Janus at the door

Walking Hadrian's Wall, Hexham to Old Repeater Station

2011-11-02T20:27:00.000-04:00

Our trip to the UK started with some daydreaming about hiking the full length of Hadrian's Wall. While we eventually expanded our trip to incorporate other parts of England and Scotland, we still wanted to get a taste of what walking a length of the wall was like. We decided to walk back from Hexham to Old Repeater Station. It was a very leisurely seven miles through fields tucked into the rolling hills of Northumberland.

A stile, marked with the National Trail's acorn, so we know we're on the right path.

Northumberland reminded us of Kentucky.

Black Carts Turret.

Cows relieving their itches on the Wall.

Sky and earth keep unfolding before us.

We both took a fancy to Low Teppermoor Farm. The snug fields and mild cattle were charming.

Jon consults the Ordnance Survey map to get our bearings. Ordnance Survey maps are awesome, especially the Explorer series, designed for outdoor enthusiasts. These maps have a scale of 2 1/2 inches to 1 mile, which affords an incredible amount of detail. These maps make note of every little thing that can possibly be noted, from farms and lakes down to sheepfolds, cairns, and rock piles. I kid you not.

Near Brocolita Roman Fort is the Mithraeum, dedicated to the Persian god Mithras, where Roman soldiers participated in the Mythraic Mysteries. What we saw was a re-creation of the original site, which had been excavated and moved to the Museum of Antiquities in Newcastle in 1950.

Modern day offerings to the god on the altar, including a golf ball.

The headless statue of one of Mithras' twin torchbearers.

Not that much farther to Sewingshields on the Wall, and to roast lamb and vegetables made by Les at Old Repeater Station.

More cows. I never thought I would walk past a bull without some kind of barrier between the two of us. He just chewed his cud and barely gave us a glance as we walked past.

Wandering around Hexham and Corbridge

2011-08-13T10:38:00.001-04:00

A door...because I like doors.

The church ladies were setting up tables for tea. The abbey tea shop was due to open in a couple of minutes. There were already some expectant elderly folks milling about.

Hexham Abbey is smack dab in the middle of town with barely any room to wriggle its elbows. It was difficult to get a picture of the entire Abbey.

It was hidden by the farmer's market at one end. The fruits and vegetables put on quite a show, their colors vibrant against the mass of stone presented by the Abbey, ancient buildings, and walkways.

On the other side was this pile of old buildings, the heart of Hexham, navigable by these narrow alleys.

Shops and cafes lined the alleys. Once the day got going, these alleys were filled with tourists and regulars.

The sign gets to the point: "The Bike Shop."

Of course I went in. I knew I wanted to get Bill Bryson's "At Home: a Short History of Private Life" while I was in England, not only because it was available in the UK before America (where it wouldn't be published until October 2010), but because I wanted the British edition. After seeing the heft of the hardcover book (544 pages), and painfully aware of how little room there was in my duffel bag (especially with the books I had already purchased*), I decided to wait and get the book in London.

Another view of the Abbey. It's there wherever you are in town. It seemed no matter which alley we came out of, we walked into the Abbey.

Our bus to Corbridge was delayed by this Armed Forces Display. Most of the soldiers had guns, but this one had an axe. Does he know how to use it?

Little old ladies at the bus stop.

A blue door in Corbridge.

We saw these poppies while walking out to the Roman fort near Corbridge. Once we reached the fort, we decided we were rather tired with old things for the day and turned around without touring the fort. There would be plenty of opportunities to see Roman ruins (we would be seeing Vindolanda and Housesteads the next day), not to mention the Wall itself, as we were going to walk back to Old Repeater Station along Hadrian's Wall rather than take the bus back.

The townhomes in Corbridge are named. Did I mention that I love doors?

*I had already purchased the British edition of the first Harry Potter book (titled "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone") at Blackwell's in Oxford, and "Memoirs of a Highland Lady" at Waterstone's in Aviemore, Scotland.

Hexham Abbey

2011-06-20T20:27:00.001-04:00

Someone started practicing on the organ while we were walking around the Abbey.

The music swelled and filled up the church. The organ fits this kind of space perfectly. Elsewhere, it seems like a stout man trying to make his way down the narrow church pew without treading on anyone's toes.

These old churches take your breath away.

Effigies of dead people lay in one section of the Abbey. Their faces were worn away. I wish I had looked up their names (I don't recall seeing any placards), though they are dead and no longer care whether they are remembered.

That Anglo-Saxon man in the bottom of the picture is peering out at us. You can get accustomed to being the anonymous person rambling about these grand old places that being noticed, even by an inanimate object, is a jolt.

These stairs are still used by the choir. When they were first built, sometime in the 13th century, they led to the dormitory used by the canons who ministered to the Hexham community. They lived according to the Rule of St. Augustine.

There was a row of these people on the outside of the Abbey, right at eye-level: the flying monks. I'm not sure what would have been placed in the spaces above their heads.

They had pleasing faces.

The crypt beneath a church: Hexham Abbey

2011-06-14T18:25:00.000-04:00

The next day we headed into Hexham on the very convenient Hadrian's Wall Country Bus, which passes the Old Repeater Station as it ferries visitors to various points along Hadrian's Wall.

First stop was Hexham Abbey, which has been around in some form or other for over 1300 years. An Anglo-Saxon crypt was discovered in the bowels of the Abbey while it was being renovated in the late 19th century. The entrance to the crypt is in the middle of the church, in the nave. If I were a child attending services, this hole in the floor would have creeped me out.

We descended the narrow stairs into the dim low-ceilinged space and bumped and shuffled our way around corners and through passageways. It was easy to imagine the shrine illuminated by flickering candlelight, standing out in the pools of darkness filling the corners. How many pilgrims from long ago venerated the relics kept here?

The builders made free with stone from the nearby Roman fort Carla and probably Hadrian's Wall as well. The Romans had been gone 300 years by the time this crypt was built. Stone blocks like these, with decorative borders, were scattered throughout the crypt walls, positioned where they were for structural purposes rather than to maintain whatever design they had originally been carved for. How would the Roman stonemasons have reacted if they had seen how their handiwork was re-used?

When a couple joined us in the crypt, the smallness of the crypt quickly became self-evident and we made our way back up the well-worn steps...

into the soaring airiness of Hexham Abbey. The nave above was built in 1908. Spaces were set into the wall on the right to show off various stone fragments that were uncovered along with the crypt.

Tons of these fragments were scattered throughout the Abbey, set in seemingly random places, as if they had so many Roman and Anglo-Saxon artifacts that they could afford to be careless with placement.

At the far end of the nave was the Sunday school space. I loved the homely warmth of the children's area juxtaposed against the cold stone grandeur of the Abbey.

Plath and the North country

2011-03-29T19:50:00.000-04:00

"...There is no life higher than the grasstops

or the hearts of sheep, and the wind

pours by like destiny, bending

everything in one direction..."

I recently discovered Sylvia Plath's poem "Wuthering Heights." Go and read it. I'll wait.

The poem appeared during some routine work at the computer on a slow Friday afternoon. There was no warning. I read the first line and stepped into Northumberland.

The wind pulled at my clothes with insistent fingers as the sheep browsed and chatted with throaty bleats around the crumbling stones of Hadrian's Wall. The horizon kept going and going, even as it faded into the distance. And above it all was the sky, vast and unending. I felt ridiculously small and alone, pinned to the earth beneath the weight of the sky. It was exhilarating and unnerving.

Plath captures the brooding remoteness of England's northern country perfectly.

Listen to Ted Hughes read the poem.

We encounter Hadrian's Wall

2011-03-24T06:58:00.000-04:00

Our first good look at the wall.

No sooner did we walk into Old Repeater Station after that adventurous taxi ride than did Les shoo us off, "I suppose you want to go look at the wall."

He gave us directions, which involved a traipsing across the property of these folks to get to the public access trail that cut through their property...

The trail ran along the back of the house. We couldn't help but feel that we were trespassing.

This small patch of woods even had a name: Sewingshields Woods (everything in the United Kingdom has a name). I should follow this tradition of naming and name the string of trees we have along the back of our property.

There were no fences or other obstructions to keep people away. Just a tacit understanding to respect the remains.

Sewingshields milecastle, a typical outpost along the wall that would have housed a small group of Roman soldiers.

The land falls away on the other side of the wall. You can see why the Romans chose to build the wall on this particular spot at the edge of the empire. It was a great natural defense against those crazy barbarian Scotsmen. (I'm married to one, by the way).

Sewingshields Turret, which was once a small tower that soldiers could use for surveying the land at a distance around them.

There were sheep everywhere, rubbing their behinds against the 2000 year old remains. What is it like to have a farm with such tangible history wrapped up in the land?

Getting to Old Repeater Station on Hadrian's Wall

2011-03-21T19:06:00.000-04:00

We stayed at Old Repeater Station while in Hadrian's Wall country. The proprietor was a Londoner who retired to Northumberland to run a bed and breakfast. His name was Les and he looked just like Mike Myers, only a little more grey. His dry British humor threw me off at first before I got used to it. He also had that plummy aristocratic British accent that tickles us Americans to death (well, at least just me). In the evenings, when we all congregated in the common area, Les liked to pull out his whiskey bottle and offer it around: "Fancy a wee drop?" He was a great host.

Haydon Bridge was the closest train stop to Old Repeater Station. This was the most ordinary town we set foot in while on our trip. It was actually rather a relief to see a working class British town--it proved that England was a real country with more faces than the typical tourist attractions of Oxford or Lacock.

We got fish and chips made to order at the Haydon Bridge Fish & Chip Shop, which we ate on top of the bridge, attended by a group of squabbling gulls. The number and ferocity of those birds made me feel as though I was in Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

Old Repeater Station was the only place on our entire trip that we could not reach under our own steam or using public transportation. So we called a taxi and waited at a local pub. Every head at the bar swiveled to stare as we entered, wearing our huge duffel bags. The lady bartender called me "dear" and served up hard cider in an ice-filled glass. We sat in the corner, entering the companionable silence of the other gentlemen there watching the World Cup. A family came in through a door at the back, with a little girl in a frilly dress. They paused to chat at the bar before walking out. A gentleman at the bar struck up a conversation with us. It was a neat little place, as comfortable as a well broken-in shoe.

Now comes the terrifying part. The taxi driver gave us a roller coaster of a ride to the bed and breakfast. The narrow winding road was hemmed in by chest high grass that grew right up to the edge of the road (there were no shoulders) and reduced visibility to what was immediately in front of the car. Combine this with the driver's apparent suicidal streak as he went 40 - 50 mph, blindly whipping around corners and over crests with nary a caution that perhaps there might be a car coming in the opposite direction. I wanted to lay down on the seat and hum "la la" to myself, but settled for closing my eyes and praying that death would be quick.

Instead we pulled up in front of Old Repeater Station with Les walking out the door to greet us. I managed to get out without going weak-kneed. Seeing Hadrian's Wall just across the road may have helped. Thus ends another day.

On to Hadrian's Wall

2011-02-19T08:56:00.000-05:00

We made it to England in time for dinner. I still can't get over how small the United Kingdom is. The distance between the Cairngorms in northern Scotland and Haydon Bridge, England is roughly 230 miles. The distance between our home in Kentucky and Indianapolis, which is about the half-way point of a trip up north to my folks outside Chicago, is a little less than that. And we still have a ways to go...

Anyway, here we are taking a walk along Sewingshields milecastle, which is part of Hadrian's Wall. We were a little frayed at the edges by this point, so a quiet walk along the lonely edge of a former empire was the perfect way to unwind.

4 Hours in Edinburgh

2011-02-16T21:14:00.000-05:00

We had about 4 hours to spend in Edinburgh before catching the train down to England. We did nothing but walk those four hours, with a brief break for lunch. First on our list was Edinburgh Castle.

The entrance to the castle was about as far as we went--we had the whole of Old Town Edinburgh to see! We didn't even get to see the impressive side of the castle, perched on top of a hill overlooking Edinburgh. Go to the website to see what I'm talking about.

I thought this guy looked like the twin of the knight in the Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade movie: "You have chosen...wisely."

The castle is built on top of an extinct volcano and incorporates volcanic rock into its walls.

We walked past the National Library of Scotland with its motto "Let there be light" emblazoned above the entrance. Below, a man gets ready to light his cigarette. I thought this was funny.

We ate lunch at the Elephant House...

birthplace of Harry Potter! I geeked out.

I geeked even further when I visited the ladies' restroom and saw this graffiti on the door: "RIP Severus Snape" "Dumbledore's girl through and through" "Peeves was here," and more.

I had to go back back to the table to get the camera to take a picture, even though the entrance to the loo was in full sight of everyone seated in the back of the cafe.

We toured the John Knox House, reputedly a home of the famous Protestant who led the Scottish Reformation in the 16th century. The house itself dates back to 1470.

The rooms were foreign to us 21st century folk, all low ceilings and creaky floors and spare furnishings. This room had an intriguing, intricately patterned ceiling. In the corner rested an example of what the ceiling may have looked like back in the day, lively colors and all.

We took a peek at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the official residence of the Queen of England while in Scotland. Mary, Queen of Scots, lived here.

My goodness, the history keeps piling up.

A moment of cheer to balance the weight of history: Dr. Who's TARDIS! Otherwise known as a typical police information box.

Falling in love with Edinburgh even more: everywhichway streets! On the right is the George IV Bridge going up and on the left is Candlemaker's Row going down. The Elephant House is just up the ways on George IV Bridge.

Walking along Candlemaker's Row. It was nice to get away from the crowds on the Royal Mile, like sharing in a secret only the locals know about.

A touch of whimsy to end the 4 hour whirlwind tour: a jaunty stag on a fountain.

And with that we caught the train and headed down to our next stop on the trip: Hadrian's Wall.

Old Town Edinburgh: Love at First Sight

2011-02-05T13:17:00.001-05:00

I fell in love with Old Town Edinburgh at first sight, this narrow stairway burrowing through a building. This was my first glimpse of a "close."

Closes and wynds are Scottish terms for alleyways. There are plenty along the Royal Mile, the street running from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace (the place where the Queen stays when in Scotland). Some are entrances to tenement buildings. Others serve as connectors between the Royal Mile and parallel streets, such as Cowgate and East Market Street.

World's End Close, so named because it was the last close before the old city gates--the "end of the world" for some of the residents of Old Town, who did not ever venture beyond the city gates. This particular close has been around since at least the 15th century.

Old Tolbooth Wynd, built in 1591.

Striking clock and turret on the building through which Old Tolbooth Wynd passes.

In 1861, some tenements along the Royal Mile collapsed without warning. While people were clearing the wreckage, they heard a voice, "Heave awa' chaps, I'm no dead yet." Joseph McIver was pulled out. Paisley Close was built in place of the tenements and a monument to McIver erected at the entrance, with his quote memorialized for all to see.

Looking down a close. I'm guessing this one would take you down to Market Street.

This site provides some interesting information on the closes and wynds of the Royal Mile.

Farewell to the Cairngorms

2011-02-02T21:03:00.000-05:00

We bid our farewells to kind Mary and her black lab Poppy. Cairn Eilrig was the place where we felt most at home. We looked forward to our afternoon teas in the sitting room, where we could look out over the Cairngorms and visit with Mary. Mary took very good care of us--not only did she feed us hearty food and provide ample afternoon tea fare, she washed clothes for us and shuttled us to the beginning of our hikes.

While planning the trip and figuring out how to get from Aviemore, Scotland to Haydon Bridge, England, I noticed that we would have to switch trains in Edinburgh or Glasgow to continue our journey down into England. We decided to squeeze some sightseeing into the layover in Edinburgh before catching the next train south to England.

This is the great thing about the rail system and the compactness of the United Kingdom - you can quite literally wake up in the Cairngorms, eat lunch in Edinburgh, and take a walk along Hadrian's Wall in the evening (which I'll write about later).

Our first good look at Edinburgh ("Ed-en-burrah" is the correct pronunciation, as Mary pointed out to us during one of our afternoon chats) after disembarking at Waverley Station. Old Town looms in the distance.

More pictures from our four hour jaunt around Old Town Edinburgh are coming up...

Cairngorm Hotel and Highland cuisine

2011-01-26T16:29:00.000-05:00

It was easy to imagine that Hector Naismith MacDonald from Monarch of the Glen would walk in at anytime.

We ate dinner a couple of times at Cairngorm Hotel. How could you resist dining in such surroundings as this? We don't typically go for stout meat and potatoes fare if there are some ethnic restaurants to choose from, but we had to go back another time.

When we first walked in, I stopped in my tracks and almost laughed out loud at the amount of plaid competing for attention. And yet the riot of color and pattern somehow worked.

Cairngorm Hotel across from the bus station. We didn't get to eat in the turret nook on the first floor, unfortunately.

It was Hot Highland Buffet Night on our second trip to the Cairngorm Hotel. Here are the foods we sampled:

Steak mince
Haggis (yes, we tried it again! and still liked it!)
Cairngorm stovies
Venison casserole
Bubblyjock pie (turkey and ham in a pie)
Clapshot (potatoes and turnips)
Skirlie (onion and oatmeal stuffing)
Potatoes Rob Roy (potatoes with black pudding)

Loch an Eilein and the Rothiemurchus Estate

2011-01-24T20:00:00.000-05:00

The afternoon of our mind-numbingly cold hike, we rented bikes and explored a small part of the Rothiemurchus Estate.

As soon as I heard about Loch an Eilein castle, I made sure we picked a trail that promised views of this 13th century castle.

The castle appeared to be adrift in the loch. I entertained daydreams of rowing a boat out to the castle, through the entrance conveniently at water level, and exploring a castle yard claimed by nature. Perhaps it was Avalon and I would have found Arthur asleep. More likely I would have disturbed some mundane birds.

We got back on our bikes and continued along the trail, passing countless stately trees.

I should have taken a picture with one of us standing next to a giant tree to give a sense of scale.

The Rothiemurchus Forest contains one of the largest surviving remanants of the ancient Caledonian forest that once covered Scotland. Today, less than 1 percent remains.

We had the trail to ourselves. It was very peaceful. Riding the bike helped me shake off the lingering bone-deep cold from the failed hike that morning.

As we cycled along the trail, John Muir's quote came to mind: "Come to the woods for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods."

This abandoned building called out to be explored.

We tried to figure out the purpose of the rooms suggested by the vague outlines in the ground, persistently remaining long after the abandonment.

Perhaps this was a hinge for a door long since rotted or recycled?

A window or a very low door?

Something about this block of stone propped across an open space amused me. It prompts the question "Why?" and reminds me of the child I was, incessantly asking my parents the meaning of this and that, of everything. I just want to know.

This flower was determined to grow in the midst of ruin. What a brilliant color! I never much cared for orange until I saw this cheerful flower, a miniature sunburst in a pile of rocks.

Highland Folk Museum and Kingussie

2011-01-17T16:33:00.001-05:00

For this rest day, I had planned a visit to Kingussie. That was it--no details, other than the small thrill of visiting a location used in the TV series Monarch of the Glen. I figured we would come up with something else to complete the day, and our Cairn Eilrig hostess Mary stepped in with a wonderful suggestion: the Highland Folk Museum in Newtonmore, which is conveniently within walking distance of Kingussie.

We took the bus to Newtonmore and walked around the town before heading to the museum.

I don't know my flowers very well, but the trees with this lovely yellow flower were everywhere. The day was drab and grey, so this flower perked my spirits.

Rhododendron was everywhere in Scotland, and in bloom while we were there. Wouldn't it be nice to have this driveway to come home to everyday?

Every house, cottage, condo, living residence of any kind in the United Kingdom, has a name--usually a flowery sentimental name. Ravenscroft caught my eye by not following convention.

The Highland Folk Museum is a living history museum that portrays the history of life in the Highlands for the past 200 years. This was "Macpherson's Tailor's Shop." In the front was the shop.

In the back was where he did his work. There was a stove with a kettle perched on top, a sewing machine in front of the window, and a table with pattern pieces laid out on top. The kettle completed the picture. Tea is an integral part of life!

There was the Clockmaker's Workshop, which was jammed with all sorts of clocks, machine parts, and other knick-knacks. It put me in mind of my grandmother's basement, where I like to go treasure-hunting whenever I go home to visit. The clockmaker seemed very close, as if he had just stepped outside for a moment.

We headed towards the Township, which was a recreation of a community of rural folks dating from the late 18th to early 19th century. These trees guarded the path.

This was a typical house, with earthen walls and thatched roofs. The homes were very primitive, even the home of the head tenant. It seemed that rank determined only whether you had a bed or slept on the ground, or had a fancy fire pit or not. Everything else was the same: dirt floors, dark interiors save for the light from the entrance or the small hole in the ceiling to let the smoke out.

Traditional peat-fires were going inside each house, which made the interiors very smoky. The museum strove for authenticity, which meant there was no light inside the houses other than what the peat-fires gave off (not much). It was very hard for us to really see what the interiors looked like - I have vague memories of dimly defined sleeping cabinets in one house, and a pot of porridge cooking in another.

What was particularly eye-opening was the thought that these Highlanders were living much the same way as their ancestors had since the Medieval Ages, even up to the Georgian and Regency periods! Think of all those Regency balls going on in London while these folks were struggling to make a living in the Highlands.

One of the re-enactors spoke to us about the fabrics the highlanders would have worn. This cheerful white and red striped fabric was expensive and therefore would have been proudly displayed or worn as a sign of status. She also explained that traditional highland sheep naturally shed their wool, and the Highlanders would have gathered it rather than shearing their sheep. We had been wondering ever since we saw the sheep near Achintee Farm, with half their wool coats dragging on the ground, if the farmers were negligent, so this cleared up our confusion.

Jon reading the complicated instructions on how to properly wear a kilt. I think one of the steps involved laying on the ground at one point--I suppose for those men who didn't have someone to help them wrap the long length of fabric around their persons?

After the Highland Folk Museum, we walked along a bike path to Kingussie, three miles away. This ScotRail train passed us. This is the type of train that took us to all of our destinations within the United Kingdom. I guess we could have taken the train to Kingussie, but we love to walk.

We got lunch at the Tipsy Laird. The World Cup was playing. Men were at the bar with drinks, keeping an eye on the score. A couple came in with their two dogs, one of whom unabashedly begged from me, creeping ever closer to my side of the pub. It was very quiet, except for the murmur of conversations taking place around us. J. had been hoping to get a soccer-fans-in-a-pub experience, so the subdued nature of this lunch was a letdown.

J. continued watching the World Cup while I took a walk around the town. The main part of town was a solid block of Highland stone. Nothing was open and not very many people were out and about. Being around buildings made me miss the mountains and open air. This was supposed to be a rest day, but my mind kept wandering back to he Cairngorms and the heather and the Rothimurchus Forest below Cairn Eilrig.

School let out while I was walking past the school building. Kids streamed past in those ubiquitous uniforms, chattering about everything under the sun. Teenagers headed to the local pharmacy--I guess this would be the equivalent of hanging out at the gas station in America. I wish I had gone to school here.

This is the Kingussie train station. J. and I couldn't determine what this building used to be before it was converted into a train station. Perhaps we were departing from a former monastery?

Merry Christmas

2010-12-24T09:56:00.000-05:00

Nativity by Sir Edward Burne-Jones

The Virgin brings forth today

the Word Eternal

and the earth offers a cave

to the Unapproachable.

Angels give glory with shepherds,

and the Magi journey with the star,

when for our sakes was born

as a new babe

He who is from eternity, God.

~Romanos

Cairn Gorm and Fiacaill Ridge

2010-12-08T21:05:00.001-05:00

The other hike we did in the Cairngorms was perfect in every way, except for the fact that we were still recovering from our hikes up Ben Nevis and around the Ring of Steall (we actually did the numbingly cold hike after this one -- I haven't been following a strict chronology while blogging about this trip), and so were a little tired. It's probably because of the hiker's "bonk"* that I don't have a real narrative for this hike.

We set off from the Cairngorm Ski Park, intending to hike up Cairn Gorm and along Fiacaill Ridge.

The trail was nice and smooth for the first part of the hike. I admired the heather blanketing the ground.

If we had been able to get over the spine of Cairgn Gorm, I think that is the ridge we would have walked along on the last part of the hike.

The clouds remained far above and we were able to enjoy the view of the Rothiemurchus Forest, Glenmore, and Aviemore off in the distance.

I said Scotland is rocky.

Our first good look at Fiacaill Ridge.

Fiacaill Ridge looked like blocks set carefully on top of each other to form teetering columns in danger of sliding away.

This is about as far as we got before we had to turn back. Snow and ice covered the trail. We couldn't figure out a way to bypass the obstruction. The rocks on the left were too steep to clamber over, and the land dropped away too sharply on the other side for us to safely go that way.

On the bright side, while making our way back down Cairn Gorm, we met the ptarmigan, of which I have spoken before.

Last, but not least, we saw plenty of bog cotton along the trail. What a homey name for such a funny looking plant. It made me think of fairy brooms.

*The "bonk" is what you can sometimes feel after putting your body through a massive exertion of effort (such as 2 difficult hikes of 10 - 12 hours each within a few days of each other) and not yet eating enough calories to make up for the caloric deficit that results from such an effort. All of this combined makes for a nagging sense of fatigue and a stomach that annoyingly feels like a dry, echoing well no matter how much food you stuff into it.

Cairn Gorm is rocky

2010-12-07T21:02:00.000-05:00

Looking up at J. on the side of Cairn Gorm

Scotland has a lot of rocks.

In which we are defeated by wind and rain on Cairn Gorm and Ben Macdui

2010-11-15T19:40:00.000-05:00

Here is a little background on the previous post and the quote from Tolkien's Return of the King, in which Frodo sees the Grey Havens for the first time.

Our plan was to hike out to Ben Macdui, Britain's second highest peak, from Cairn Gorm. They are among the cloud capped mountains above.

But that plan bit the dust once we entered the clouds and were subjected to fierce winds and rain. I have never been as cold as I was on the side of Cairn Gorm. We were prepared for wet conditions, but not for wet conditions, 30 mph winds with occasional wicked gusts greater than that, and a windchill of 26 degrees that came out of nowhere. One minute, we were hiking along, damp but comfortable; the next minute, the temperature plummeted and the wind came.

We were so cold, we lost all sensation in our hands. It took me several agonizingly slow minutes to put my gloves on. I had to consciously tell my fingers when to open and when to close. It was strange to have no sensation in my hands and stranger still to have to work at communicating with this part of my body.

Also unnerving were the clouds. They moved to and fro according to the wind's fancy. One moment our view was obscured,

and the next moment, the cloud blew away and we could see how close we were to edge without realizing it.

The cold befuddled us. This was the most disturbing thing of all. It's hard to describe. I only have a vague memory of how heavy my body seemed (I was no longer feeling the cold) and how tiring it was to form a coherent thought. It seems obvious to us now, warm and cozy inside the house, that we should have turned around and gone back once we realized that our gear was not adequate for the weather conditions, but it took our cold-addled minds a while to come to this conclusion.

When we turned to go back, the clouds lifted, oh so briefly, and revealed the far green country and lochs we would not be able to explore. Then, as quickly as they dissipated, the wind drew them back, walling off the view behind a dank grey veil.

The cold and the befuddlement have heightened my memory of that brief moment to the point of a dream. For the first time, I keenly understood how Frodo felt when he saw the Grey Havens for the first time.

But at least he got to go on.

Rain in the Cairngorms

2010-11-09T19:39:00.000-05:00

"The grey rain-curtain

turned all to silver glass

and was rolled back

and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country

under a swift sunrise."

(J.R.R. Tolkien, Return of the King)

Encountering the ptarmigan in the Cairngorms

2010-11-04T19:15:00.000-04:00

We startled this ptarmigan and her chicks while out hiking. There was an explosion of feathers and frantic clucking as the chicks scurried to their hidey-holes and mama ptarmigan boldly remained in full view.

She then proceeded to lure us away from her chicks (we humored her, as we were going in the right direction anyways) by dancing in and out of the nooks and crannies of the boulder field, always just ahead of us.

When J. made the mistake of detouring around a boulder and thus towards her chicks, she came right up to his feet, flapping her wings and squawking a racket.

Several times, we thought she had left, now that we were clearly moving away from her chicks, but, nope, she would pop up from behind a random boulder, like a mole in the whack-a-mole games at Chuck E. Cheese. It was quite amusing to be treated as bothersome predators.

Later on, a gentleman gave us a ride into Aviemore. He was an avid birdwatcher, out on a bird-watching expedition around Europe. We told him about the ptarmigan and learned that it is actually quite rare to spot one. Not only are they reclusive, but they blend in so well with their environment--as you can see from the picture above.

In which we are introduced to haggis

2010-10-22T21:33:00.000-04:00

Our hostess Mary fed us quite well during our stay at Cairn Eilrig. Knowing we were off gallivanting in the mountains, she prepared stout fare that would fuel our hikes: thick porridge, bacon and sausage, eggs, beans, mushrooms, oatcakes, endless toast and jam.

As a breakfast person, I loved it. I tucked it all away everyday. Even if I wasn't quite so hungry one morning or two, I found room for her porridge and sausage. It was that good.

So one day, J. and I were raving about the sausage she served us that morning. It was a very unassuming black patty of crumbling matter. But once we took a bite, its rich earthy flavor and subtle seasonings blew us away. It was that good.

We asked Mary about it.

"Oh, it's not sausage," she said, "It's haggis!"

A little back story here: I'm normally quite willing to try new foods. Even fish. But not organ meats. I draw the line there. When people asked us, upon hearing that we were going to Scotland, whether we were going to try haggis (go find out exactly what it is - I'll wait), our response was a flat "no."

And sly Mary slipped it to us underneath our very noses.

Even as the reality of what I had consumed that morning slapped me upside the head, no sense of revulsion followed. It was that good.

Over the hills and through the woods to the Cairngorms

2010-10-16T09:09:00.001-04:00

Our next stop on the trip was the Cairngorms, on the other side of Scotland in the eastern Highlands. One would think, looking at a map, that you could just head due east and get there in relatively short time, but no. We had to take the bus north to Inverness, then catch a train southeast to Aviemore, then hop on a bus to Glenmore, then walk up the hill to where our bed and breakfast Cairn Eilrig is located behind the Reindeer Center.

But I'm not complaining.

How can you when you have views like this from the bus?

This is a far cry from my experience with bus rides, which has been limited mostly to the stretch between O'Hare airport in Chicago and my hometown of Rockford, Illinois, where there are cornfields as far as the eye can see and random collections of industrial buildings.

We passed lots of homes like this.

We rode for a long time along Loch Ness. Nessie did not make an appearance. It wasn't really the weather for monsters--the sky was a lively blue and the surface of the loch was dappled with sunlight. No mist or moaning wind.

We arrived in Inverness, where the buildings all seemed to be carved out of the same block of stone.

Various storefronts tried to introduce a dash of color into the mix.

The train station was modern, white, and airy. These little guys were posted on a wall.

We arrived at Aviemore Railway Station, which was decorated with candycane colors. I loved the railway stations of the United Kingdom. While the Victorians sometimes overdo it in the decorating capacity, their railway stations are lovely.

Our final destination, Cairn Eilrig (Hill of the Deer Walk), where we met our gracious host Mary and her black lab Poppy.

How can you resist reindeer? The Reindeer Center is located just beneath Cairn Eilrig. I peeked over the fence numerous times during our stay in the Cairngorms.

On to the Cairngorms

2010-10-14T19:51:00.000-04:00

View of the Cairngorms from Cairn Eilrig, the bed and breakfast we stayed at during our time in the eastern Highlands of Scotland.

The path between Fort William and Ben Nevis

2010-10-08T18:09:00.000-04:00

There is a path between Fort William and the Ben Nevis trailhead. Achintee Farm is right on this path, so we walked this way several times daily during our stay in the Fort William area.

The path mostly follows this stream as it winds its way down from Glen Nevis.

Trees line the way

and grow in the middle of the way.

Fields are nearby,

lined with posts shaggy with old man's beard moss.

There are usually sheep, their baas aloft on the wind.

The mountains loom in the distance.

A path with mountains in the background needs a welcoming home at its end.

I wish I could walk this way everyday.

Mallaig and the West Highland line

2010-09-26T21:17:00.000-04:00

We had nothing in particular planned for our last day in Fort William After wandering aimlessly for a couple hours, breakfasting at Cafe 115 along the way, we decided on a whim to take a trip on the train somewhere.

Thus we ended up on the train out to Mallaig, a small port on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands. Our route took us through some breathtakingly wild and gorgeous land. We found out later that the West Highland line is considered the most picturesque train journey in the United Kingdom.

Serendipity smiled on us this day. This route crosses the Glenfinnian Viaduct, which is often used in the Harry Potter movies. It was even more impressive to see in person, even though we couldn't really pause to absorb the sight (the train keeps moving - it's not the Jacobite Steam Train).

Typical Scottish hills, vivid green, rocky, and worn with the passing of ages.

We passed many more harbors like this as the train worked its way northwest of Fort William. It was along this route that the mercurial Scottish weather revealed its tamer side: grey and overcast skies, a nippy wind.

Church of Our Lady of Braes stands out against the bleak landscape.

I felt a tug of sea longing when we passed this bay.

We arrived at the end of the line (literally for the West Highland line) in Mallaig. It struck me as a hard, flinty sort of place, resolutely maintaining its perch on the edge of Scotland in spite of hard winds and the toil of making a living from the sea. As it was a Sunday, the harbor was quiet and we didn't get a chance to see any fishboats at work.

We saw some battered boats that were still in use and covered with all sorts of tools that only a fisherman would know how to use.

We had lunch at the Tea Garden. It had a pretty outdoor seating area covered with climbing vines and potted plants of all shapes and sizes.

I got fish and chips while J. tried cullen skink, a soup made with haddock, potatoes and cream. We had tea, of course.

After lunch, we walked around the harbor to take in the views.

This is the closest we got to the Isle of Skye. We toyed with the idea of catching a ferry to Skye, but after comparing the timetables of the ferry and the train, we realized we would have to hop right back on the ferry after half an hour on Skye in order to catch the train back to Fort William.

I watched these seagull chicks while we waited for the train back to Fort William. They blended in perfectly with the the rocks within these train tracks. I found the idea of these brash birds as babies highly amusing.

The train runs along Loch Eil for a while. The weather brightened as we headed back to Fort William. Such prolonged, cheerful sunniness was unusual: another one of our stereotypes (blustery weather, wind with prying fingers, mist hugging the heather on the lonely Highlands) bit the dust.

Back to Fort William, always in the shadow of Ben Nevis.

Ben Nevis Inn is a welcome sight

2010-09-23T20:53:00.001-04:00

After the long descent down Sgurr a' Mhaim (on the left in the photo above), during which I often considered just laying down and rolling down the rest of the way (what's a few more bruises, considering the bruises and scrapes I had already sustained from my countless falls?), we made it to level ground and prepared for the 6 mile trek back to Achintee Farm along the road.

Naturally, we rather hoped that some passing car would take pity on us and let us hitch a ride. This is how we made it to the trailhead at the beginning of this hike--an American couple on vacation while on sabbatical in Durham, England picked us up after we had hiked 2 or so miles on the road. Luckily, after 10 minutes of walking, a van full of sullen teenage boys and two camp leaders pulled over and let us in.

J. and I were on edge once the van started moving because one of the camp leaders who appeared to be in the driver's seat kept looking back at us while we chatted. All the while the van whipped back and forth along the serpentine road, somehow staying on course, even as he kept looking at us. We thought he must know the road pretty well to drive the van so carelessly.

Then we realized that we were in the United Kingdom and the driver's seat is on the right side of the van. Part of what fooled us about the chatty man on the left was his habit of resting his hand on the dashboard. From our perspective, he truly looked like he had his hand on the wheel.

I drank tea nonstop during our trip

With this realization, we were able to relax and anticipate, oh joy!, the piles of hot food and stout beers we would have (for nothing is more wonderful to a ravenous hiker than real food in an abysmally empty stomach). I got potato leek pie, thick slices of bread with butter, large quantities of tea and cream, beer, and sticky toffee pudding.

Ben Nevis Inn dwarfed by the mountains

At last fully sated, with food and views, we headed back to Achintee Farm where we slept long and deeply. Thus ends another day.

Ring of Steall

2010-09-20T19:08:00.001-04:00

Your narrators for the Ring of Steall hike. We were blessed with wonderful weather, but struck dumb by the land. Let the pictures tell the story here:

Making our way up the Nevis Gorge.

The trees open up into Glen Nevis. The Steall Waterfall, one of the three highest waterfalls in Scotland, is ahead in the distance. An Gearnach (The Complainer), first peak of the hike, rears its head. It looks the spine of a dragon lazily raising itself up.

We begin the long ascent of The Complainer. Here is one of the views that was our constant companion as we climbed and climbed. The rock formations are fascinating -- perhaps the mark of the dragon's claws?

You certainly have to have a head for heights here! The views more than compensate.

Looking back at the trail hugging the side of An Gearnach. Can you spot me?

A panaromic shot looking out at Ben Nevis.

Looking around the shoulder of An Gearnach, we have our first glimpse of the "Ring."

Looking back the way we came up the side of An Gearnach (The Complainer). Look for me, the spot of blue in the distance. Yes, it really is that steep. Notice the dragon's marks in the background.

On top of An Gearnach. Ben Nevis and the Carn Mor Dearg Arete are behind me.

Our first good look at the Ring. The peak of An Garbhanach (The Rough One) is straight ahead. Next is Stob Coire a' Chairn (Peak of the Corrie of the Cairns)

Stob Coire a' Chairn, Am Bodach (The Old Man), Sgorr an Iubhair (Peak of the Yew Tree), beginning of the Devil's Ridge. The peaks look like folds of fabric flung over the bones of the earth.

So close and yet so far: looking across the valley from An Gearnach to Sgurr a' Mhaim (Peak of the Breast), last peak of the hike.

Skirting some particularly rough patches on the "The Rough One."

J.'s glamour shot.

Pausing to figure out exactly where the trail is.

I have no idea how we got over this. Can you pick out the trail?

But we got over it somehow, because there's me picking my way down.

Am Bodach (The Old Man) is next. You would think that The Old Man would be a mild walk in the park, but we did some serious boulder scrambling. I was on my hands and knees at times. It was nowhere near as scary as climbing Ben Nevis, but you needed to concentrate.

On top of The Old Man, looking back at The Rough One.

This is what the trail looked like at times. Perplexed and a wee bit nerve-wracked? So were we. Especially when you put this picture in context...

... welcome to the Devil's Ridge. The trail at times narrowed to three feet in diameter, with steep drops at either side. If you slipped, you had a long way to go before impact.

Looking down at the Devil's Ridge from the side of Sgurr a' Mhaim.

The summit of Sgurr a'Mhaim is covered in quartzite. From a distance, it looks like a snow-covered peak.

J. demonstrates how one descends scree. It was actually a strangely pleasant sensation, slipping and sliding your way down these loose piles of stones. It made me think of playground ball pits in McDonald's or Chuck E. Cheese's.

Beginning the long descent. You might not realize this, but your ankles can get tired. And when they get tired, you will have a very hard time remaining upright. I fell too many times to count.

The trail was suffering from some serious erosion. At times, the trail had eroded so much, I was walking through miniature canyons, where the level of the ground around the trail was at waist height.

We want to go back. I think you would, too, in spite of steep drops and the seemingly innocuous Old Man.

Scenes around Fort William

2010-08-29T10:41:00.001-04:00

Fort William was a nice little town situated near the base of Ben Nevis, on the shores of Loch Lhinne.

The downtown was mostly dominated by touristy shops full of tartan-related souvenirs, all sorts of whiskey and shortbreads, and all the other cheap thingamajings that tourists like to get. As we were chiefly in the area for Ben Nevis, this did not disappoint us as we explored the town.

There were some pretty buildings, such as the Alexandra Hotel.

There were several churches, one of them with a lovely tree carving above the entrance.

There was a public library where we checked our email. Noticing that I was logging in from a different IP address than normal, Facebook made me validate my online identity.

A typical English breakfast that did us quite well after the Carn Mor Dearg Arete hike.

There was a nice cafe (Cafe 115) that we kept returning to for breakfast and afternoon tea. They had giant scones that were tasty, but quite different from the dense scones I'm used to in America. Theirs were more cake-like, delicately sweet with an airy crumb.

I found this sign sadly amusing.

We walked past this cemetery and the nursing home near it along this road quite a bit between Achintee Farm and Fort William.

We did not get a lolly.

We visited Morrison's to stock up on food for our next hike. I did not find the rows of marmalade and marmite enticing.

Exploring Old Inverlochy Castle

2010-08-25T19:08:00.000-04:00

We took a day off from serious hiking and walked to Old Inverlochy Castle along the Great Glen Way.

We passed a elderly gentleman, complete with tweed jacket and corduroy slacks, out for a leisurely stroll.

We completely missed the castle and did not realize our mistake until we crossed River Lochy and looked back to admire Ben Nevis. What a pretty picture the castle makes with the Ben in the background!

The castle was surprisingly intact for dating back to the 13th century and going through lots of wear and tear in the meantime (several battles, plenty of forceful takeovers, etc.).

We walked around the courtyard imagining the hustle and bustle that would have taken place here way back when.

I climbed crumbling stairs.

Jon sat.

We walked around the perimeter and imagined where the moat would have been.

These lovely flowers blanketed the courtyard.

Carn Mor Dearg Arete

2010-08-17T16:26:00.000-04:00

A distant shot of the Carn Mor Dearg Arete, taken from the side of An Gearanach.

In the picture above, Ben Nevis is the highest point on the left. Follow the arm of the mountain to the right where it dips then rises in a quick succession of two peaks. That ridge is the Carn Mor Dearg Arete, the route we hiked up Ben Nevis.

Here is a closeup of part of the arete.

This is one of the things I so enjoy about hiking--the simultaneously grand and intimate view of the world one gets just by setting foot out the door.

Ben Nevis: There and back again

2010-08-15T21:11:00.001-04:00

The kind owner of Achintee Farm welcomed us to the hostel with open arms, in spite of the fact that we were early and walked in on him fixing the toilet. He assured us that we could easily make the ascent of Ben Nevis ("Mountain with its head in the clouds" or "Mountain of heaven") if we left soon (it was about 11 AM when we arrived), as there was no guarantee that the fine weather that day would still be so fine for the rest of our stay in Fort William. The days are so long in that part of Scotland that, even if we got stuck at the top of the mountain in the gloom in the evening, he told us we could just wait a few hours until dawn when it started lightening up again and we could see well enough to pick out our way down.

"You're capable - you can do it. I trust you," he said. That was quite a compliment, coming from a native who knows the terrain like the back of his hand. With his rich Scottish brogue, he added, "Aye, and you'll sleep." We were soon to discover how true his prediction would be after we returned from the hike.

We set off up the trail, which quickly turned into a long and steep climb up stone steps crafted to keep trail erosion at bay. The land fell steeply away on one side as we settled into the rhythm of climbing. The mind wanders as I climb, the ache of my legs a distant murmur that I can ignore as I imagine that I am a hobbit off on a grand adventure. Another step, and another, until it all runs together and all I can remember is that I have always been climbing, and my streams of thoughts have coalesced into an ocean on which I am adrift in daydream. Then, lo and behold, the climbing stops, the ocean disperses, and I look about myself in befuddlement, stray memories clinging like dew to my conscious: how did the top come so fast?

The land abruptly flattened once we reached Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe ("Halfway Lochan"). From there, we turned off the main tourist track, up Allt a' Mhuilinn ("Stream of the Mill") valley, which is bordered on one side by the brooding north face of Ben Nevis, towering 2300 feet above the valley.

The north face of Ben Nevis was immense. It looked like giants were emerging from the earth. Clouds shrouded the summit. We stopped to stare countless times.

We went off trail and beat our way up the steep side of Carn Mor Dearg ("Great Red Peak"), opposite the north face of Ben Nevis. Going off trail went against every American trail etiquette sensibility that we had, but our host assured us that because so few people go this route, they encourage this approach to spread out any wear and tear we hikers bring to the land.

The vegetation was different what we were used to. We would occasionally sink to our knees in spongy vegetation. This mentality of "two steps forward, one step back" soon became maddening on this incredibly steep slope and I quickly learned to distinguish what type of grass grew on firmer ground.

The red deer had no problems traversing the terrain.

Sometimes we had to clamber over piles of large rocks, which required a delicate sense of balance. At one point, a boulder I was perched upon began to shift. I immediately began to step onto the next rock, which also began to move ominously under my weight. I will never forget the sense of sheer terror that cut through my heart at that split second as I had a vision of the rocks giving way under me and the boulder just above smashing into me. I managed to lean forward and hug the rocks in front of me (this should give you an idea of just how steep the slope was) while J. coached me on where to place my feet and hands.

I promptly broke out into tears once we made it to the top of the ridge. And then I was fine and we went on.

Which was just as well because the scarier parts were still ahead: the Carn Mor Dearg Arete. But I was able to face those parts with equanimity. The scary bits came when the trail dropped off the ridge-top and hugged the ridge. During those times, the trail was a thin, pitiful thing that you could just barely make out in the jumble of rocks scattered on the side of the mountain. It was a matter of thinking only as far ahead as where to make your next step. We would pause to catch our breath and look back and have no idea how we got to that point. We were hugging rocks, blindly feeling with our feet for secure footholds. At one point, the trail petered out and we stood there, leaning against the mountain, looking at the mess of rocks and looking at each other. On one side, the mountain, on the other, a long uninterrupted fall to the valley floor. Then we spotted a rock jutting out that we thought just might take us to better ground. Once we made that move, we easily spied a way back up to the ridgetop that we couldn't have seen one step before.

We took a break at the head of the Allt a' Mhuillin valley, absorbing how far we had come. The north face of Ben Nevis loomed even closer on the left. On the right was the slope that made me cry.

We finished the rest of the Carn Mor Dearg Arete and made it to the base of the Ben Nevis summit. A boulder field rose up before us, a massive pile of boulders that looked like the aftermath of a battle between giants. We scrambled up the boulders, occasionally crossing paths of scree, loose rock that likes to slide and take you with it. Knowing the cliff edge was to the right, we made sure to keep to the center of the boulder field, always veering left whenever we encountered obstacles.

These rocks were very annoying to walk on. I was very tired of rocks by this point.

We had no idea we were close to the summit until we climbed a boulder and unexpectedly stepped onto level ground. The ruins of an observatory and other buildings were scattered about the summit.

There was snow at the summit, even in June. J. pointed out this cornice of snow, whipped out to a fine edge over Five Finger Gully. Snow can be deceptive, making you think you are on solid ground, when you might actually be treading on a cornice that may crack and send you free-falling to an unpleasant end.

We walked out of that cloud.

We took our time descending Ben Nevis. Down and down we went over rocks. There were always rocks, even in the midst of such green country. My ankles were weak, my knees tired. Down and down we went, all 4400 feet back to Achintee Farm. It took us 8 hours to climb Ben Nevis via the Carn Mor Dearg Arete path. It took us 2 hours to descend.

We slept well that night.

We see the mountains of Scotland for the first time

2010-08-09T20:49:00.000-04:00

After we descended all 212 steps of the bell tower in Bath Abbey, we headed into London to catch the Caledonian Sleeper train to Fort William, Scotland.

We started laughing when we opened the door to our compartment. There wasn't standing room for both of us and our luggage. We managed to situate ourselves and our monstrous bags, and I fell asleep to the lull of the train working its way north through England.

The wild hills of Scotland greeted us when we awoke the next morning. We sat at the window mesmerized by the landscape. It was quite a change from the gentle hills of England.

The train conductors don't announce stops. You're expected to be ready and waiting with your luggage at the doors to alight when the train rolls into your stop. You have a few minutes to jump off before the train starts rolling again. Fort William was the end of the line for both us and the train, so there wasn't a rush to get off immediately. Though who would want to stick around in the closet-sized compartments any longer than they have to is beyond me.

We walked two miles to Achintee Farm, where we would be staying for 4 nights. The Ben Nevis path begins within several hundred yards of the hostel. I chose this lodging wisely, if I might say so myself.

The mountains are ever-present. They loom over us all, slumbering giants, ponderous with the weight of time immemorial. Ben Nevis is the greatest peak in the United Kingdom, at over 4000 feet high. In the picture above, the Ben is the brooding mountain on the left.

Foolhardy or not, we went on to climb all 4000 feet soon after we checked into Achintee Farm. I'll share my tale of the 10 hour ascent on another day.

Bath, England

2010-08-03T19:03:00.001-04:00

Today was our last morning in Lacock. We bid the sheep a fond farewell as we trekked through their field one last time. They ignored us. Mostly.

We decided, sort of last minute, to go to Bath for the day before heading into London to catch the sleeper up to Scotland. The Bath train station did not have a left luggage facility, but we gambled that there would be a backpacker hostel that would store our bags for cheap while we took the sights in. Our gamble paid off and we left our bags with a mohawked, tattooed, albeit extremely polite and soft-spoken young man at the Bath Bathpacker hostel.

Bath is a beautiful city. The heart of the city is crammed with Georgian buildings and homes made with local honey-colored Bath Stone.

I wish our street signs could look like this

On a bright sunny day, the stone is imbued with a warmth (doesn't "honey-colored" make you feel warm inside just reading it?) that infects you with good spirits, so you stroll around Bath with a grin plastered on your face and a feeling that all is right with the world.

Georgian architecture is very pleasing to the eye. Influenced by the classical architecture of Greece and Rome, it's all about clean lines, proportion, and elegant details*. This devotion to order makes for handsome buildings that you just want to sit and stare at for a long time. It's almost like meditation, letting your eyes roam over the perfect proportions of the buildings, unsnarling the kinks of your mind in the process.

We walked to the Royal Crescent and admired the half-circle of stately townhomes. I couldn't help but think of the 2007 Persuasion, in which Anne is depicted running along the front of the Royal Crescent, desperate to get to Captain Wentworth and declare her love for him, or whatever it was that she had to do. These are not buildings that you just start running in front of. These buildings would frown upon such an act, such is the weight of awe you get just from looking at them from afar. What better way could there be to show the risk Anne took with the simple act of running than to have her run in front of the Royal Crescent?

We stumbled upon the Jane Austen Center on our way back into the heart of Bath. It was a nicely put together museum, with scenes of typical life in Bath during Jane Austen's time, complete with dummies wearing the fashions of the time.

J. and I snickered at the poster-sized reproductions of the portrait of Mr. Darcy as portrayed by Colin Firth in the giftshop. We snickered even more when we saw the door to the men's restroom.

We visited the Roman Baths. The water really is that green. And warm. You could feel the heat if you sat down at the water's edge.

The museum was full of ancient artifacts, such as this mosaic floor. As Americans, it was a little breathtaking to be in the presence of such ancient history.

After a snack of black coffee and pain au chocolat at a hole-in-the-wall cafe, we explored Bath Abbey. We were struck dumb. The Abbey was an art form composed of light and air**.

We went up the bell tower, climbing 212 steps.

This is the ceiling we stood on

In addition to getting a bird's eye view of Bath, we got to stand on top of the vaulted ceiling. Our tour guide pointed at the keystone, which was about 6 inches long and a hand's span wide, saying, "If you pull that out, the ceiling will collapse." There was also a peephole through which we could see people milling about the abbey floor far below. The peephole revealed the thickness of the stone we were standing on to be about 6 inches thick. It was a little spooky. Nonetheless, the workmanship of craftsmen from 600 years ago held and I am here writing the latest post in our British adventures.

*Travellers with backpacks and worn tennis shoes will feel a little out of place inside such structures.

**Art is as much as about the "lack" of something as it is about substance. Dancers will sometimes interject moments of stillness into their routines. This lack of motion is as necessary to the dance as any leap or wave of the arm. So, too, with magnificent buildings. I notice the intricately vaulted ceiling, soaring columns, details of stone, but the space of light and air they encompass is the ever more powerful. As if the act of trying to contain the uncontainable illustrates for us the bittersweet futility of reaching for the unattainable in the here and now. We are all trying to touch God.

Oxford shots

2010-07-26T20:42:00.001-04:00

Some more Oxford pictures. More can be seen in the Oxford set on my flickr.

One of many faces lining a section of Broad Street in Oxford.

Another death's head in a church

I liked this building

Another tree along the Thames path

Only a chemist would be this happy.

J.'s students will be subjected to this picture when they learn about Boyle's Law

Oxford

2010-07-25T17:21:00.003-04:00

The United Kingdom as a whole is roughly the size of Oregon. This is one of the things I had a hard time getting used to: how very close everything is. The entire trip between Lacock and Oxford, including waiting*, took about an hour or so. It was no big deal for us to hop on the bus and make several train connections to get to Oxford.

We arrived at Oxford in a chaos of tourists. School groups and tour groups jammed the heart of the city. Trying to move through the crowds sometimes felt like slogging through molasses.

There were lots of Oxford students out and about, most in academic dress of some kind or other. Some students were wearing short robes with strange flaps of fabric dangling off the shoulders. According to wikipedia, these are "streamers adorned with folds," and are worn by undergraduates. Academic dress or not, they still looked funny, as if the undergraduates had sprouted extra arms.

The wildlife of Oxford

There were also schoolchildren in their uniforms. While we were waiting to cross at an intersection, we saw a schoolgirl walk by with artfully ripped tights. The group of schoolgirls next us started whispering furiously about her audacity.

We got our first proper tea at The Grand Cafe, site of the first coffeehouse in England. The art deco interior was dazzling, due to an abundance of gold leaf and enormous floor to ceiling windows.

I got a kick out of the counterweight for the door, a teapot.

The cafe was lit by lamps held aloft by arms sprouting from the walls. They were eeriely similar to the arms in Jean Cocteau's 1946 movie La Belle et la Bete. I kept expecting an arm to move, or the Beast himself to emerge from a hidden door, or out of one of those outlandishly huge mirrors. My kind of place!

Tea itself was scrumptious. A pot of steaming black tea, an overflowing sugar bowl (the British love their sugar), rich cream, and duchess cake, an intriguing mix of fudge, dried fruit, and nuts. I truly settled into England after this tea.

Of course, we took a tour of the Bodleian Library. Our group waited for the guide inside the Divinity School, the oldest university building, built between 1427-1483.

Harry Potter was here

While building stone doesn't quite have the air of nature, I felt as if we were in a light-dappled glade. Such is the effect of light and airy Gothic architecture, and the skill of stonemasons from over 500 years ago. The columns were trees leaning over us, spreading a lattice-work of branches overhead in the form of lierne vaulting.

I wish I could have a painted ceiling like this

We visited Duke Humphrey's medieval library. Books were not allowed to leave the room, not even for the king. He had a screened in alcove where he could read books in private without commoners gawking at him. There were also chained books, an early security measure in a time when books were extremely valuable.

After the Bodleian Library, we went to the TIC** and asked for directions to Tolkien's house. At first, we were greeted with a blank stare by the first employee we asked. After consultation with the entire staff, another employee came to the rescue and gave us directions***.

Tolkien's house is located in a very lovely suburb of Oxford, full of rambling old houses with arched windows, beautiful stonework, and windows full of happy plants. The house itself wasn't one of the nicer houses, but, nonetheless, it is notable for containing the drawing room where Tolkien wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

After this satisfying stroll away from the crowd of tourists, during which we noted that Tolkien had most likely walked the same route countless times, we headed to the Eagle & Child pub, where the Inklings used to meet and discuss their current literary endeavors.

The usual place for their meetings was in the Rabbit Room, but people were sitting there when we arrived, so we ended up sitting in the enclosed conservatory in the back. The bartenders recommended the nachos (I thought this was funny for some reason - nachos in England?), and we had some of the best beer of our trip there. J. went to the bathroom and told me he went into a room where Tolkien has been, but where I can never go.

This tree looks like it is about to eat me

We walked along the Thames path and marveled at the many specimens of giant trees along the way.

Various rowing clubs were practicing on the Thames. Once they got going, they really flew down the river.

We ate at Chequers pub for dinner. I got to try a "ploughman's lunch," which usually consists of cheese, bread, fruit, salad, chutney, and a petite meatpie. The cider I got here was the best cider I've ever had, Aspall Draught Suffolk Cyder, produced by Aspall Cyder. Not cloyingly sweet, it had a pleasing floral note with a satisfying finish that put one in mind of the barnyard--an interesting mix of sweet hay and musky animal scents. My description probably makes it sound unappealing, but you'll know where I'm coming from once you have a sip of this exquisite cider.

We returned to Damson Cottage pleasantly exhausted. A chorus of baa's sang down the moon that night as we startled sheep lining the path between Lacock and Reybridge.

*See first footnote of post "And so it begins"

**"Tourist Information Center"-invaluable sources of information while traveling in the United Kingdom

***If you're curious, the address is 20 Northmoor Road, Oxford

St. Cyriac's Church

2010-07-22T20:06:00.002-04:00

We were going to Oxford for the day, but missed the bus to Chippenham by five minutes (it can be hard to walk briskly so soon after a full English breakfast*). With an hour to spare until the next bus, we wandered to St. Cyriac's Church on the outskirts of Lacock.

We walked around the church, admiring the windows,

The church is known for its collection of "grotesques"

the gargoyles,

and the cemetery. We wondered whose grave this was, stuck in the ivy-strewn corner of the cemetery.

The rector came out while we were wandering the churchyard and told us we were welcome to enter and have a look.

This stone lady watched over the foyer.

The heavy doors opened after some coaxing. We crossed the threshold into the silence of light and air, and our breath was taken away. The walls were thick with the reverence of centuries of worship.

Not a relic of the past, St. Cyriac's is still a church. Sunday School tools were left out in the sanctuary.

These were the first of many death memorials we would see during our time in England. Scattered on the walls to our right were plaques commemorating church members who are most likely buried somewhere in the church floor.

Note the skull, or death's head. Nothing like our modern day gravestones!

Here is a typical memorial.

Look closer and you'll see Sharington emblem: a scorpion

Up front, in the oldest part of the church, is the Sharington tomb, built in memory of Sir William Sharington, owner of Lacock Abbey, who died in 1553.

The ceiling above the tomb, with remnants of the original paint.

Our hour nearly up, we took one more long, fierce look about the church before leaving to catch the bus to Oxford. Of all the churches we visited, this is the one where I felt most at home.

*We requested a full English breakfast little knowing what we were in for. Out hostess cooked us scrambled eggs, baked beans, link sausage, bacon, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, and fried mushrooms. And if that wasn't enough, there was also toast with jam and marmalade (which I did not care for), cereal, and yogurt.

Of course, there was tea. There is always tea in England.

Ridiculously charming

2010-07-21T16:58:00.000-04:00

More pictures from Lacock. You can see the complete set on my flickr.

Lovely tree

Most of the houses had flowers and ivy madly crawling about.

"Licensed in pursuance of act of Parliament for public music and dancing or other public entertainment of the like kind"

"Antique furniture and resident ghost"

Alert Janeites will appreciate knowing that the exterior of the Red Lion stands in for the Meryton Inn, site of the dance where Mr. Darcy sees Elizabeth Bennett for the first time in the 1995 Pride & Prejudice.

Cat in the cemetery

Other wildlife of Lacock, schoolchildren

Tithe barn dating from the 14th century. This is where tithes in the form of crops and livestock were stored until the church made use of them.

But, of course, a blue door.

And so it begins

2010-07-20T19:21:00.000-04:00

Jon was soon to wearily acknowledge his wife's propensity for picture-taking, especially self-portraits documenting places they've been, even airplanes and trains

After the long haul over the ocean (during which I am certain I saw lights along the Icelandic coast) and the flurry of Heathrow Airport, we arrived at Paddington Station in London. Pigeons fluttered about underfoot. Grand Victorian architecture soared overhead.

This picture makes me wonder how often I show up in other people's pictures, a random person caught mid-step for perpetuity

People spoke with British accents. Normally - because that's how they really talk. I couldn't get over it. English is their native language too, and yet they pronounce things differently. What a concept for my parochial brain to grasp.

After this stunning introduction to the country, we caught the train to Chippenham and from there, the bus to Lacock, located in the southwest part of England in the county of Wiltshire. While waiting* for the bus, we got to be amateur anthropologists and covertly study the natives. Our conclusions? Teenagers are the same everywhere, regardless of accent or nationality. What a revelation. We did not indulge in amateur anthropology anymore after this discovery.

We arrived in Lacock, then shouldered our duffel bags for the walk** to Reybridge. We had packed as light as we could, but our bags were still heavy (35-40 pounds), especially if you're packing for three weeks. Right when my shoulders began to protest vigorously, we made it to Damson Cottage.

Damson Cottage's blue door triggered my fascination with blue doors specifically, and painted doors in general.

Our hostess informed us of the public access footpath to Lacock. It passed between several really old houses,

through several sheepfields,

over several stiles, and up a shady lane bordered by lovely stone fences. I was happy, especially at the thought of walking through sheep.

The sheep weren't as thrilled.

I couldn't get enough of green doors, either

Lacock was a delight to explore.

These buildings are older than America.

It hasn't changed much over the past 250 years, due to careful management by the National Trust, which purchased nearly the entire village in 1944.

The George Inn was a public house while Chaucer was alive.

We had our first dinner in England at The George Inn, which dates back to 1361. When we first arrived, we sat at a table and waited. And waited some more, looking over at the bartender, who was chatting with a fellow at the bar, occasionally glancing over at us. We waited some more before we realized he wasn't coming over. We finally asked for a menu at the bar, at which time we discovered that You Always Order At The Bar Before Taking A Table.

The George was very atmospheric.

Full of nooks and crannies.

Mismatched furniture and oriental rugs were crammed into every available space. Light came in through windows still fitted with their original glass, imperfections and all.

We had a hearty meal of steak and ale pies, "veg" (vegetables for us), and warm beer. After relaxing for a bit, we walked back through the sheepfields at dusk to Damson Cottage. It was the fitting end to a very long day.

*This was to be a preview of our travel for the duration of the trip: waiting. We're so used to hopping in the car and going, that the notion of waiting is a somewhat foreign concept. J. and I had to spend time throughout our trip examining bus and train schedules to make sure that we caught all of our connections in a timely fashion. Initially, this was overwhelming, but it soon became curiously enjoyable. Schedules and maps fascinate me. I like perusing departure times and following lines on a map, imagining all the various permutations of possible travel. This is probably why I was the primary trip planner.

**We walked. A lot.

Adventures in the dark

2010-07-18T11:16:00.001-04:00

Stories on our adventures in the United Kingdom are forthcoming. I haven't posted anything yet because I'm still adjusting to normal life after the peculiar circumstances of the past month. First, three wonderful weeks overseas that we weren't quite ready end, then a death in my family shortly after we returned.

Adventure and death are strange bedfellows. If I were to write anything now, it would be a confused jumble of empty rooms in the night, the glory of mountains, the occasional despair of solitude, joy at encountering history face-to-face, the grief and terror of seeing death. I'm smiling one moment, grieving the next.

One face bearing many images.

2010-05-30T19:10:00.001-04:00

I was going through some old family photographs and did a double-take when I came across this picture. When I first looked at this picture, I thought my cousin Rosie was standing in the middle, calling out to some friend off-camera. The young lady is actually my grandmother. It's in the eyes, somehow, and that fleeting expression.

The resemblance to other descendants doesn't end there because in other photographs taken that day, I can see traces of my own mother and other cousins.

Robin's nest in the apple tree

2010-05-30T10:40:00.002-04:00

Robin's nest in the apple tree
Originally uploaded by ozimanndias8

I find bird nests fascinating. This one probably contains straw from our garden. There was another one on our property that had what looked like dental floss. Next year, I may leave out bits of yarn remaining from my crochet projects and keep an eye out for pops of color in the treetops.

Airports

2010-05-27T17:34:00.000-04:00

I hate airports. They make me feel helpless and thoroughly deaf.

You may not think so, but it's quite easy to forget one's handicaps in the normal routine of things. The closed captioning is always set on the TV, J. knows not to talk to me when I have wet hair, my work colleagues have learned that my left side is my "good" side, and we tend to avoid avoid noisy places like bars, concerts, etc. (where all I ever do is sit/stand around and get lost in my thoughts...which isn't so bad, now that I think about it). Once you settle into a groove, your actions become automatic, like breathing.

Airports are not routine. They are full of squawking intercoms, echoing corridors, and tiled floors that make the sound of rolling suitcases a special form of Chinese water torture. Every specimen of the human race is dashing to and fro, intent on getting to whatever place they're going, and the sounds they make coalesce into an incoherent sea of mutterings and moanings.

My hearing aid is powerful and expensive, but it can't slice through such a slog of chaos. Fully aware of this, I make sure to keep in touch with the travel agents in case of any changes to my flight. Sometimes they have me sit in the handicap seat, the color of a fire hydrant, where people look at me curiously, wondering what handicap I have, being neither in a wheelchair nor relying on any apparatus that they can discern.

I don't start to relax until the plane has taken off and I look out the window at the earth dropping away below, the airport shrinking until it becomes a child's toy on a blanket of green fields threaded with rivers. Then the plane lands in Kentucky where I disembark and see J. standing at the base of the elevators, a familiar, loved face in the midst of strangers. He greets me with a voice that I have carefully memorized all the years I have known him and takes my hand. My handicap falls away as he leads me home.

Exploding garden

2010-05-26T19:21:00.000-04:00

Our garden has exploded.

This is what it looked like a month ago:

The sheer abundance of this little garden is astounding. We were hoping that some of the plants would survive, since the soil was poor and we didn't know what we were doing. We weren't expecting monstrous plants that would produce more than we could possibly hope to eat. Case in point: we ended up tossing the last batch of arugula as we were getting quite sick of it, having used it in most of our meals for the past month.

Michelangelo in the west

2010-05-14T10:00:00.000-04:00

I've been in Fort Worth, TX this past week for the ELUNA (Ex Libris Users of North America) conference. The conference is focused on the various library software products provided by Ex Libris, so I got to complain heartily about library systems with fellow techie librarians who can empathize and hear about the next generation system that Ex Libris says will make our working lives easier. We'll see.

After the conference ended yesterday, I walked to the Kimbell Art Museum to see "The Torment of Saint Anthony" which is apparently the earliest know painting by Michaelangelo. For lack of a better word, it was quite simply stunning.

I didn't find out just how long the distance between the hotel and museum was until I returned to hotel and looked it up on google maps. It was definitely worth the 6 mile round-trip jaunt.

Water, water everywhere

2010-05-03T17:59:00.001-04:00

We're floating in water down here in Kentucky, after getting more than 8 inches of rain over the weekend. This picture is the road down to the Valley View Ferry, which J. usually takes everyday to work. He'll be taking the long way round for a while.

Thankfully, our house is on high ground. When we went to the grocery store, we drove along Tates Creek Road (the same road in the picture above, though a ways from that section). The creek was transformed into a muddy monster snarling at the banks. J. estimated that the creek was not 6 inches from flooding the road and we wondered if we would have to take another route to get home.

While being bombarded by yet another downpour, J. said, "The weather is confused. It thinks we've gone hiking."

Tree shadows

2010-04-27T18:56:00.002-04:00

Tree shadows
Originally uploaded by ozimanndias8

Makes me think of Plato's cave for some reason, but shadows are lovely in their own right, separate from the thing casting them.

Especially when they are tree shadows lingering on the green.

Now for the other outfit

2010-04-27T17:49:00.001-04:00

As J. is accompanying me to the Jane Austen Festival, I have to come up with an outfit for him. You wouldn't think this, but men's outfits from the early 19th century are surprisingly complicated to create. With a woman's gown, once you've got the top part fitted, it's pretty easy (relatively speaking) to whip up the skirt and be done. A lot more goes into the man's outfit. There's the frock coat, the waist coat, the under shirt, and the drop front pants. LivingwithJane is determined to create outfits for both her husband and mine, bless her heart. This on top of figuring out my round gown.

While researching an outfit for J., I came across this portrait of Rubens Peale, who bears an uncanny resemblance to J.

For color combinations, I'm thinking a dark green for the frock coat (the equivalent of suit jackets today), a neutral dark grey/khaki for the pants. I'm not sure what I want for the waistcoat (the vest worn under the frock coat). If I can't make up my mind, I'll use the old standby, white.

I'm wishing I had the 2009 Emma to watch, as I liked Mr. Knightley's outfits.

Research

2010-04-26T21:10:00.001-04:00

I've beenvaguely immersing myself in all things British (or imagining that I am) as we gear up for our trip in June. My preparations and research are not at all in-depth or serious, as I really don't know what constitutes British-ness. Great Britain is so like, and yet not, America that it's hard to pinpoint where the fault-lines fall. The interstitial differences between the two countries are so narrow, more on a molecular level rather than something that can be discerned with the naked eye, that deliberately thinking on it tends to cloud comprehension even more.

My unorthodox research involves reading books such as:

The story of Britain, by Rebecca Fraser
England for all seasons, by Susan Allen Toth
Major Pettigrew's last stand, by Helen Simonson
Our tempestuous day, by Carolly Erickson

and wandering the PR range at the library.

Watching movies and TV shows (which we all know are as close to real life as Harry Potter is a true depiction of British boarding schools) such as:

Browsing the Guardian and the Times Online.

It's all quite serious and objective, you know.

Pleats and pins

2010-04-26T20:46:00.001-04:00

LivingwithJane is making progress on my round gown. Here's her latest post.

The gown is round

2010-04-20T19:00:00.001-04:00

My seamstress friend LivingwithJane has taken to sewing like a fish to water. I've joined the period sewing group that she is a part of, even though I have no intentions of ever making a dress, and it's been quite fascinating to observe the learning process as she and ZipZip, the head of the group, figure out how to make a round gown (see this picture for an example).

The round gown is for me, for the Jane Austen Festival in Louisville this summer. I've gone in for two fittings thus far and when I say I've observed the learning process, I mean I've literally, intimately, watched the process. I've stood in my chemise and short stays with my arms extended while ZipZip chewed her lips and fiddled with the dress form and discussed the shape of the armholes with LivingwithJane. It was a dance of sorts, as I raised and lowered my arms as needed while they moved about with me with needle and marker.

See the latest progress on my dress here.

Salad from our garden!

2010-04-20T17:35:00.002-04:00

Salad from our garden!
Originally uploaded by ozimanndias8

Our garden has actually been productive so far. In spite of the fact that flea beetles have been helping themselves to the greens, our plants are thriving. If you look closely at the picture, you can see the holes left behind by the flea beetles. A small price to pay, though the pessimist in me is amazed that our garden has not been decimated by rabbits or bugs.

Ben Nevis on the mind

2010-04-11T10:36:00.000-04:00

The countdown begins in earnest: 10 weeks until our trip to Great Britain!

On my thoughts today: Ben Nevis in the Scottish Highlands.

The range of mountains around Ben Nevis

There will probably be lots of cloud when we're there.

I've started increasing my time on the stairclimber in preparation, though I think climbing Ben Nevis will be easier than the stairclimber, simply because the experience will be so much more enjoyable, owing to the incredible scenery. We will be in the open for most, if not all, of the ascent, and the views alone will be plenty of distraction from the burning in my legs.

I have always found that I tire more easily while hiking up a hill under tree-cover, because the view becomes monotonous: you see one tree, you've seen them all. But if I have a view while climbing, I don't feel so fatigued. Your mental state really does come into play during physical exertion.

First a garden

2010-04-08T19:27:00.003-04:00

We have a garden!

In the beginning.

After the first tractor came through, cutting up the sod.

We had another tractor come through to till the earth and break the sod up as much as possible. Grass is extraordinarily resilient. We are finding pockets of green grass here and there, where clumps of sod were turned under and not completely broken up.

We've planted onions, radishes, carrots, kale, and lettuce--
stuff we'll actually eat if it all turns out.

The seeds have sprouted, in spite of our best efforts and worrying and dithering.

Radishes

Now to see whether these seedlings will turn into full-fledged plants...

Holy Saturday

2010-04-03T11:40:00.000-04:00

Artist: Fra Angelico

"Come, let us see our Life lying in the tomb, that He may give life to those that in their tombs lie dead. Come, let us look today on the Son of Judah as He sleeps, and with the prophet let us cry aloud to Him: Thou hast lain down, Thou hast slept as a lion; who shall awaken Thee, O King? But of Thine own free will do Thou rise up, who willingly dost give Thyself for us. O Lord, glory to Thee.

Today a tomb holds Him who holds the creation in the hollow of His hand; a stone covers Him who covered the heavens with glory. Life sleeps and hell trembles, and Adam is set free from his bonds. Glory to Thy dispensation, whereby Thou hast accomplished all things, granting us an eternal Sabbath, Thy most holy Resurrection from the dead."
~Hymns from the Anoi

Storytime

2010-04-03T10:43:00.000-04:00

Cousin R. reading "There's a Monster at the End of this Book" to her niece and nephew.

Ancestors' hearts

2010-03-31T18:47:00.001-04:00

It was Health Fair day at my place of work. Along with a gauntlet of booths setup by various health-care providers and campus departments, they offered free fitness screenings. This was an amusing experience, as you had to divulge your height and weight, and in return learn about your blood pressure, endurance capabilities, BMI, and body fat percentage. The assistants were doing everything in their power to keep my weight and body fat percentage secret in the crowded room, by turns mumbling or pointing at the information. I could have cared less. I weigh more than J. (165 to his 160), and have an high body fat percentage compared to his (26% to 9%). No big deal.

I was curious to discover that I have borderline high blood pressure, though. I'm pretty healthy--I exercise almost everyday and eat reasonably decent meals. I could stand to lose a few pounds, but that's the situation of a lot people. But it's slightly unnerving to discover that there's something wrong with me in spite of the fact that I'm conscientious about my health. This is certainly a gift from both sides of my family.

Thanks to my ancestors!

Light of knowledge, embodied by my place of work

2010-03-27T09:01:00.002-04:00

The library where I work, a fitting illustration for Alberto Manguel's book "The Library at Night."

Tea after the opera

2010-03-24T18:21:00.002-04:00

I took my mother to the opera for her birthday. We saw the Marriage of Figaro at the Lyric Opera and stayed the night in downtown Chicago.

Our hotel was quite conveniently within a block of the opera.

Our seats were in "Upper Balcony 2". We were in the far back of that top balcony.

We climbed 6 flights of stairs. That's what you get for cheap tickets. If you look closely, you can see my mother (waving a program) in the fifth row from the back

Most of my doubts about the opera experience were laid to rest once Figaro walked onto the sumptuously decorated stage. I say most because there were times during the 4 hours of the performance when it was a struggle to maintain a willing suspension of disbelief (which is something I gladly embrace). You don't see the Marriage of Figaro for the plot (which is ridiculously silly).

The singing was a thrill to listen to, even if they were singing about stupid things like whether or not Cherubino was hiding in the closet. The contrast of such beautiful singing with the mundane English translations displayed at the top of the stage was amusing. Such juxtapositions are right up my alley, and I add them to my treasury of amusing things.

You certainly gain a new appreciation for your lungs.

While we're on the topic of lung capacity, Mom graciously kept me company as we explored the Wicker Park neighborhood. (J. and I also explored this neighborhood this past January). There were some interesting shops: Renegade Handmade, Nina, Paper Doll. It's a good place for people-watching, too. We passed one fellow with a floppy metro-mohawk, shirtless under a tailored tuxedo jacket over a pair of billowing jodphurs constructed out of a flimsy silver fabric. It was a cold, misty day and I was impressed at such dedication to fashion.

After this jaunt, we returned to downtown Chicago via the "L" for afternoon tea at the Russian Tea House.

We got their house special, "Highland Tay," which was quite good.

The food was delicious, though we couldn't finish the sweets. As you can see from the picture above, the sheer quantity of pastries is overwhelming.

It was a thoroughly excellent way to end a trip to Chicago. Happy birthday, Mom!

Joining the titans

2010-03-04T17:37:00.001-05:00

I've started lifting weights in earnest.

Once you get past the second workout (always the worst), it's very fulfilling. For one, you get to flex your biceps and actually see something. For another, a slight change overcomes your body: you have a curiously distinct sense that you're stronger. This is pretty empowering.

One set of exercises I've been doing works the pocket of muscles below your shoulder as well as your triceps. Those muscles have started developing, and they feel like wings: a hidden mass of wings coiled beneath my shoulder blades. It's my hidden superpower. I could take part in Clash of the Titans.

A picture is worth a thousand words

2010-03-01T18:05:00.001-05:00

Occasionally my decision to pick up a book is based solely on the cover art.

The cover art for "The Bell at Sealey Head" is redolent with story. My curiosity was piqued, and the book did not let me down.

The dog is a blur: the nature of family photographs

2010-02-25T21:05:00.000-05:00

My first attempt at scanning pictures.

On the back of this photograph is a note in my Great-Grandmother's handwriting: "Out for picnic with families; Tom strumming his guitar."

The gal with the pigtails in the back is my mother, with Grandma N. Aunt Carol, Mom's sister-in-law, is lounging on the chair. That dog is probably either Uncle Randy's or Uncle Tom's. Mom had 3 brothers, one of whom is the cool hipster with the guitar.

This is one of my all-time favorite pictures that I've excavated while "shopping" in Grandma's house.

Bloggy friends part II

2010-02-25T20:51:00.002-05:00

While we're on the subject of bloggy friends, my biblical scholar friend has a blog It's all Greek (and Hebrew...and Aramaic and...) in which she shares her adventures on getting a Masters in Biblical Studies. In this post, she ruminates on the meaning of Eden.

Bloggy friends

2010-02-24T06:20:00.001-05:00

My seamstress extraordinaire friend has started her own blog, Living with Jane. To give you an idea of some of her posts, check out what she's written on getting started on my dress for the Jane Austen Festival later this year.

2000 years in 3 months

2010-02-23T06:26:00.000-05:00

I have finished reading Rebecca Fraser's excellent book "The story of Britain: from the Romans to the present."

I am bereft. What will I read on my Saturday mornings?

Adventures involving snowy trails, icy conditions, and one very large animal

2010-02-21T11:13:00.001-05:00

Last Monday, after a huge* snowfall in central Kentucky and the closing of both of our schools, J. and I decided to take a winter hike. We decided on Anglin Falls, a 75 foot waterfall nestled in the secluded John B. Stephenson Memorial Forest State Nature Preserve in Rockcastle County.

Our drive along the backroads outside Berea illustrated all too well why so many counties in Kentucky close, even after the slightest bit of snowfall (something I, a Northerner, tended to snicker at when I first moved down here). Steep and winding roads, shaded by trees and steep ravines, makes for some very slick driving conditions. J. learned, ironically enough, that the best way to go down a steep ice-covered road is to keep moving. After making the mistake of touching the brakes, the truck wound up in the ditch and seemed determined to return there even after being pulled out by a gracious gentleman.

We made it to Anglin Falls after this little adventure and had a nice little hike up to the icebound falls.

It started snowing again while we were up there. Fat snowflakes filled the air, like a pillow fight gone amok. Our noses turned red.

When we made it back to our truck, we noticed the neighbor's cat, which seemed quite comfortable in spite of the slashing wind and snow, owing to its ample girth. If you are curious to see just how enormous it was,you can look at the large version of this photograph.

*for Kentucky

How many hobbits can there be?

2010-02-20T09:30:00.000-05:00

Just found a delightful website containing a collection of all the incarnations of the book "The Hobbit." Visit Babel Hobbit to discover more.

Different aspects of time

2010-02-20T09:14:00.002-05:00

I wonder what it would be like to experience time this way. What recollections I have of my early childhood are a few fleeting, vivid impressions that make no sense.

Prior to the age of five, children appear to experience time in a different manner. They are perfectly capable of "forgetting" events that they experienced a minute ago, as well as their mental state when the experience occurred. They seem to think associatively, closer perhaps to the hypnagogic state that one drifts into just before falling asleep, than to one that is ordered around a timeline with a past, present, and future.

Gopnik attempts to penetrate what this different form of consciousness is like. She describes a "false belief" experiment in which children see a closed candy box that, in fact, is filled with pencils:

The children are understandably both surprised and disappointed by this discovery. But then we asked what they thought was in the box when they first saw it. Although they had discovered the truth with great surprise only moments before, they still said that they had always known the box was full of pencils. They had entirely forgotten their earlier false belief.

from book review "What Babies Know and We Don't," by Michael Greenburg

Nice things for the pack

2010-02-14T10:37:00.002-05:00

"He still hopefully carried some of his gear in his pack: a small tinder-box, two small shallow pans, the smaller fitting into the larger; inside them a wooden spoon, a short two-pronged fork and some skewers were stowed; and hidden at the bottom of the pack in a flat wooden box a dwindling treasure, some salt."
p. 330, The Two Towers

One of the reasons I'm enjoying this re-reading of Lord of the Rings is because I can immerse myself more thoroughly in the characters' experience, having gone in the 'wild' myself with nothing but a pack and a sturdy pair of shoes*. I thoroughly empathize with Sam Gamgee's sentiments over some of the contents of his pack. While you're in the woods (thankfully nowhere near as bleak as as the outskirts of Mordor), you quite literally carry everything you need on your back. And sometimes more.

Being far from the comforts of home and running water, your perspective shifts. You realize that, in the woods, some things are nice to have, but not essential. Forget your spoon? Eat with your fingers. Forget your hat? You'll be shivering (or, like me, feeling cold as death). Other things are essential. Forget your water sterilizer? You're in trouble. Forget your second pair of socks? Blisters will make those miles between you and your next shelter feel like an eternity.

Little wonder that we obsessively pack and re-pack.

*just a few days at the time, mind you.

Foreign languages

2010-02-10T08:16:00.002-05:00

A post I wrote during the conference, then forgot to publish:

Sign language is another language, and I'm re-learning this fact the hard way: I have a headache from 2 days in the company of interpreters.

The ways of Monk

2010-02-09T17:17:00.001-05:00

Monk has settled into our household quite thoroughly.

So far, he has managed to:

get on top of just about every surface in the house. You would think the tops of the kitchen cabinets (at least 4 feet from the countertops) are pretty inaccessible, but not to this lanky daredevil
make a toy of anything not tied down (we quickly learned to hide jewelry, pens, and any other oddment)
investigate every last accessible square inch of the house, and some not so accessible spots: one day I spotted Monk draped over the handlebars of J.'s bike, hind-legs dangling, as if that precarious spot was his latest hangout
make his presence known, such as walking on the keyboard while I'm working on the computer

Dimensions of space

2010-02-09T08:39:00.001-05:00

I was taken aback by the appearance of one of my interpreters at the conference I attended last week. He looked like an young ex-Marine, like someone who would star in "Die Hard" or some other similar action-adventure flick. He arrived wearing a black skull cap, black cargo pants, and a plain grey shirt (the better to slip in and out unnoticed, perhaps).

True to his appearance, his signing style was very crisp, contained within a tight square of space directly in front of his torso. I'm sure if I measured the angles of the space he kept his hands within, I would have discovered sharp 90 degree angles. All the library jargon bandied about at the conference didn't faze him (though I did catch the occasional raising of the eyebrow at the other interpreter), and I was impressed at the seamless flow of information from his ears to his hands.

The wonders never cease.

Emma and the yellow room

2010-02-01T21:29:00.001-05:00

PBS currently has the first two episodes of Emma posted online. I took advantage of this to take some screenshots of especially interesting scenes.

I'm drawn to this room. I don't particularly want to decorate my house this way, but there's something about the color scheme and abundance of paintings that attracts me at a deep, soothing level.

This is the dress I would like my seamstress extraordinaire friend to make for me.

Early warning system

2010-01-30T07:58:00.000-05:00

Thankfully what I have is much smaller.