clear of more Asian tourists ("I feel like I'm on the Great Wall of China," said Becca.) There was an old black mill behind the Minster just like the ones in Sheffield.


Our tour of the Minster was mostly just quizzing us on what we knew about architecture, us staring blankly up at graphic saint deaths (what a waste of gorgeous stained glass, I thought). Boiling John in oil didn't quite work, contrary to popular belief. My favorite part was a medieval clock, which had two iron soldiers who banged their swords against chimes every hour. Just charming. At this point, all the cathedrals are blending together and I still say Notre Dame was my favorite.


After a couple of hours, we went outside to inspect the Constantine statue (Roman emperor had crowned himself at the York Minster) only to find a crowd of people gathered around a stage bus. A man was standing on the stage holding a young ewe. He bragged about how his sheep shearers could do a whole herd in a day ("That's 45 seconds a sheep!") Sure enough, he rolled the lamb on her back and turned on his electric shears. Liz was appalled; the ewe wriggled around and tried to get away as her master announced that this was her first shearing ever. It was a cold morning too. Bit like a baby come from the womb--I'd be a bit uncomfortable myself. But he finished the job and everyone cheered and Ben decided he wanted to go to Starbucks NOW.


Prison Cells


We wandered around York for some forty minutes before we finally decided on a pub. Liz met her one true love on that quest; she found a random cute guy rushing off (probably the busiest guy in the street) to give us directions to a good pub, but as it turned out, he'd grown up on the East Coast and was curious about a group of Americans wandering around York. We practically had to drag Liz away. Ben teased her about destiny and she had a hard time remembering the actual directions he gave her. But down the road from Viking Centre, The Three Tuns was a sweet little pub boasting some good music choice and really tasty food (so I heard). I had enough funds for a hot chocolate and chilled while the others downed sausage, mac n cheese, and stew.


Dr. Tate stressed that we all should check out the two museums in the city. We went through Castle, which had period rooms and a whole Victorian street that felt like a back alley in Disneyland Main. There were photographers, boarding schools, a prison, a post office, and even a 1880s candy shop with sugar mice and spun taffy. I don't like museums as a general rule--I get bored pretty quickly without modern art. But the Prison downstairs was freaky enough to keep my attention; each cell was dark and lit by a projector of some actor being a former inmate. York Prison was infamous because of its inhumane situation (a little Chateau d'If) and because most in there were on death row for ridiculously petty crimes. I bet they never imagined a museum would sit on top of those once-fortified walls.


It was some time to walk over to York Museum, so we wandered through the tightly cobbled streets and looked in some of the shops, Nikki looking for a new wallet, Liz for who-knows-what, and the boys for a ghost walk that night. Fate offered us a lovely place called Chocolate Heaven; I was in brief possession of my only cell phone in Europe, a little brown old-school Nokia. But signal was forever disrupted when I ate the antenna. And subsequently the screen and buttons. The Shambles was shutting down its market when we walked by, and Ben hurried us to the Museum in case it closed at four as well.


Embarassing Roman Look-Alikes


It was such a beautiful day; York Museum had a gorgeous emerald lawn underneath orange trees and leading out to a sparkling river of ducks and rowers, we barely noticed the ruins of an abbey to our right. The museum itself wasn't nearly as cool as Castle (Roman ceramics all start looking the same wherever you go) and we all started falling asleep as soon as we sat down to watch the history video. But we all got yellow cardboard Roman helmets. Like Burger King, except waaay cooler. We wore them for a solid hour and forgot they were there--except when Liz told Ben he looked ridiculous.


Tony was sitting outside on a bench, no doubt enjoying the fantastic sunset, when we mugged him and asked how his day had gone. He said, "You know, I sat on this bench and thought, 'There's no way anyone could embarass me if I sat here.'" We looked at each other and cracked up laughing. Bless his soul for taking a group picture of us while other normal British adults were staring.

Awkward York Ghost Stories


That night, the entire Study Abroad collected four pounds apiece to go on the ghost walk. Some girls were really scared and promised they would scream and panic and wet themselves all the way to the Shambles. There was a beautiful moon out and I hoped it would be a good experience for all involved, but not getting scared in large groups of people is apparently a talent of mine (laughing results) so I was optimistic.


We stood at the end of the lane and waited some twenty minutes, discussing costumes and the hostel food and watching a flour truck try to pull into Tesco. A man dressed entirely in black and swinging a monstrous lantern approached. Gesturing with stiff black gloved hands, we followed him down the dark ally in hushed voices, past the closed hat shops and confectionaries. We stopped. "If you are faint of heart," said our guide in every affectation, "beware going further, for you cannot go back."


We paid and after some increasingly comical voices and dirtier jokes (the latter was less to our taste) we eventually ended up at the front of a house where a small girl had supposedly fallen from the top of the steps to her death. Brandishing his top hat (which revealed tufts of white hair) the guide asked for two volunteers this time, picking from the crowd a middle-aged man and our sweet Becca. He approached both with a stethoscope, but was much more interested in taking off Becca's bag and coat so as to more closely investigate her chest. She tried to smile and blush and keep things light, but none of us were laughing. Jess was behind me: "Ben, DO something!", and Ben looked like he didn't need telling twice. But a few moments later, the guide declared Becca alive with a "well, I'm getting excited" and sending her off. We closed around her, all of us furious. It certainly put a damper on the rest of the walk.


From other ghost walks, I had hoped for something more serious, at least, using real ghost stories from the town without all the character. It was apparently too much to hope. I couldn't wait for our tromps around the Shambles and the Minster to end; there was a child trapped upstairs for the Black Plague, a man who saw an army of Romans in the cellar, and eventually a boarding school of boys made into meat pies. My quota for British humor was overflowing rather uncomfortably. Were it any other crowd, perhaps he could have had more laughs--as it was, there were some thirty virgins from BYU who were disinterested in passes from an old man.


Getting back to the hostel, Sarryn and I were locked out and had to get the master key from downstairs. I, for one, was glad to leave York in the morning. A fantastic day, but perhaps a bit more culture than I cared for.

Day 39: NORTH TRIP--The Industrial Revolution

Tony Again

Bless his soul, he's back. We thought we'd never see him again, but he's back and I have two roomy seats to myself again. Last night was nightmarish--I vaguely remember climbing out of bed at some ungodly hour to ask Liz (who was Skyping very loudly just outside my door) to go to the freaking classroom. We all got up at quarter to six and I wanted to miss the whole trip to stay in that beautiful bed.


The coach was no better. Only the Chatsworth estate in magnificent sunshine could lift my spirits--bright hills dotted with sheep and bordered by bushy groves of trees. We rounded a bend and Tony (who was ragging on someone else's coach) said, "Oh, look. A big house." It was a side view, but still the Pemberly we adored. The profs claimed we were there to see the artwork, but from the girls' squealing, I knew they'd won some unofficial popularity contest.


The lush house had none of the cinematic bright lighting we were so accustomed to, but the natural windows made everything glow--unnecessary bulbs if the drapes are open. The grand staircase was gilt and a little shadowy as we stared up into the ceiling. The hall to the side had several white statues, self-portraits, and a purple geode the size of a laborador. Kaitlyn and I found the Veiled Mary from the film and marvelled at the craftsmanship. The rooms were filled with brocade drapes, giant windows, delicate tables and chairs, gorgeous china sets, tapestries, and of course the famous statue room. Some of the ones used in the film were on loan from the Louvre, but we saw the infamous Aphrodite and Achilles, as well as Mr. Darcy's bust (although you had to go to the gift shop and find it up near the chandeliers). Matthew MacFayden is far too good looking.

The funny thing is, I enjoyed the gardens much better than the house. The sunshine made the geometry of Japanese plants and rocks perfect in every way, complete with ponds and little foot bridges...we made our way out, me again in a dress and Wellies to keep away the rain (they've worked so far!) and we found a real laurel maze. There was an olive tree in the center, but there is only one path to the center. While Amanda waved a stick and made Harry Potter poses for the camera, Bethany and I followed aimlessly after the Seelys, who were just as clueless. The hedges are some eight feet tall and there were tons of pointless dead ends. We were some of the last to find that stupid tree, but we took some solid victory pictures.

Nobody's Read Bronte, but...

Sheffield was several hours away, so the profs' solution was to put on North and South. I did my best, I really did, but I definitely slept through the first episode and paid minimal attention to the second. Several girls were irate that we still had two episodes left--with such eye candy as Mr. Thornton, who could argue?--but we had the residue of the actual Industrial Revolution to see. The Brontes were raised just outside such a city during its peak time, in a parsonage looking over the only cemetery (very Dickinsonian) with a father who struggled with alchohol and opium most of his life. As we drove through the town, every single building from the heart to the grassiest field was black with...soot? Rubble? Smoke? We couldn't be sure, but they were black as chimney-sweeps. The old mills are still there, the smokestacks as large and forbidding as something out of Lord of the Rings. I tried to imagine what it had been like; the windows were opaque with smoke residue, several broken, and the narrow streets were deserted. There wouldn't have been grass at all until you got out to the moor.

It was here that the Bronte sisters bonded together and wrote their prolific novels. Hearing about their lives during the factory age, above a city engulfed in putrid exhaust without their mother, out in depressing countryside, I don't blame them their horrible characters or themes. It was a sunny day, the moor still looked mournfully back at us. After touring the house (the steward was incredibly high-strung), I walked a narrow footpath through the neighbors' sheep fields. The green seemed almost gray, like looking into a forest lake and seeing darker trees sunk there, and there was an overwhelming feeling that this place was incredibly old. I'd never read Bronte, so I instead imagined Dickon riding into the distance on a fat white pony, or a sullen Mary slinking off toward the kissing gate. I made friends with a shaggy draft horse on the way back. Even he looked sad to be there. It was hard to imagine the place in torrential rain.

Our First YHA

I'd never stayed in a hostel before. It was dark by the time we cut through York, barely able to see the Minster's outline against the blue sky. We locked our luggage in the game room and ate solid British food...well, hostel food. Burgers and mostly tasteless other things. This place could be all kinds of improved with BBQ sauce, tartar sauce, ketchup, salsa, and ranch. Just saying.

Excited to have roommates again, I quickly took the top bunk (not considering the incredible heat that would ensue, silly me). The carpet and cubbies were cardboard colored, but everything seemed clean enough. The girls across the way spread their sheets on the floor for fear of "catching an STD from the carpet". Apart from Sarryn, Andrea and Rachel seemed enthused about the proceedings. We had a good mirror, were right across from the loo, and had come home early enough to catch some solid z's. Sarryn and Andrea wanted to go check out York, but Rachel and I stayed in to write the day's proceedings. I remember thinking that my bed felt like sleeping in some kind of manger before I was dead asleep at 8:30. I woke up at 11 to open the window, and slept another 9 hours. It was awesome. If you need recovery and have the means, I highly recommend it, though maybe not in a hostel.

Day 38: Preparing for the North

After another Sunday of dealing with Tico, all us students sat to listen about the missionary efforts in the North, from 1837 to now. Most of us were exhausted from our callings that day, not to mention the notion of waking up at some unholy hour the next morning. We worked hard to get through Brother Kerr's calming voice, which I did best as I sat right next to his wife. She told me he'd grown up on the same street as John Lennon.


Naturally our security briefing was much more pleasant than our Paris trip, and the profs were mostly concerned about our going out and DOING stuff at each stop. Looks like we have a busy week ahead of us. I only hope that girls don't Skype right outside my door this time.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Day 37: Camden Market

Jude Law's Favorite Market


Unbeknownst to me was how much I'd enjoy this place. I wisely went alone, so as to avoid shopworkers asking if I needed "help"--the place is some sort of British love child from Spencers', Hot Topic, Guitar Center, FYE, and oddly ModCloth. The Lock is a market made entirely of handmade crafts, leatherwork, ceramics, and self-recorded albums--I didn't even scratch the surface today. Wandering between souvenir shops, glow t-shirts, hipster hats and crepe stands, I found a Beatles bag for £10. Waterproof? It made me feel better for not staying over in Liverpool.

My next brilliance was in going to Primark to find a jacket (this black sweater really doesn't cut it in this wind) and, ignoring the thin pointless chicks' hoodies downstairs, I took the escalator to the men's section (which was empty) and found several for £6. Cheaper and thicker than the chicks' jackets. One nap and a date to Tuk Tuk made this Saturday all kinds of successful.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Day 36: FIELD TRIP--Bright Star

Turning to the Romantics


John Keats' house is tucked in a back corner of Hampstead. We took the Tube there. I lost my group and followed the map through the narrow brick backroads, occasionally diving onto the curb to avoid a cab and brushing the ivy spilling over fences. The houses were not so cramped as they are in Kensington, and seemed much older. Keats' house was the same way, though he shared it with the family next door.


Although he only rented half of the house for less than two years, this was where he wrote Ode to a Mockingbird and found a muse in the form of Fanny Brawne. Going in, the guide showed us the furnished parlors and portraits on the walls. Keats lived in tiny quarters, but then, he was a tiny man; the bust on the other side of the house puts him accurately at five foot one. Nikki was enthused--he could still be her boyfriend, at least. We saw an orginal draft of Bright Star in the most beautiful handwriting imaginable, a photo of Fanny when she was fifty and still smoking hot, as well as her engagement ring. It was gold and purple and gorgeous, apparently worn by Fanny her entire life, despite marrying six years after Keats' death. Whether her husband ever knew of the amour, we can only guess. It took some time before Keats was famous, after all.


Ben commented later that the house really seemed to have Keats' spirit in it. The bedroom is calm and neat, overlooking the garden. We imagined Fanny outside playing with her siblings while Keats watched. Tragic story. Half of London succumbed to tuberculosis in those days, and despite Keats sailing to Rome for warmer weather, he too died. We sat out in the sunshine and read Bright Star to one another, imagining his real-life romance and wondering if he would have been famous had he lived to be ripe and old.


Heather on the Heath


Annie, Carolyn and I headed out toward the monstrous natural park outside Hampstead, where Keats did a lot of his writing. Both girls had brought journals, scriptures, and cameras, prepared to meander as much as possible before getting to Kenwood. The weather was truly glorious and still warm. We discussed where we wanted to live, what dream jobs we'd have, other famous authors and books and whether we'd write ourselves. The Heath was full of dogs and masters who seemed much more comfortable about their dogs being half-bred than in Kensington--the mutts chased tennis balls and dove in the ponds. We sat on Parliament Hill and surveyed the country in glorious sunshine, considering the meaning of life, which one is always inclined to do in such a contemplative spot.

It took a bit of time, passing Women Only Swimming ponds, a man in a Speedo who looked rather confused, several locals who wanted directions to "Hampstead, you know, the little village on the other side?" We arrived at Kenwood Estate about an hour before we were expected. The sweeping lawns and picturesque trees must require a fleet of mowers to be dispatched every other day. Carolyn read a bit of Ode to a Nightingale and we soaked in our revelry--until our stomachs declared they'd had enough. The cafe boasted crusty bread and mulligatawny soup, as well as cakes and pies in decadent variety; we sat out on umbrellaed tables and shooed bold pigeons away every so often.

Kenwood was large enough, to be sure. Lucky we caught the Tates, who were coming out--none of us knew why we were there or what we had to see, but apparently it was a collection of incredibly famous paintings. I saw the Laughing Girl, Rembrandt's self-portrait, Vermeer's Guitar Player and a series of Regency picturesques, as well as Belle's library from Beauty and the Beast...we weren't allowed to take pictures, but Annie grabbed me and said "Stand here" so she could. The baroque facades and classical portraits I found intensely dull after wandering the heath--I hurried through the rooms and found the Seelys outside, who helped me catch a bus back to Hampstead and glom onto a group headed to Camden Market.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Day 35: FIELD TRIP--The Tor and Other Thin Places

Hiking In Wellies

A thin place is called so by the Celts because the veil separating us from God is thin...so thin you can see through it. Such was our destination today--Glastonbury, the place where Christianity came to England, where tradition tells us that young Jesus came with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea to trade tin and establish his kingdom, and where the tomb of King Arthur was discovered. Our cramped little coach had us all sleeping in snatches, waking at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. We all galumphed out to the abbey ruins, Wellies thumping on the firm ground, necks sore from being so slumped over. After group pictures in the arches and seeing the old well ("THAT's how you get into Narnia," said Amanda), the sun called us uphill in an ambitious hike.


Glastonbury is a charming village (like every one we've been to), but a little more on the World of Warcraft/Dungeons and Dragons/Magic Cards. I looked into the window ledges as we passed, and there was stained glass in most home windows, candles, incense, unicorns, wizards, and dried out flowers. Apparently the people hold a Goddess Conference each year, something that leaves Women's Conference in the dust. I wonder what it's like to live there.


The Tor is a monstrous grassy hill that was once an island, and said to be the landing spot for young Jesus. At the top is a stone tower, but this has no stairs. Huffing and puffing, we made it to the top and could see all the way to Wales. The air was thin, and if there hadn't been girls trying to take pictures of human pyramids, all you can hear is the wind in your ears. The spots of white cloud cast ominous shadows in the countryside below, over old houses and sheepfields, over rolling hills where castles once stood, and glassy lakes that confused the borders. We stood out in the sun, and I found myself utterly disinterested in spending the precious moments up there taking pictures. Like Rachel says, "I was busy being a sponge. Soaking it all in, you know?"


Bishop Shuler told his Tor story as he made friends with someone's basset hound Rupert (how the dog got UP the hill, no one will ever know). He came up on his own one day to find a man in a mummy bag at the top. Since Bishop likes talking to eccentric people (a little like Mr. Bennett that way) he sat down and chatted up the camper. Their conversation turned to things like teleportation, space travel and mind powers, which they both seemed to enjoy. As Bishop got up to leave, he said, "Well, see you later. This is a really cool place." And the guy replied, a little undertone, "Not as cool as the moon."


Liz, Ben and I talked to Dr. Seely as we hiked down. He told us he really liked our group because we weren't very clique-y at all, we were a friendly group overall, and we apparently were the most punctual group in living memory. What was wrong with the other girls? we all wondered. We are legitimately afraid of being left somewhere hours from the Centre.


Stourhead and More Film Sites


The weather could not have been more beautiful. Dr. Bird was delighted--our next stop was a "picturesque" garden, a term she was trying to hit home for our seminar class. On the coach, I didn't know what the big deal was. We wandered down the garden lane to find a blue lake surrounded by red, yellow, and green--and there was the bridge Keira Knightly runs across in the rain, and there was the Apollo temple where Mr. Darcy proposes--! Poor Andrea declared she would cry because it was so beautiful. I sat on the bridge end and Ben took a picture. Going up to the temple was cool, except that it was swarming with girls who seemed intent on taking engagement, bridal, and senior pictures in the same place. What a nightmare.


Our next stop was a little more enjoyable--Bath boasts gardens, shops, pasties and pastries for a pound, and water that definitely tasted like sulfur. We spent as long as we cared to in the Roman Bathhouse, which was cool--without indoor plumbing/heating, it was amazing to see how they harnessed the heat and steam for everyone's comfort. Unfortunately, our tour was punctuated by constant images of naked Romans lounging in every corner. All I can say is the swimsuit was a brilliant idea.

Fast forward several centuries to the Regency period and we see a lot less skin--a visit to the Pump Room and the horrible water, then to the Assembly Rooms for a bit of dancing. I never much daydreamed in Austen terms, like many of my friends do, but I couldn't quite shake the scenes from Persuasion standing there. The Octagon Room was empty and sumptiously lit by one monstrous chandelier, and I could only imagine the crowds of people and the smell before deodorant was invented (bless his soul, whoever figured that out). Maybe the Regency dances should come back with a vengeance--clubs are super lame, since none of us know how to dance these days. (Watching the girls waltz together for pictures was proof enough). Our day ended far too early, and we, full of pasties, fell asleep far too quickly and got home far too late. I love field trip days.