London Calling. Again.

(The Clock, Hampton Court)

And so I decided to end my journey where it began 10 months earlier, in country’s capital: London. Beth and Ellen waited with me at Diss station where I would catch the train to London Liverpool street. It’s funny how we had so much time waiting, we were early as usual, but then all of a sudden the train was approaching and it seemed like there was so much I had to say to them. I wanted to give them the biggest hugs I could and tell them how incredibly special they are to me and how I couldn’t imagine my time in England without them. As it was I had enough time to throw my bags up into the carriage before hugging each of them in turn until the doors began shutting tight down all the compartments. It was one of those National Express trains where the window pulls down in order to open and close the door and so, though discouraged, you can stick your head out of the train. As the train slowly moved from the platform I watched the fading figures waving me goodbye before taking a more traditional seat in the carriage. After that, the day was only memorable for the tears that I shed at different locations en route to and in the city of London as well as the longest and most expensive cab ride in recorded history. Unfortunately my hotel was in Bayswater, where I always make a point to stay because I know the area, it’s also located on the other side of London from Liverpool Street Station. By the time I got to my hotel, which was well situated near many known sites to me but was otherwise decidedly dull in the small single room I had reserved. While deciding what to do with the rest of the evening I broke down in wracking sobs (don’t feel pity, it’s only natural and it’s sure as hell better than keeping it all in) and found myself ridiculously close to getting back on a train for Suffolk. Of course I didn’t. I struggled through my bought of loneliness and then got my act together by falling back on what always makes me feel inspired and utterly in awe of the big city: a bought a ticket to the theatre. I lucked out really and snagged one of the last tickets to see Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. I grabbed a quick bite at a pub I’d frequented in the past and then headed to the park. The show was brilliant, the actors were unknown to me but still superb and I even had a glass of Pimm’s to lift my spirit.

(The Gardens at Hampton Court)

Friday was the day I had been looking forward to and planned out a week before. I caught a train from Waterloo to Hampton Court just outside of London and the former country palace of Henry VIII and all subsequent monarchs. It’s one of those tourist sites that I had yet to see in all my time spent in London and I thought it high time I checked it out. Still on that list are Windsor Castle, Somerset House Galleries and Madame Tussauds so I’ll have to remedy those losses at some later date. I obviously hadn’t done my research because I was taken aback by the absolute masses of people on the train and I thought, surely, surely, there can’t be this many hardy tourists even if it was the height of the season. So when I disembarked at Hampton Court Station the crowds were justified by signs advertising the annual RHS (Royal Horticulture Society) flower show. Now that may not sound like the height of amusement to my average American reader but I can assure you that gardens, flowers, and horticulture in general is a sort of British phenomenon that cannot be reasonably explained, so you can imagine how throngs of Britons from all necks of the country were descending upon this tiny town outside. The only lucky thing was that it meant not all of these people were going to tour the palace.

(Hampton Court Interior)

Hampton Court is huge. The core of the building was constructed during the reign of Henry VIII in the 16^th century and then added onto in the following centuries giving each wing or addition a connection to a certain ruler. Relying on this rather handy set up, the directors of the Royal Historic Palaces decided they could make monarchical tours in the different areas of the palace. I managed to take in about three of these Monarch based tours along with another based on the servants and the spiffy kitchens in which they slaved to entertain the king and his many (I’m taking hundreds if not a thousand plus) guests. I ambled through the gardens but declined tackling the famous hedge maze in the fear that I would get lost in its depth while a myriad of small children wound through it easily.

I caught the train back into the city and then walked from Waterloo station to the Imperial War museum that was fairly close and which I’d also never been to. It’s choc-a-block full of tanks, missiles, and other destructive entities from the past and present. It also houses an intense archive that someday I would love to delve into just for the chance to get my hands on some of those documents! I got to go into the recreated WWI trench and experience the Blitz from a bomb shelter and walk through a street devastated by the German bombers. I was there for nearly two hours but only scratched the surface, I can see people like my dad going there as a vacation and spending an entire week visiting the museum every day in order to see as much as they could.

(Imperial War Museum)

I felt that London was far too close to Maidstone and that I would feel horribly if I didn’t see my dear friend Martin once more before, so again I found myself waiting for a train, this time at Victoria Station. If there’s one thing I know in London it’s the various train stations most notably those of Victoria, Paddington and Kings Cross. I was met by a black and blue Martin (an incident involving Martin’s face and a football apparently) where I then was given the grand tour of Maidstone or at least those places I’d missed on my first visit. We wandered through the streets and wound our way through the parks and green spaces. We had a nice little pub lunch; I had my last English fish and chips, and enjoyed each other’s company. Then it was time to leave again, how quickly it went. When I returned to London I gathered up all my belongings in my small hotel room and put the final touches on my luggage. You may be wondering what this means. I mentioned earlier a slight fraying of my big red duffle…well this had turned into an actual hole to the point where I could stick my hand in and feel around inside. To remedy this, I purchased a large role of duct tape and proceeded to use half of it by reinforcing the bottom of the bag with who knows how many layers of tape. Needless to say, my bag made it back to San Francisco Int’l wholly intact.

Once I had gotten my luggage life together I decided to run around the corner to one of the local pubs on Bayswater Rd, The Black Lion, to have my last dinner. I was also awaiting a call from two of my dearest friends from home, Jackie and Heather, who after spending nearly two months trampling around Europe found themselves in the very same city as myself. We’d agreed to meet up for a drink in Notting Hill so I was just waiting for them to spruce up and get a move on. I had a lovely roast, my last one, complete with Yorkshire pudding and heaps of gravy. Around 9 I met Heather, Jackie, and a friend they were staying with at The World’s End near Notting Hill (that’s a pub not a location, by the way!) We had a pint and chatted away before they headed out into the wet London night and I made my way back to Bayswater for my last sleep in England.

(Notting Hill, Portobello Road Market)

Packed and ready I took an, overpriced, cab to Paddington where I caught the Heathrow express and arrived with plenty of time to chat amiably with my fellow travellers in the baggage check queue. I utilized the 15minute/pound Internet to let my worrisome parents that I did indeed make it to the airport and that, yes, they took on all my overweight luggage without complaint (which is more than I can say for some of my friends). Security was fine as usual, I think I’m just good with security people because they always end up smiling at me and I’ll make a joke or pleasant remark. Maybe I’m just a pleasant influence, I’d like to think so. After security is my favorite place: duty free shopping, the reason being my chance to purchase some quality English booze and taking it on the plane with me. My beverage of choice is naturally Pimm’s, the perfect summer drink. I filled my arms (three one litre bottles) before being told I was only legally allowed to have one litre of liquid with me through customs. However, the nice man at the check out told me I’d be able to get away with two, which was rather convenient as they were on a 2 for £20 deal. After settling the most important of affairs I bought a book, some chocolate and water at W.H. Smith’s, had a Starbuck’s fix and a bite to eat in between idle wandering from seat to seat and flicking between various books.

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the plane talking to Ellen, and using my English mobile phone for the last time, saying final goodbyes though it didn’t feel like it. I’m always amazed at how quickly we’re able to travel these days (I say this like I knew what it was like before air travel!) but it boggles my mind to travel 5,000 miles in half a day. So it was with that thought that I gathered my bags (near the end of the conveyer belt which is always a bit stretching on the nerves) and found myself in the same place that I had left ten months before.

What a trip, eh?

Three Ponds

(St Mary's Ruins)

And so on Tuesday morning, the seventh day of July, I woke up for the last time in York. I managed to get up and going fairly early and took a stroll through the city to say goodbye after my hearty English breakfast. I walked down Petergate to stand under the towering west front of the Minster then down Stonegate, through St Helen’s Square and down Lendal to the museum gardens and the ruined abbey of St Mary. The air was crisp with a lingering of the previous night’s rain and few people were out in the streets as I made my personal farewell, gazing at a ruin and sitting on the remains of a thick column that was over 800 years old. Oh, England.

Then I was off and on a mission. I walked briskly back to the Inn and noisily dragged my bags down to the foyer, settled my bill and went outside to wait for my cab to the rail station. The station was only about a 10 minute walk but with those damn bags I reckon it would have taken me about two hours, not to mention the slow deterioration at the bottom of my large red duffle, anyone have some duct tape? I got to the station quite early and when the train arrived I was so flustered trying to arrange my bags in the luggage rack and attempting to get to my seat without hitting the other passengers on the head, (I’m sure I annoyed more than one person), that by the time I got situated in my seat and looked out the window we were already half way to Doncaster! So much for a last glimpse of my beloved English hometown. I encountered a slight hold-up during my change at Peterborough, where I was helped by a nice young man, who I’d noticed also got on at York, and then by a girl who had been in my gospel choir and was going on the same train to visit an aunt in Norwich. After three and a bit hours the train slowed down as we approached Thetford station where I was being collected by my two best British friends, Ellen and Beth. My heart swelled as I saw them waiting on the platform and even though it had only been a few days since we’d parted in York it was absolutely wonderful to jump off the train to two twinly hugs.

(Ellen, Beth and I at Grimes Graves)

With a car full of picnic goodies it was a miracle we managed to fit my three large bags in along with the three of us. I can’t even put into words how lovely it was to be in an atmosphere that was someone’s home life, not a school dormitory or a hostel but in a friend’s car on the way to a warm cozy home. We hit the ground running (well driving) in the direction of Grimes Graves, an old flint mine although we didn’t know that until we got there. The Coombs’ had often seen the sign pointing towards ‘Grimes Graves’ but had never turned down the road nor looked into its function so it was rather an adventure just finding out what it’s purpose. We took our picnic goods and walked through the fields (very cautious as there were warning signs about adders being about) and set up on a disused and covered mine. After quite a bit of deliberation we decided we would be adventurous and head down into the actual mine to see what all the fuss was about. We were forced to wear hard hats, which were very attractive, and climb one at a time down the narrow ladder into the depths of the ground where hundreds, probably thousands, of men used to work just to make a living in the East of England. Flint is a trademark of East Anglia and it was something I picked up quickly as you’ll notice many of the buildings, particularly churches, using the small, hard, glinting mineral for a distinct look. While down in the mine we met another Californian who had turned semi-British. Funnily enough the reason I was found out was because of my pronunciation of a certain word used for the backside of a person and alternatively of a donkey. I said ‘ass’ when I really ought to have said ‘arse’ had I been trying to be truly British. This is one of the finer cultural differences I encountered during my year abroad. After this little adventure we decided to head to Three Ponds, the home of the Coombs’, so that we could deposit my belongings and decide our next plan of action. Also there was a very real chance of the heavens opening up on us and we thought it would be best to be indoors.

To me, Three Ponds is perfect. Not least of all because it’s the home of some of my favorite people, also the fact that the original core was built in 1596 and just breathes Englishness. We were greeted by Mumma Coombs and Tess, the family dog. Soon after taking cover the heavens did open up and let down a weeks worth of rain in the space of about forty minutes, I loved it. I got a grand tour of the house, decided not to try to drag my luggage up the stairs to my room, and caught up with the twins on the few days of our separation. Following much deliberation we sketched out a plan of attack for the next two days and decided that we should head out to the beach that evening as the sky had cleared and it seemed like a good idea. Our destination was Walberswick on the eastern coast of Suffolk.

(Ellen and I looking out at the North Sea)

We packed a disposable barbeque, towels, some snacks and stopped off at a store on the way to get marshmallows for I found it imperative that the twins experience roasting them. We spent a lovely couple hours on the mostly deserted pebbly beach and even went splashing through the waters of the North Sea clad in our undergarments. Surprisingly the water wasn’t terribly cold and we warmed ourselves by our makeshift beach bonfire that Ellen took charge of. We piled back into the car and headed back west in search of a country pub for dinner. We stopped briefly when we passed a ruined flint church that was burning golden in the evening sun. We ended up going to the Magpie Inn in Stowmarket and a well-known haunt of the Coombs for dinner. The biggest appeal was that it was still serving food as the other two country pubs that we stopped at had ceased the feeding of patrons. I had a very scrumptious beef stroganoff that almost made sitting in soaked, sandy jeans bearable. The night ended with the watching of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, classic British entertainment, wouldn’t you say?

(Blickling Hall)

Wednesday, my only full day, was wrought with promise and a plethora of ideas for activity. After a nice lie in and a full breakfast we decided on a plan of action that first took us to the north, more specifically Blickling Hall in Norfolk and the former home of Anne Boleyn. As we arrived the heavens again decided to open their floodgates, I just couldn’t get a break in East Anglia, so instead of braving the elements we decided to grab a bite of lunch in the National Trust café. By the size of the queue we could tell that ours was not a novel idea. I unfortunately sampled a certain stew of which I can’t remember the name but which I would most certainly dissuade you from ever eating. It would have been edible if it weren’t for the distinctly awful aftertaste that deemed it utterly disgusting. We spent a good few minutes watching another woman attempt to eat it only to find that she seemed to enjoy it! Something was obviously very wrong with her. After lunch we toured the house, atypical of the period, which meant very grand indeed. The Boleyn’s did well for themselves, I suppose the headless Anne may not agree in retrospect. I particularly enjoyed the kitchens of the estate along with some other informational exhibits on the lower being of the house, i.e. the servants. Because of the foul weather we didn’t spend nearly enough time in the grounds, which I assume would be lovely for a picnic on a sunny English summer day.

(Sheringham)

The afternoon wasn’t as determined as the morning as we went in search of a particular steam railway running along the north Norfolk coast. We arrived at one end only to be told that we’d missed the last train from that station, I tried to argue but was politely deterred. Apparently there was no way the lovely little American girl could read a timetable better than the railway employee. We then drove on to Sherringham, the other end of the line and a nice little coastal town where we found that we could make the last train. However, after all the effort it just didn’t seem worth it and the call of dinner pressed upon us. Instead we walked down the sloping main street to the shore front promenade where we admired the sea as the sun gave some small acknowledgement of the season and Beth and I ate ice cream (we were at the beach, it only seemed right.) Before heading out we thought a stop at the Robin Hood, a cozy looking pub, was in order. I had local Norfolk ale while the twins went for something a little more appropriate to a cold afternoon: tea. Next thing we knew it was time to head back towards Three Ponds as I’d promised to make a dinner of my famed red wine risotto as payment for the accommodation and entertainment provided by the Coombs family.

(Mine and Beth's Beachy Ice Cream)

The dinner turned out perfectly and the weather began to look up a bit as well. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. We made a perfect pitcher of Pimm’s with all the fixings and laid the table out in the conservatory. I can’t think of a better way to spend my last evening in Suffolk. But it does gets better. Ellen and I strolled through the country lanes to a local pub and even braved a panther (this is debatable) infested cornfield in order to gaze at a monument remembering St Edmund. Beth met us later (she was preoccupied with a certain boy on the phone!) and we enjoyed our drinks before walking home through the crisp night. While we were gone, Mumma Coombs being the lovely lady that she is, had prepared for us an apple crumble that we enjoyed while watching Love Actually before retiring for the night. I could have stayed there forever (though I’m sure both Ellen and Beth would tire of me very soon not to mention Mumma Coombs and Tess!) I loved being with them and felt entirely at home. I also didn’t realize how hard it would be after leaving on a London-bound train, maybe if I had I wouldn’t have gotten on it.

Saying Goodbye to York

The weekend came with a suddenness I had not prepared for. Ellen and Beth headed home on Friday, though I would be seeing them on Tuesday at their lovely home down in Suffolk, followed by Martin leaving on Sunday, which left me very alone in the flat that held a year, though it felt like a lifetime, worth of memories. Since we were meant to be out of our rooms by 9am on Monday morning I had made arrangements to stay at a B&B in the city centre near the Minster and that also happened to be one of my favorite pubs. I spent the rest of the time in my flat by packing up the remainder of my belongings which turned out to be extensive in volume, so much so that I was forced to pack just over 3 kilos and post it to myself. I also spent more time than I would have liked cleaning the kitchen and disposing of unused and unwanted items.

I managed to make my way into town on Saturday at which time I visited one of York’s historic sites that was very familiar in passing but had eluded my prodding eyes during the rest of the year: Clifford’s Tower. I actually have quite an intimate history with the tower because of certain York tradition that I most naturally had to partake in, rolling down the tower’s grassy hill at an hour when most of you are tucked away safe in bed. However, this day I planned only to pay the £2 entrance fee and look around the interior of the great tower that was once part of York Castle, the royal residence for the north of England back before King Henry VIII. It was also the site of a tragic massacre of the Jews living in York in the 12^th century. They were forced into the tower by a group of blood blinded Anglo-Saxons and instead of facing the prospect of a humiliating torture, the group of Jews committed suicide. It is a tragic tale, one of many in York’s bloody and treacherous history that contributes to York’s title as the most haunted city in Europe. It was a lovely day and after climbing the dark spiralling staircase to the upper battlement I was rewarded with a glorious view over the city that took my breath away and I daresay I nearly began to cry at the though of leaving it.

Since I had gotten a late start I didn’t have time for any more tourist pursuits but did wind my way to the Old White Swan on Goodramgate, one of my favorite pubs and one of the first pubs that I ever went to in York. There I nestled in a chair at my favorite table, tucked away between the self-service bar area and the seated dinning room it’s a small round table for two with deep-set leather chairs. There I perched with a pint of green goblin cider and read my book, Sovereign, while waiting for my traditional Cumberland sausage sandwich. After my filling meal I lingered as long as I dared before leaving the establishment. Since the day was so lovely and it was going to be the last time that I ventured from town back to the university I simply had to walk the familiar route one last time. The sun was lowering in the sky casting the medieval stonewalls in a golden bath that I can still picture now. Down Lawrence street taking the shortcut through the churchyard to Heslington Road and on up through the field that sometimes holds horses. I walked slowly, trying to soak it all in but at the same time not actually believing that this would be the last time I would walk this path, though in all likely hood I’m sure I’ll do it again someday just for nostalgia’s sake. So I found myself in my room for the last night but it didn’t feel the same with bare walls and silent halls, no, I had already said goodbye to my room when I took down my photos, postcards, and posters and when Ellen and Martin left flat number 5. So I tucked myself into bed and awaited Sunday when I would relocate to the heart of the city in order to best spend my time seeing every bit of the city that I’d already explored and those that still managed to elude me.

Sunday found me busier than I expected and the next thing I knew I had finished cleaning the kitchen, disposed of those belongings I would no longer be needing and formed a sizeable pile of things that I was bequeathing to the Coombs’ twins for Ellen to pick up that night when she came to get all of her belongings. I somehow hauled my two pieces of luggage and large back packing pack down the stairs and to the taxi pick up point. This is always the most hellish part of any journey and I do not recommend it to anyone if it is at all possible. You’d think I would have learned from doing it two summers ago but no, it doesn’t work that way, maybe next time I’ll bring one very small bag and wear the same clothes everyday. I checked into the Lamb and Lion Inn where I had a single room on the first floor, which for you Americans is actually the second floor, with a view out to the beer garden and the medieval city wall at Bootham Bar. I went out for a walk on the wall now while deciding where to eat dinner as it was getting on in time and I had decided to go on a ghost walk in the evening bringing my grand total up to four different ones, about half of those on offer in the city. Before I could decide however, I suddenly realized that the Wimbledon Men’s final was still going on and if I hurried I could make the end of it so I headed straight to the Terrace, a sports bar where I had a pint of Magners and watched the incredibly nail biting final between Andy Roddick and Roger Federer, I’ll tell you that match went on forever and I thought I might have to miss out on dinner and then suddenly it was over and Federer had won it again, I must say I was rather disappointed having been rooting for Andy but what can one do? So I went in search of food and found myself walking straight into a restaurant called Gert & Henry’s located just at Newgate Market behind the Shambles in an exquisite Tudor framed building that I have passed many times. It was still very early and there were only about 6 other people in the restaurant all older couples enjoying the early bird specials I imagine. I didn’t even need to look at the menu for I knew what I would be having, a Sunday roast, and my last of the year. And it was superb, came with all the fixings and was one of the cheaper roasts I’ve run into. So with a full belly and a smile on my face I walked through the winding medieval streets to Exhibition Square to meet the ghost walk.

As I mentioned, I’ve been on my fair share of ghost walks in this city so I like to think of myself as a sort of authority in the field. I found this particular walk, which was recommended by Rick Steve’s apparently to be rather a bore. Many of the stories were of people who had come on the walk in previous years who encountered ghosts of their own instead of the solid stories of ghastly murders and tragic tales of lives cut short. Perhaps, too, it was that by this time I had heard most of the tales more than once. While walking between stops I started chatting with an American woman who was also on the tour. She was a teacher in Portland who decided to take a vacation to England on her own, I did not prod her as to why she came alone, and was visiting York after spending a week in London and a few days in Stratford-Upon-Avon. We talked about the city and about studying abroad, she had been to Germany when she was in college and loved her experience. She had even been to York, briefly, many years before and remembered the cathedral fondly. At the end of the tour she asked me for recommendations of places to eat in the city or places of general interest so I told her of some of my favorite pubs and restaurants and because we were heading in the same direction to our respective hotels, we walked together in the fading light and I thought how funny to spend one of my last nights walking through my favorite English city with a fellow American. It was pleasant.

The next day I had planned a very full schedule of tourist activities and realized that the weather was not going to be cooperative, I suppose that would have been asking too much. I woke up fairly early and found myself walking to Fairfax House through streets that had yet to welcome the summer tourist crowds for which I was thankful. Finding that Fairfax House would not open until 11 I walked down to the river Ouse and noticed that one of the riverboat cruises was about to leave. Having never seen the city from the river I paid the £8 and hopped on while the weather seemed to hold out for the time being. Seeing the city from the river was a different experience as we slowly glided past familiar buildings and some that weren’t as familiar but called out to me none the less. In particular the Guild Hall, which is only partially seen from Coney Street possesses a great, Cambridge worthy riverside façade. By the time we had come full circuit I had discovered about a dozen things I wished I could explore but did not have the time, another visit will find me exploring those corners I’m sure.

I returned to Fairfax House that was open by this time and brought out my Barley Hall volunteer card that granted me free entry. Fairfax House is a great red brick Georgian mansion set near the city center that was built for the daughter of Sir Fairfax at some point in the past. Since then it has been a museum and a cinema before falling into the hands of the current owners who have restored the original furniture thanks to one of the Terry’s of the chocolate fame. It’s one of the best small, great town houses that I have visited and in excellent condition. After touring the open rooms I walked back into the small gift shop/reception area where my attention honed in on a shelf of old looking books, something I seem never to resist. After looking through four or five I found one that I knew I must have. It was reasonably priced at £20 for a second edition of Romances of London, published in 1883 with a gilded red cover that looked very grand and decorated page ends. So in an effort to spend the last of my money I purchased the book, walked to the door and discovered it was chucking it down with rain, lovely. Hearing that it was supposed to rain that morning I had looked everywhere for the umbrella that I knew I left in an easily accessible place but to no avail and I’d be damned to buy a new one with just under a week left in the country so I braved it out by hurriedly making my way to the Roman Bath Museum located in St Sampson’s square underneath the Roman Bath pub, what a creative name!

It is exactly as it sounds, the ruined remains of a genuine Roman Bath. It was found in the 1980s when the pub owner was redoing the plumbing or something like that and the workers stumbled upon something they hadn’t quite expected. So the little pub was sitting on a tourist goldmine of history which is now a very nice, and fairly cheap, museum telling about the Romans in York and about their use of baths including maps of where the two baths of York were located and I’ll tell you they were huge! The common bath for the civilians of the community was a good three city blocks and contained various spa treatments. It was here that I ran into my American friend from the ghost walk. We chatted amiably for a moment and then went our separate ways. After learning all about the Romans I found I was getting hungry so decided to make my way to the Guy Fawkes Pub, where they serve an exquisite gravy soaked roast beef sandwich and they also have one of my favorite cider, Green Goblin. On the way I stopped in at Barley Hall to say goodbye to my co-workers and have one last look around the hall. At Guy Fawkes I settled in at a table by the fire in the back dining area, sipping my cider and looking over the book I’d purchased earlier.

The weather again changed its mind and the sun broke through the stormy clouds, I could only assume that the city was trying to give me every weather opportunity available as a sign of farewell. I headed to the museum gardens where there was a walking tour of “secret York” leaving at 2pm. There were only two of us that showed up and the guide was a rather eccentric man with a black coat and hat and a ring in one of his ears he seemed to be a cross between a pirate and a western bandit. We spent most of the walking tour on the opposite side of the Ouse where I hadn’t spent as much time and I learned quite a lot but then the tour seemed to just keep going until I thought we’d be stopped by darkness, well no that’s not true it was only 2.5 hours, but it felt like longer. I walked to the minster for I had planned on attending Evensong at 5:15 for one last time only to find that there wasn’t one because of some concert being put on by the Minster School, I needn’t tell you how disappointed I was. However, I did run into my American friend again and after running into each other so often we finally introduced ourselves by name and talked for 10 minutes or so before wishing each other luck on the rest of our journeys. I now had an extra hour to fill, it was 5:30 and I had plans to meet my friend Rachel at 7 for dinner. The clouds were gathering again but I decided to ignore that fact and walked around the back of the minster to the Dean’s gardens where I laid out on the moist grass and looked up at the hulking mass of stone that formed the central bell tower and the northern face of the aging building. I shouldn’t have been surprised when about five minutes later I felt a splash on my forehead followed by another and another. The heavens had opened while I lay looking up at one of the architectural masterpieces of Europe and I just couldn’t tear myself away, for a moment at least. The rain was still semi light so I followed Petergate to Bootham Bar where I climbed onto the city walls and walked on the slippery stones. The rain become steadier and I thought the only thing to do was duck into a pub for a drink before meeting Rachel so I found myself running under cover in the Golden Fleece and sipping a half pint of Centurion’s Ghost.

I met Rachel at Pizza Express and we had a lovely time chatting over a lovely dinner. Rachel is one of my friends from gospel choir who doesn’t actually go to York Uni but works for the York Archaeological Trust, the same organization that runs Barley Hall. It was lovely having someone to hang out with for my last night in York and especially someone as sweet as Rachel. After dinner we went for a hot chocolate at Deans Court Hotel next to the Minster. Then we walked together as far as my hotel through the darkened streets with the lamp light shining up from the wet cobblestones and I breathed in the air trying to soak in everything I could about the place and trying not to think about leaving it the next day.

The Annual Summer Ball and a Final Night Out with the Mates

As I got ready to leave York I began looking at everything as if it were the first time, and that nothing in the world could compare to these streets, these buildings, these walls. The last week found me coming home from the Lake District with the looming deadline of my research paper that was nearly finished but really just needed that final push. Once that was completed and submitted, the feeling of freedom that

I thought would follow was unexpectedly missing as I attempted to see friends one last time, made arrangements for my last week in the UK and worried about fitting everything into my two suitcases. I did however take the time to prepare for and enjoy the last event of the school year: the Graduation Dinner and Summer Ball.

Now you must be thinking one thing first of all. I realize I haven’t actually graduated but as a third year visiting student they determine that we’re worthy to join in on the festivities. In fact, since the British University system doles out degrees after a measly three years I was the same age as most of my graduating third year friends. So on the first day of July in the sweltering English heat I donned a flattering black number at 3:30 in the afternoon for the champagne drink reception in the grounds of Heslington Hall, the only old and aesthetically pleasing building on campus. The company was good but the heat was unbearable and I felt for the lads who were decked out in suits. We waited for 20 minutes to get warm champagne in plastic flutes and then another hour queuing to get on a bus to the racecourse where dinner would be served. It turned out to be a pretty good show on the food selection with a chicken and risotto main and a lovely cheesecake dessert, not to mention the three bottles of complimentary wine per table (I use the word complimentary loosely because the tickets for the entire event cost upwards of £75, I’ll allow you to do the math). I sat at a table with Martin and some of his mates that he lived with in his first year and we all got on well. I did make some of my money back by procuring a shiny silver star balloon that was affixed to the table. In order to make myself visible to the rest of the guests I tied the balloon to my wrist and looked up to find that about two dozen other girls (and a few lads) had the same idea, there went my uniqueness for the night.

After dinner we headed back downstairs where a Ceidlh was about to begin. I may have described this before because it’s not the first time I’ve joined in one of these fun jigs. A Ceidleh is a traditional Scottish dance with a caller and some rocking live bagpipe and fiddle music. Basically it’s an American square dance but more exciting for the fact that it’s Scottish. Martin and I joined in a few sets and realized the timetabling committee probably didn’t think this all the way through. Scheduling the bouncing, swinging, hopping dance right after the three-course dinner? You can imagine. But it was fun all the same. The rest of the night passed in a succession of different activities. There were various dance floors, a small casino area that looked dead as a doornail every time I walked by and then of course the outdoor fairground complete with dare devilish rides that swung you up, down and around, traditional fair games, bumper cars and even free cotton candy (candy floss to be British about it!). Considering my normally weak stomach (I can barely make it on an easy 2 hour road trip without getting a bit queasy) I was surprised to find myself agreeing to go on “Freestyle,” a ride that I can only describe as a human clock where the hands move at very high speed, with my friend Phil. Well I’ll tell you, I can’t remember ever having this much fun on a fair ride, most likely because all the other times in my life that I’ve attempted such a feat I have been thwarted by the plague of stomach sickness followed by much unpleasantness, but this time it was brilliant and I even agreed to join Phil on the largest of the rides. So after another drink, for confidence you see, we made our way into the queue to wait our turn. I don’t remember the name of the ride but our legs hung down, it spun us around in circles while swinging back and forth to a parallel level with the ground below. Now this time I began to feel the stirrings of my childhood fair experiences but not to the same extent and any inclination to be sick was quickly put aside by the sheer thrill of the ride that I found to be a ridiculous amount of fun!

After this the fun died down a bit as the fair rides were slowly closed at 3am along with most of the other activities and more importantly the bars. So there we were determined to stay for the infamous “Survivor’s Photo” that would be taken at 4am with nothing to do but discuss our various levels of tiredness. With half an hour to go we decided to join the dance floor where a cover band was playing what one might call “wedding reception tunes.” This is where I accomplished one of my proudest moments as an outgoing, eccentric woman: I started a love train. When we got out on the dance floor I wasn’t feeling great but when they started playing the song “Love Train” I got it in my head that the song was just calling out for a conga line so I grabbed my friends and started weaving through the dance floor, looking people in the eyes as we passed them and encouraging them to join in the fun. The next thing I know I look back and there are about 50 people trailing behind me and at the height of the line’s glory there were over 100 people dancing along! This may not sound like an individual’s more notable achievements but I sure as hell think it’s something worth bragging about so give me this one little glory and I will be happy. After this climax we danced the end of the ball away until we gathered at the racecourse entrance for the big photo and then a nightmarishly long queue for the free shuttle busses that were to take us back to campus. Martin and I managed to make it quite near the front but lost the rest of our group, my feet were killing me and there was one bus coming at a time taking a half hour to make it from the racecourse to the university and back to the racecourse again. We finally got on the third bus and made it home around 5 am, Martin with his dinner jacket draped over his slumping shoulders and me dragging my bare feet back to Alcuin.

The next day dawned before my head hit my pillow but I don’t think I could bear to spend too much time in bed when my days, hours and minutes in York were all numbered, and more importantly the time with my friends. I spent quite a bit of the day packing up my room to a state of unrecognizable cleanliness and bareness. The evening was to be our last night out as a group and more importantly Martin and I had set out a route for hitting up some new pubs to add to our guide before we ran out of time. The two of us headed out around six and headed to the Melbourne followed by the Lighthorseman in Fulford where I had the strangest ale I’ve ever had, not in a good way. Luckily I was on the half pints because of the previous night’s festivities but I couldn’t even finish that because this beer tasted like alcoholic vinegar but it wasn’t a complete waste for I found the pub to be highly agreeable. We met Ellen after my bad beer experience and headed across the river to the Swan, a very quaint pub that even had a resident dog and some very fine real ale. Somehow we managed to squeeze in two more pubs on the way to the Windmill near the rail station just outside the city walls at Micklegate, the Victoria Vaults and Trafalgar Bay. Victoria was very pleasant with Karaoke night and very nice landlords, if only we’d been sooner it definitely had multiple visit potential, and Trafalgar Bay looked a bit run down with a slightly middle aged locals crowd so it was a quick sip before getting out. After meeting the rest of our party at the Windmill we hit up Montey’s which we had to fudge a bit to count as a pub for it’s full name is Montey’s Rock Music bar but the drinks are so good and the presence of a foosball table made for a good time. The evening ended with a visit to the Gallery nightclub for one last time but it was a bit dead and I like to remember Gallery for other nights rather than the last. I really was just trying to stretch the night out a bit for I knew that it was the last time I would be seeing most of these people for who knows how long, perhaps forever. So to leave you on that rather morose note I’ll leave my description of my last few days in York for it’s own post for I owe that city so much it’s the least I can do to sing it’s praise in it’s own post.

The English Lakes: Day Three and Home Again

(Hill Top Farm)
Either I tired myself out the previous two days or the quiet country nights were growing on me because I woke up refreshed and ready to take on the day. The first priority was the visiting of Beatrix Potter’s home, Hill Top Farm, which we briefly discussed earlier. The ticket office opens at 9:30 and the first tours of the house begin at 10 so following the advice of the guest house hosts and my new friends and co-guests I planned on going down to the ticket office at a quarter past. Luckily my room overlooked the ticket office (see I literally was staying in Beatrix’s back yard!) and around nine I glanced out the window to find a queue of about 20 people had already formed. Taken aback by the popularity I reasoned that it was a Saturday at the beginning of the big tourist rush so I quickly grabbed my rucksack and ran down the stairs passed the parlor where my three older English friends sat sipping their morning coffee. After a brief mental calculation I decided to go inform them of my discovery concerning the seemingly exponential growth of the queue at this rather early hour. The four of us then proceeded to make our way next door to make our place in the queue. The property is timed in order to attempt to conserve the fragile house and its belongings so when I handed over my National Trust membership card I was given a ticket to enter the house at 10:55 giving me a whole hour before my turn.
(Beatrix Potter Gallery, Hawkshead)
In the mean time I returned to my room to grab some things I had forgotten and then stood outside the house perusing the guidebook I impulsively purchased. When it finally came time I hurriedly joined the new short queue of other 10:55-ers to enter the house. It’s rather small with only a handful of rooms in the ground and upper floors being shown as north wing of the house is still used as a home for the farmer who works the land, one of the stipulations left in Beatrix’s will upon giving the house over to the National Trust all those many years ago. I read about each room and tried to soak in everything I could from it, each painting, each piece of furniture and thought of how it would have been used or admired by Ms Potter. This became increasingly difficult, as the rooms got smaller and more crowded by the many people admiring the home. I wondered what had caused them all to venture to this part of the Lake District. Was it the four star rating in a guidebook diligently followed? Was it a dream of seeing the home of a beloved children’s book author? Was it for them, as it was for me, a pilgrimage? Did they enter the garden and feel their pulse quicken, their hearts swell with the prospect of seeing the place where one woman created a new life for herself and helped to preserve for a nation one beautiful and sustainable bit of countryside? I highly doubted most of them came to this place with the same awed reverence that I now exhibited. My hand lingering on doorknobs, sitting in window seats gazing into the busy garden and breathing in the scent of the place. No, I believe that for me in was special and incomprehensible to most of the other visitors that day. After I’d lingered as long as I could before the pressure of more timed ticket holders pressed against me, I escaped into the fresh air and made my way to the mountain goat bus stop that would take me back to Hawkshead.

At Hawkshead I visited the Beatrix Potter Gallery housed in the former law offices of her husband, William Heelis. It showed part of the building, as it would have been when Mr. Heelis worked there as a country solicitor and the rest featured a selection of original works done by Beatrix from the various stories and other works. I also spent some time chatting with two of the volunteers working at the front of house about the gallery, Beatrix and the National Trust in general. I told them about my research and walked out of the gallery with the card of the gallery curator who, at some point in time I may email with further questions when I find the time. Feeling the rumble of my stomach I stopped into a café attached to an outdoors store, very odd but I suppose sensible, where I had the most expensive jacket potato I’ve ever encountered. It was then that I made a quick decision to change my plans. I had planned on walking a circuitous route to Wray Castle and then down the banks of Lake Windermere and back to Sawrey but the forecast predicted rain in the afternoon and I thought I might head west instead to Coniston. Still going back and forth, the decision was made for me when the bus to Coniston pulled up outside and having had my fill of the £8 potato I grabbed my backpack, water and maps in a hurry and ran towards the bus to my next destination.
(Coniston Lake)
The thing is I hadn’t really looked at Coniston so I wasn’t sure what exactly to do. There were a few walking routes but I didn’t see any that I thought worth while in the short time that I had seeing as how my plans were always dictated by the bloody bus timetables. I stood in line at the tourist office for nearly an hour (this is an exaggeration obviously it was really probably about 5 minutes but honestly people, I was on a tight schedule) behind an older couple who seemed to enjoy asking the same question to the only woman behind the counter who equally enjoyed relaying to them the same answer but in different tones and using slightly varied word combinations. By this time I had decided to go on the ferry cruise around Lake Coniston but needed directions to the launch and a ticket. So by the time I got to the woman and she, very slowly and using a similar combination of words that she had recently expressed to the old couple, fixed me with my boat ticket, directions and a Kendal Mint Cake (my patience had worn thin and the damn thing was staring me in the eye the entire time I waited) I had missed the next ferry time. I walked the 2 miles to the boat launch and watched the activity on the lake while munching on my mint cake and waiting for the next boat. It ended up being rather pleasant and informative about the area and the lake, which had many claims to fame including the location for the record breaking speed boat speed and the location of Ruskin’s home. Mostly I just enjoyed being near the water. I spent the rest of my time walking through the small town where I encountered a church book sale where I purchased a copy of Swallows and Amazons that happened to use Coniston as a backdrop. I sampled the local ale at the Black Bull pub and then made my way to the bus stop towards Hawskead and then back to Near Sawrey. I wandered around the village, which didn’t take much time seeing as how there were only two shooting streets off the main road. It seemed like the storm that was forecast to hit in the afternoon but had held off might blow in from the southwest in the early evening so I decided to enjoy the last of my Lakeland sun by writing a letter and reading my book on the back terrace of the hotel overlooking the sweeping lawns and sheep pastures sloping down to Esthwaite Water. I was joined by others including my three friends with whom I chatted amiably about the day’s events and what we thought of the house while sipping on our pre-dinner drinks. Just before dinner when everyone else had gone inside I stayed out to feel the first drops of rain hit my face and book with the freshness of the country. I love the first hint of rain when it gives off a scent of freshness when hitting the pavement and bare earth. Dinner again proved to be a notable affair and again I retired with the rest of the guests to the lounge for coffee and mints. It seemed like some sort of routine that had been ingrained in us from a young age, the procession of the evening meal. This must be what it is like for those royal and aristocratic families in their fine old manors with nothing better to do than linger over dinner for upwards of three hours. I must say, I am a bit jealous for it is something I managed to get used to in just three days. With a full belly and a heart that didn’t quite want to go to bed for the knowledge that morning would bring my departure from this Eden I trudged up to bed.
(Fisherman on Esthwaite Water)
In the morning I took breakfast at the first chance and then proceeded for one last walk down to the far side of Esthwaite Water, passing by the ever friendly sheep who bah-ed me farewell and crossing over the Ees Bridge that Beatrix Potter had commissioned to have rebuilt a century ago. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend whom you weren’t sure when you would next meet but with certainty that you would meet again. Perhaps those are the best goodbyes for they hold passion without the pulling sense that you’re losing something forever. I lingered by the bank of the water watching the fishermen until it was time to head back and move on. I waved to the sheep and turned my back upon the scene that had first taken my breath away on the day of my arrival. I purchased a mountain goat tickets that would take me by bus to the ferry landing and then by boat across Lake Windermere to Bowness pier and from there to Windermere station. Being a Sunday the train timetables were slightly different giving me a jumble of combinations for making my way back to York. It proved to be rather interesting and entertaining but only because I have a good grasp of the train system and the geography of Britain, in another case it probably would have been hellish. My journey ended up taking me from Windermere to Oxenholme where my train to Lancaster was delayed making me miss my connection to Leeds in Lancaster so I boarded the next train to Preston, which by the way was where the train I had previously been on was headed anyway, where I was able to catch the next train directly to York after a mere half an hour wait. Needless to say it was quite the train hop but that’s partly what I love about train journeys and train stations, especially this particular journey because I wasn’t on any time or route restriction. I arrived home about four hours later exhausted but happy with my trip and glad I had taken the time to make my way to the heart of British conservationism.

The English Lakes: Day Two

(Wordsworth's Classroom)
I woke up after a not so restful sleep, I believe it was a combination of the very quiet stillness of the country, the very heavy duvet and sleeping in a new place but it didn’t really matter because I was so excited to see some more of the beautiful district. I had a full English breakfast and planned out my day which would take me to Ambleside on the northern shore of Lake Windermere and on to Rydal, the last home of the famous poet William Wordsworth. After making it to Hawkshead I realized I had just missed the bus to Ambleside and had to wait 45 minutes so I took advantage of my time by visiting the Hawkshead School, which Wordsworth attended and was established in the 1500s. It still has some of its original desks that are carved to the bone by the hands of five centuries of schoolboys. I walked up the hill to the parish church where I got a good view over the small town and then headed back down to the bus stop in time to catch my bus. I reached Ambleside later than I had originally planned so grabbed a sandwich to take with me on my hike to Rydal and set off. After wandering along a very nice gravel path through pastures of grazing cattle and sheep with the shadow of a large peak in front of me I arrived at Rydal Hall. I strolled around the gardens (thankfully free) and did a couple of sketches of the hall and main garden before continuing on to Rydal Mount, Wordsworth’s home. It’s a lovely white washed cottage built in traditional Lakeland style in the 16th century and added on to by the successive tenants. It was very cozy and livable, in fact its currently owned and occasionally occupied by the contemporary Wordsworth descendents. The sloping lawns and gardens look down over Rydal water and to Windermere to the south, a truly lovely and inspirational setting for a poet and artist.
(Near Rydal Hall)
If I had had more time before I had to get back for the bus I would have walked 3 miles further on to Grasmere where another of Wordsworth’s homes, Dove Cottage, is located. Since I didn’t think I would have time to make it and see the house sufficiently I decided to hike up to see Rydal falls, a serious of water falls that come along the river leading to Rydal water. It was lovely walking through the lush woods and hearing the calming sounds of the rushing water. I even clamored down to the base of the largest fall where I sat on the rocks by the water and wrote in my journal. I walked back to Ambleside where I looked at the Bridge house, a lovely little cottage, and I mean little, that breaches a very small brook and is absolutely idyllic. I ate an ice cream while waiting for the bus and made my way back to Near Sawrey by way of Hawkshead. Hill Top house is closed to visitors on Fridays but luckily the garden and gift shop are open until 5 so I went in to have a look before I would be looking at the house the next morning. There were about three other people there, which gave me the feeling I almost had it to myself, something I would later be very grateful I managed to get. If it weren’t for the admissions gate, gift shop and other tourists it would have been like a secret garden tucked away from the main Sawrey road by a hedge and shielding an enclosure with sheep and a small vegetable patch in front of the house. I was utterly smitten and only wish I could have been one of the many American guests that Beatrix welcomed into her home for tea and a chat when on a visit.
(View from Rydal Mount Garden)
After gazing longingly upon the scene for a fair amount of time I wandered next door to the Tower Bank Arms pub for a pint of Bees Knees, a local Cumbrian ale. I sat in the beer garden and wrote postcards while sipping my beer and basking in the reality of where I was, something I never seemed to tire of. Pulling out my map of the area in order to lay out a plan of attack for the next day, I was approached by a man who had also been enjoying the local ale. He was in his thirties and visiting the area with his mother as he had done for many years previous and gave me some recommendations for areas of interest and good sites that he’d seen on one of his visits. We had a nice chat about the beauty of the area and then I said goodbye as I strolled back to the hotel to make myself presentable for dinner.
(The Falls)
I showered and organized my belongings before joining the other guests in the bar to a wait dinner. The food was even better the second night and I passed the time between courses reading my enticing medieval murder mystery novel. After dinner I retired to the lounge for coffee with the other guests and chatted with a lovely couple from the Manchester area that were also accompanied by their two golden retrievers who proved very popular among the guests. It was, I must say, a very pleasant way to end the day.

The English Lakes: Day One

This morning after handing in my final paper for the University of York at 10am, I headed straight for the station and boarded a train on my way to Windermere in the English Lake District. Now of course to make my journey more adventurous (and lengthy) the train gods decided it would take not one but three trains in order to get me from York to Windermere. So after my second train (from Preston to Oxenholme) was delayed by 20 minutes I missed my connection from Oxenholme to Windermere and got to spend an hour sitting out in the rather hot English sun. Of course Windermere wasn’t my final destination because I wanted to get out into the real village bit of the Lake District, specifically Far Sawrey, and also the location of Beatrix Potter’s Lakeland property. From Windermere I took a bus/walked to the car ferry where I crossed Lake Windermere to Lakeside where I missed the last bus to Sawrey by 15 minutes. It’s only 2 miles so I began to walk. It just happened that the 2 miles were uphill miles, which you all know means its not really 2 miles at all. That’s really nothing though, except I had a pack on my front and a pack on my back, had already walked one mile with my baggage and did I mention it was uphill? Luckily my B&B rang to see if I was alright and to ask what I wanted for dinner, when I told them I was just starting up the “small” hill the head chef (also the owner’s son) came to pick me up after I’d made it halfway and without me knowing they were sending a chauffer. Oh but it would have been worth the climb for this place, I tell you. A slate grey, stone Victorian manor with ivy creeping up the side with a sloping lawn overlooking Esthwaite water and situated right next to Hill Top, Beatrix’s (we’re on a first name basis) former home.

After being shown to my room and told that dinner was at 7 I decided it was time to get out into nature after my daylong journey. I only had an hour but looking at a map in my “Walking with Beatrix Potter” book saw that Moss Eccles Tarn lay only 3km away, a very doable distance. So I set off walking up (yes, uphill again) a picturesque country lane flanked on either side by sheep and cows and with a view of Esthwaite to my right. I reached the tarn after about 25 minutes and was happily presented with a still, clear body of water complete with floating lily pads and surrounded by luscious ferns on the banks. I walked around to a raised bit in the middle and scrambled up to sit and write in my journal while admiring the view. Then I looked at the time and realized I only had 15 minutes to get back for dinner so headed back to the hotel. The dining room is in a conservatory with large windows, obviously because it’s a conservatory, so we could see the mountains in the distance and the glimmering evening sun playing on the lake. I had tomato soup to start, roast duck with garlic potatoes and vegetables for a main, and a lemon pudding for dessert. It was superb. I’m also the only current patron of the hotel under the age of 60, I believe, which I find rather amusing and I think the other patrons do as well. After dinner I wandered into the back lawn to have a look but then noticed that it led down to a road that seemed to head towards the lake. Curious as I am, I had no choice but to follow said road. It led to a bridge that crossed where the lake emptied to a beck, which after I crossed gave access to a woodland path that left the main road and flirted with the edge of the lake. I followed this to find some of the most gorgeous vistas one could look upon. I found one opening along the bank where there had been placed two rocks, one on top of the other to form a ‘T’ shape where I took a seat to watch the clouds playing in their reflecting glory of the water. A solitary figure graced the picture as he slowly rowed across the water, his form reflected amongst the clouds and sky turned peach mingled with soft blue. The sound of the lapping waves complimented the rustling of leaves from the surrounding trees and the distant sound of bleating sheep from a near by field. Oh I could have sat there all evening until the sun set deep below the distant mountains but I knew that I must walk away, so I sat for one more minute just trying to imprint the scene on my memory to have later in life. At the end of her life when she was bed ridden, Beatrix Potter said that she didn’t need to walk the paths and hills for she had committed every stone, view and stick to memory. What a wonderful thing to have.

As I walked back I thought of how this area must have been before the invention of the motorcar and other machines of modernity. At that moment I completely understood Wordsworth’s and Beatrix’s love of the district and how it inspired them to such great works. It was then that I walked across the bridge I mentioned earlier and noticed an engraving on the middle section stating the name of the bridge and that it had been rebuilt in 1907. This set my memory ticking as I recalled writing about this particular bridge in my research paper last year. Beatrix financed the rebuilding of the bridge in 1907, two years after becoming a resident of the District, and offered stone from her own quarry in order to fix the original which had become unsafe and had been there for many decades. It’s funny what a simple thing like that can do to a person. The next thing I knew I was walking along laughing to myself, was I actually here? Could I actually be walking on a road that Beatrix Potter walked along hundreds of times and looking at a view that perhaps inspired one of her famous illustrations? I’ve spent so much time reading and studying about her life and work as a conservationist that, to me, she is like a friend that I’ve never met in person and here I was seeing her for the first time. My laughter then turned to tears, of contentment, of joy, of some kind of realization. It was a beautiful moment for me, one that I will never forget.

I then made my way back up the country lane to the house where I ran into three of the other guests, two women and a man. We got to chatting and I walked with them next door to look at the exterior of Hill Top. I found out they were from Surrey and had been visiting Scotland and the Lake District, they look to be in their 70s, very nice and asking me all sorts of questions about why I’m over here and what I’m studying. They even remarked that I didn’t really appear to have a California accent, which was rather nice to hear. Looking at the time we all headed for our rooms. What a day, I tell you. But now I’m looking forward to tomorrow, which I think will be Wordsworth day in Ambleside and Grasmere and Saturday will be Beatrix Potter day at Hill Top and in Hawkshead. So good night for now.

Photos can be found, as always at Flickr

Open the Champagne, darling, we're being Civilized: A Day at the York Races

I woke up on Saturday morning to find a brilliant blue sky broken with the lazy white clouds of a summer day. The events for this particular Saturday had been in the making for many weeks and we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. After spending the past week hunched over my macroeconomics textbook attempting to retain the seemingly endless number of graphical movements and formula derivations of economic policy, I was rewarding myself by spending the day out with my flat mates, Martin and Ellen along with Ellen’s two sisters, Beth and Lauren, at the York Races; the York social event of the season. We thought we would play the part of the very civilized English race, Champagne and all.

We strolled into town where the Saturday food market saw hundred of locals and tourists browsing the stalls. I accomplished one of my day’s goals in finding a straw hat at one of the stalls and completed my races outfit. We then proceeded to fill two baskets of picnic food at Marks & Spencer complete with blueberries, raspberries, watermelon, chips, baguettes, sandwiches and pasta salad. Of course we couldn’t forget to grab a bottle of bubbly, or four. Gathering our loot we found a taxi that would take all of us and our small grocery store with us to the racecourse two miles outside the city center. We arrived to find the crowds gathering, ladies in flashy dresses, big hats and feathers in their hair and men in suits. We made our way to the enclosure entrance, also known as the cheap bit where for £5 you can grab a patch of grass with your mates and plop down on a blanket to enjoy your own food and drink while keeping an eye on the finish line. We found an excellent spot near the enclosure railing and close to the finish line where we could watch the horses speed pass. We had an hour before the first race so we settled in and ate our food while enjoying the warmth of the sun and watching the crowds of spectators grow on both sides of the track.

The race for this Saturday was the 39th Annual Macmillan Charity Day and featured some of the horses that will be going on to the Royal Ascot, think Kentucky Derby but with the English aristocracy in tow—big hats and big bets! York racecourse is one of the biggest and most prestigious courses in the country, we even heard that some people fly their helicopters up from London to watch, crazy! To get in the right mindset I purchased the Race Post and an official race card that gave information on all of the horses in the various races. The first race, The Ladies Queen Mother’s Cup, started at 2:05 and awarded the winning jockey her bodyweight in champagne! The winner was Mull of Dubai ridden by Miss Katie Cooper and it was definitely an exciting race. We had excellent positions right against the barrier to the track and could even smell the horses as they sped by towards the finish. It wasn’t until the third race though that we really got excited about the results. The heat was starting to get to us and the fourth race was a ways off so we decided the third race would be our last; this meant it was the last chance to put down some cold hard cash. Now it’s true that you can go to the races and not bet any money but honestly you just don’t get the same surge of emotions, for better or worse, but luckily for me and Martin it was for the better. We chose our horses carefully, or at least Martin did, I just picked the one that had good odds at placing so I put down £5 each way on Parisian Pyramid. Well I’ll tell you, watching those horses come around the last bend and towards us and the finishing line, looking for my horse in the crowd while trying to hold on to my binoculars and camera was quite the task. It goes by so quickly I hardly knew what had happened except that my horse was near the front and that’s all that really mattered. It turned out that Martin’s horse came in first with Parisian Pyramid right behind him bringing me a nice little winning of £15, not too bad for my first race. It was in good spirits that we left the racecourse finishing off the last of our Buck’s Fizz and waving goodbye to the horses that served us well.

As the Coombs’ made their own way, Martin and I finished off the afternoon with a pint at a new pub for our ever-growing guide. We chose the Golden Ball, an out of the way pub across the Ouse but still in the city center. It was a nice little place that had the races showing on the tele, a selection of ales and a lovely little beer garden that for once had an emphasis on garden. After walking home through the leafy streets that have become so familiar I forced myself to read a bit more economics before dinner and then accompanied Martin into town for a couple of drinks with some old friends of his. It was a nice ending to a lovely day that turned out as perfect as I could have imagined it. An excellent reward for my hard work hitting the books for the upcoming exam, which I’m thrilled to say, is now over.

Bath on a Whim

28 May 2009

Today I decided I’d go to Bath for a couple of hours. I’d never been and everyone seems to think this is a travesty seeing as how I’ve spent so much time in England. Well now I can satisfy those inquisitive people who ask me about Bath and confidently tell them that it is a lovely little town with picturesque architecture, small streets concealing inviting looking cafes and surrounding luscious green hills. Even with the burden of a backpack filled with all my archival resources (i.e. books, notes, computer, pack mule…) and hoards of tourists vying for photos of the famed Roman Baths for which the city is named, I still found the city positively charming. The museum at the Baths winds you around through various displays telling you the history of the Romans, their temples and their baths. Something fairly new (as in the last couple of years) is the “Bryson at the Baths” option on the audio tour. I found this somewhat entertaining as it’s basically just Bill Bryson telling you what he likes and thinks about the various artifacts, maybe not as historical as the traditional option but definitely a bit more entertaining. I was most taken aback by his voice and this is where I diverge a bit from my description of the Baths...

I wasn’t taken aback in a bad sense but reading his books I always kind of made up a voice for him in my head and now I know what he sounds like, an American who has lived in Britain a long time and therefore says certain words with an accent but overall sounds like he’s lost somewhere mid-Atlantic. It must be hard being a public figure like Bryson, an American who has live in England for 20+ years, after that long a time you’re definitely going to pick up a bit of an accent but at the same time everyone knows he’s American so he’s got to hold that side up as well. Don’t worry this makes sense to me if doesn’t to the rest of you. Speaking of accents I ought to share the new label given to my accent by a few of my friends. I now officially speak “Britican.” I have no doubt in my mind that I still sound very American to a stranger on the street but to the people I spend a lot of time with (and therefore may slightly lean towards speech wise) I am more on neutral ground, like Switzerland, and I think it’s just lovely. Yesterday I said the phrase “hella posh,” a perfect juxtaposition oh northern California and Britain. But enough of this, back to Bath…

To be honest the museum was all fine and good but all I really wanted to see was the actual Baths and the Roman ruins tucked beneath today’s street level. I’ve been to Rome and there’s Roman stuff in York (not to mention everywhere else in Europe, it wasn’t called an Empire for nothing) so the winding maze that was the museum just made me feel like I was at the Vatican again where they usher you through 2,536 different rooms before they let you see the Sistine Chapel which, to be honest, is all you really wanted to see anyway. Are you noticing a theme in my writings? Perhaps that I’m not a huge fan of the beaten track, the never ending queues and the throngs of sweating, complaining, pushing tourists? I just can’t help it, I like my space and I find it difficult to commune with the history of a place when there are about a hundred other people within a 20ft radius. I’m sure most of you understand this, and if you don’t you’re probably one of those large sweaty men pushing past me to snap a photo of the world heritage sight because it’s what you do. But that’s neither here nor there. After spending some time walking around the Great Bath and imagining the 21st century tourists as Romans walking nonchalantly through their daily business, I decided I had time to walk to the Royal Crescent which is seen so often in Jane Austen adaptations. The walk was a bit uphill, not that I mind a gradient but the fact that the temperature had steadily risen from the morning and the pack on my back was starting to cause a permanent hunch I thought it would have been nice to have a map. That’s one of the fun things about this little venture to Bath. I hadn’t planned it and therefore only had a rudimentary idea about the city, geographically and historically, so I was at the hands of the tourist committee who decides where and how often to place signs pointing people, like me, in the right direction. Luckily I’m directionally gifted and made my way through the lovely streets of Bath that were bathed, pun intended, in a glorious stream of summer sun, I only wished I had more time to wander and try some of the inviting cafes. I took a few shots of the Royal Crescent and closed my eyes imagining the English aristocrats parading down the street after taking the healing waters at the Pump House before making my way back towards the station and my train to London.

Now let’s backtrack a bit because if you’re at all acquainted with the geography of Britain you will know that Bath is practically at the other end of the country from York and you may be wondering how I ended up there. The purpose for my trip down to Wiltshire was very specific in that I wanted to look at a particular document that is held in the archives at the Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre in Chippenham, about 15 miles east of Bath. I grabbed at my chance in between classes and social events to make my way south for a night and a day in what I now think of as a historical pilgrimage for myself. The document is the Minute Book of Ferguson’s Gang, a group of extraordinary young women who had a mind for doing their bit to preserve rural England. I read about them a little over a year ago in my National Trust magazine and was absolutely enthralled. This led me on a quest to find out as much about them as possible only to encounter the rather frustrating truth that there isn’t that much info out there on this amazing group of women. About two pages in a history of the National Trust book, a handful of Times articles that I tracked down using the UC library and this lovely article that mentioned a particular minute book in which the Gang recorded their meetings along with a few of their adventures. It was in this mindset, of finding out what I could over here, that I wrote a grant proposal to the University of California for which I was awarded a rather generous sum to conduct said research. A few emails, a train ticket and a single room at the New Road Guest House and I found myself standing outside the rather snazzy history centre at 9:30am just as they were unlocking the doors.

I’d never been to a proper archive unless you count the special collections part of the library so I timidly walked up to the counter and stated my position to the nice looking lady sitting there. I was given a visitor’s badge, directed to the lockers where I could store my bags, told where to go in order to collect my item and also notified of the very important sandwich van that would arrive and be announced to the archivists just after noon. Through the tightly secure doors I made my way to the help desk where I presented my reference number and went to wait in the study room where a nice gentlemen deposited a good sized brown box on the table.
Deep breathe.
Calm the fluttering heart.
Place (trembling) hands on lid and slowly open.
Inside I found the minute book, standard size, beige in color with a black leaf imprinted on the cover. There were also a few documents in plastic covering that looked highly inviting and official in their own way. Needless to say I was as excited as a 10 year old on Christmas and tried to soak up every minute of my time with the precious document. It was more like a scrapbook filled with notes, newspaper clippings, photographs and of course the minutes of 15 meetings held by the gang between the years 1932-35. They described the crazy ventures to the National Trust offices in London to drop off a donation and even described the scrumptious sounding lunches and dinners that were eaten. I can’t even describe to you the feelings that raced through me as I flipped through the pages concentrating hard on the slanted writing and trying to imagine the scene that was set when it was all put together. After five and a half hours with a 10 minutes break to visit the sandwich van (another exciting adventure that comes with the archive experience) I found my eyes weary but my mind racing with new and different ideas for papers and more research. It was at this point that I decided Bath really wasn’t that far and I raced to the station to try to catch the next train, after all, it’s not often one can make a spontaneous decision and I smiled as the train pulled into the station.