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.
No comments:
Post a Comment