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
26 June 2009
19 June 2009
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.
12 June 2009
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.
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.
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