North Trip, Day 3: Come On with the Rain

Here's one thing I learned on my mission: on your darkest days, all you really need is an umbrella for a prop and someone to sing "Singin' in the Rain" with you. Here's looking at you, Rachel Margaret Ogelvie. (BTW, saw your clan tartan in a tourist shop today. It is stripey. In case you were wondering.)

Today is Edinburgh.

Of course, I've already been. 'Twas old news. We started at Edinburgh Castle, where I promptly lost everyone else (as usual) and went to see all the stuff I didn't see last time, which was a lot of stuff. I also re-saw some stuff, including the Stone of Scone* which I must have just walked past without noticing last time, despite its being in a glass case and having a guard and all.

Anyway, after giving the castle a good once-over, I trotted down the Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace, where Isabel and I had arrived just fifteen minutes too late to get in. This time was better: I was only ten minutes too late. Rrrrgh. Well, progress.

To comfort myself, I wandered into the Museum of Childhood, and then wandered out again because it was kind of creepy . . . an empty museum full of dolls and toys. Something in there has to be possessed. So instead I wandered up to the National Museum of Scotland, which contained lots of non-creepy things like skeletons and coffins. Sadly, I only had half an hour in there before they closed, but I enjoyed my half-hour immensely.

(Scotland takes credit for John Muir. Well, more power to 'em.)

Wondering what I was going to do with myself until bedtime, I happened upon a theater. It happened to be hosting a touring production of Singin' in the Rain. They happened to offer ten-pound student rush tickets. I happened to have my student ID handy. So that worked out nicely.

I had dinner with some of the study abroad folks at a very tasty burger pub, where I had a cheese burger (quite literally. It was a grilled patty of cheese on a bun. So good.) and formulated sad theories about Singin' in the Rain to help Tiffany achieve her party trick of crying at will.** And then I went to the theatre.

It made me miss my parents, which is not something that happens a lot anymore, globe-trotter that I am. But S'itR is a my-parents thing. They would have loved it. Nothing brings a smile to your face like watching Don Lockwood kick great sheets of water out into the audience like Shamu hitting the Splash Zone. Leena was fabulous, and got her own number, which was the sort of bad singing that can only be done by a really, really good singer. Cosmo was adorable, Kathy's voice was fabulous, and after the first round of bows everybody came out to do one more rain-soaked number. Everybody everybody. The whole cast, with silver umbrellas that opened to reveal brightly-colored undersides, kicked and splashed and got soaked and had a grand old time. I grinned until my jaw fell off and I had to ask the person sitting in front of me to please pick it up and pass it back.

And as it is now ten minutes to midnight, I bid you all a very good morning, and off I go to bed.

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*Pronounced 'Stone of Scoone,' unless you read Terry Pratchett, in which case it is pronounced just like it's spelled, otherwise the joke doesn't work.

**Saddest theory: Leena, in her rage at being publicly humiliated, kills Cosmo after the premiere. Even I almost started crying at that thought.

North Trip, Day 2: Lakes and Poets

Post-dated: this is yesterday's blog. You've been warned.

***

Three adventures today: the Preston temple, Hill Top Farm, and Dove Cottage.

The temple was as temples generally are: clean and white and quiet and lovely. In the midst of this clean white quiet loveliness, I had an experience faintly reminiscent of a Marx Brothers movie, in which I changed my clothes no fewer than six times as the temple workers kept coming up with different things they needed me to do. It was a bit chaotic, in a serene whispers-only kind of way, but I got to do a lot and that was nice. And props to Sister Ford, the sweet lady who got me some antacids or something when she saw that I was in such pain from breakfast that I was finding it difficult to stand up. 

After ending up in most every nook and cranny of the temple, I got piled back on the bus and off we went into Lake District National Park . . . up to Hilltop, home of Miss Beatrix Potter. I cannot even tell you how lovely it was. The day has been absolutely cloud-free from dawn to dusk, so the cottage was absolutely saturated with sunshine. The house and garden are all fairly well just as she left them, so much so that some of her illustrations match up like photographs. The rhubarb was just coming up in what was most decidedly Mr. McGregor's garden, though the local bunnies (of whom I saw at least four) are now kept out by chicken wire rather than badly-fitted gates. 

Miss Beatrix Potter. Upon the capital made from her writings, she purchased a little cottage in the hills just for her, where she lived and wrote and drew and gardened and, in general, did exactly as she pleased. I would be very glad of such a life. 

The students had to be herded back into the bus like recalcitrant sheep; sunshine and warm, fresh breezes are not easy things to give up. But in the end we got them all on board, and down we went to our next stop: Dove Cottage, the home turf of Romantic poetry, the 1970s Haarlem of the 18th Century. 

I want to live there. 

I want to light the coal fires at the cottage in the morning, and man the desks with my drop spindle for entertainment when it's quiet, and go hiking in the hills to read poetry in the sunshine, and explore the lakes in my kayak on my days off. This place is like Minnesota: a lake-filled, tree-filled place, where summer tourists are just another sort of fauna and where the winters are long and deep. There are sheep here, rather than dairy cattle, and big impressive hills, rather than little hardly-noticeable ones, but . . . it tastes right, if that makes any sense. This is a proper place for a water-baby like me. 

I will e-mail the directors as soon as I have internet again, and ask their permission to live there. Jenna wishes to as well; I don't know if that makes us buddies or rivals. But she's much more of a Wordsworth scholar than I am, so she'd better merit a chance at the internship, and if she obtains it and I do not, I won't be able to begrudge her. Her face just glowed with pleasure in that place. 

And now we're at a hostel by the lakeside, and I write this entry as I wait for it to be my turn at dinner. Big breakfast = morning queasiness = tiny lunch = ravenous RoseE by dinner. And tomorrow, to Edinburgh, and the Heart of Mid-Lothian. 

North Trip, Day 1: Springtime

“Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like?"...
"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine...” 
― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

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Spring happened this weekend.

Britannia seems to be raising her face up to the sky, shaking the rain out of her hair, and laughing.

Every public park is sprinkled with crowds of people, who have popped up on the lawns like flowers, and flowers, which have popped up in the landscaping beds like crowds of people. There is sunshine above and there are daffodils below.

Saturday, I had every intention of taking a walk in the country with a local tour guide. My Saturday morning brain being what it is, I got on the wrong train. Three times. So I gave up and went to play in Portobello Road instead. Then, upon my arrival home, I was swept into a group doing the best thing that could possibly be done on a sunny Saturday in springtime: renting paddleboats on the Serpentine in Hyde Park.

Sunday involved a bit of semi-deliberate getting lost, just to be out in the sunshine some more.

And today, Monday, we launched our week-long North trip.

Today, we visited the Wedgwood Factory, where we saw craftspersons making beautiful pottery. As usual, I dove into the museum (which was very informative and contained a vast amount of beautiful ceramic everything), and as usual, everyone else magically disappeared. Dr. O. eventually came and fished me out, as we'd apparently decided to leave 1.5 hours earlier than planned.

I keep following the directions exactly re: where to be and when, and plans keep changing behind my back while I'm distracted by museums and/or forests. It has happened at Stonehenge, at Chawton House, at the British Museum, at Charles Dickens's house, and now at the Wedgwood factory. It's getting annoying. Also, why do people keep hunting for me when I have a phone and they know it? Sigh.

Anyway, I'm now watching QI XL, legally. No pictures today, as the internet is being iffy. But remind me to tell you all about Chawton House, about the Drowned Man, about teaching Byron, and about coffee-sipping guitar-strumming hippie church.

Dieu et Mon Droit

This blog is all about God and Government.

Let's tackle government first.

Today's first stop was Runnymede, which certainly was runny . . . the country has yet to entirely dry out, so we ended up with muddy boots.

Runnymede, for those of you who don't know, is where they signed the Magna Carta, which was the lords laying down the law upon King John. It's mostly about boring things like inheritance procedure, but it's important because somebody bossed the king, documented it, and got away with it.

And all of that is very important and historic and stuff. But the little gazebo you see in the picture, and the plaques and signage, were all paid for by the American Bar Association, which is not about to let you forget it. It's carved into this site in like six different places. A little ways off is, I kid you not, a memorial to President John F. Kennedy . . . who also signed stuff, so I guess that's why he's there . . . brought to you by the American Bar Association. If I hadn't seen a copy of the Magna Carta last week, I'd be very worried that it might have been re-titled "The American Bar Association Presents the Magna Carta."

Well, lest we Yanks get all uppity with our Parliamentarian ways, our next stop was Windsor Castle.

'Twas the most beautiful thing in the whole wide anywhere.

Sadly, they didn't let us take pictures inside, so I cannot show you the palace's amazing china collection, or the amazing elaborate all-but-fully-functional doll's house, or the Order of the Garter on EVERYTHING. (Apparently the Order of the Garter is to Windsor Castle what the American Bar Association is to Runnymede.) I got to visit the grave of Henry VIII his-bad-self, and Wife 3 Jane Seymour, the one who died in childbirth and should be bally grateful for it, because it could have been a lot worse. I also saw the bullet that killed Admiral Nelson, because in the midst of a naval battle with splinters flying everywhere and wounded men lying screaming on the slippery, bloody decks and the ship pitching underneath them and Admiral Nelson bleeding out all over everything, some enterprising soul thought, "Hey, I'd better keep track of this bullet! It's historical!"

Also saw that lovely portrait of Princess Elizabeth that I've used in this blog before. It really was cool to see in real life. I didn't recognize it at first, and my brain was all "I know that person. She's got to be a Boleyn, right? The round hood, the square neckline, the teardrop pearls . . . too young to be Anne, though . . . and a redhead . . . oh, hey, it's Elizabeth!"

Here's some more castle-y-ness. It's all very crenelated. The sky was also ridged clouds from horizon to horizon, so I predict some nasty rain within the next two days. 

My favorite part of the castle, the only part I'd actually like to live in, was this great little housing complex for the choir boys and their families. So cute, and full of signs that actual people with actual little kids live here. Just . . . here. In Windsor castle. And they leave their bicycles on the royal lawn sometimes.

In addition to being a politically charged day, it has also been a day of holy godliness. Yesterday, in keeping with the finest tradition, Jo and I got our kicks by making way too much gumbo and chasing it with way too much cake.

Mormon Girls Gone Wild. For Tabasco.

Then the whole bunch of us got dolled up and saw La Bohème from the front row of the Royal Albert Hall.

And then we woke up in the morning and it was Ash Wednesday. We didn't have hangovers, but I was groggy from staying up too late getting in one last splurge of Facebook, so that's something. (By the bye, I'm off Facebook for Lent, so hopefully this blog will be much more faithfully updated. I'll still check messenger, though, so if you need me, call.)

In honor of the holy season, we visited Chalfont St. Giles, where Thomas Grey wrote his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" and reminded us that "the paths of glory lead but to the grave." 

But at least there are flowers, so that's something, right? See, mortality isn't so bad.

And then we stopped in at John Milton's cute little cottage, where he went to just get away from it all.*

Again, no photos of the inside, sorry. :( But there were some very very cool, very very old editions of Paradise Lost, and one not very old but very cool one open for white-gloved perusal, complete with the passionate watercolors of William Blake.

For visitors' entertainment and edification, the statuary in the garden re-enacts the Fall of Man.

Heaven preserve us! She's NAKED!
And also, there is an enormous talking snake.

 We arrived home from our travels just in time for me to hustle over to St. Mary Abbot's for Ash Wednesday service. I've never actually attended such a service, though I've heard glowing reports from my bff Emily, who is much more knowledgeable about mainstream Christianity than I am. I'm really glad I went. Lovely music, lovely-smelling incense, lovely smiles and handshakes from folks, lovely and needful fresh perspective on the Atonement. Part of the service included a read-through of the Ten Commandments, with a pause after each one so I could admit to myself and to God the ways in which I have violated and am still violating that command. It was some pretty brutal soul-searching, there in that dark little gothic church in Kensington.

The Reverend Jenny (yaay female clergy!) spoke on the woman taken in adultery . . . about her humiliation and her vulnerability. And she said something that is now lingering in my head: Through the grace of Christ, I am more than the sum total of my failures. I like that. Really, my failures are all I have to offer to God . . . all my attempts at goodness that didn't pan out. And hey, I've got lots and lots of those. But I'm not going to become better by myself. Not even a little bit. And it is, in some way, nice to let my improvement be the job of someone qualified to perform it. Christ makes me better. I'm just along for the ride.

So now my forehead is marked with ashes. I haven't planned my lesson for tomorrow, or graded the quizzes for Henry IV, or written the quizzes for Hard Times or Tess. But now it is bedtime. I have walked and worshipped, bantered and blogged. I have done what I can today. Tomorrow, I will do what I can do tomorrow, masha'Allah. And thus it is. Amen.**

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*And by "all," I mean "the bubonic plague," not "the stress of modern life." #twentyfirstcenturyproblems

**This spiritual insight is brought to you by the American Bar Association, the Order of the Garter, and the letter T.

A Night to Remember

"Did you kiss a boy?!?" demanded my flatmates, when I announced that it was the best night ever.

No, darlings, I did not. And quite frankly, any boy would have to be a heck of a kisser to beat tonight.

What was tonight?

Tonight was Feminist Home Evening: London Edition.

Tonight was dinner at the Savoy Hotel.



Tonight was getting cheerily drunk on virgin margaritas and mojitos.

Tonight was the most beautiful and delicious piece of fish I have ever been served, which I swooned over when I wasn't stealing a bite of Lisa's raviolis or Cadence's risotto.

Tonight was staying for dessert, which included a crème brulée that tasted like heaven caught fire, an apple/rhubarb crumble that was so juicy I wanted to drink it, and this thing, which is the bastard love child of a cream puff and an ice cream sandwich:

Tonight was extraordinary puppetry, sound design, and storytelling from the front row of the balcony.

Tonight was a very, very good night. 

Walks, Wanders, and World War II

Today was a long day, feet-speaking.

It started at what should have been 8:30 and kinda wasn't, because I'm bad at making myself leave the flat on the right time for getting to anything. My flatmates were headed to the High Street Kensington station. I, being contrary, went in the opposite direction to South Kensington, which is a slightly longer walk but two stations closer to where we needed to go. Which was Westminster.

 

This is the old part of the Houses of Parliament, used primarily for laying people in state and allowing tourists to take at least one photo on their tour-of-Parliament day. The ceiling's pretty dang cool.

The rest of the building is much, much cooler, but for that you'll have to Google. Suffice to say: gilt. Paintings. Heraldry. Beautiful woodwork. Statues. Benches on which we were not allowed to sit. House of Lords: Red. House of Commons: Green. Monarchy: Tudor rose. Parliament: Beaufort portcullis. Pomp and ceremony: in spades. Political debates peppered with petty name-calling and various instances of physical violence: oh, go on then.

'Twas pretty cool.

But the day was not over! After touring Parliament, we braved the crowds (getting thicker with the warmer weather) to do this week's Walk and see some cool stuff. For instance, we found this cool new memorial to the women of World War II.

It was just outside the horse guards, where, as advertised, some honest-to goodness horses were standing guard. They had people in silly hats on their backs. We also wandered past a Banqueting Hall, a statue of Charles I (folks are still really kinda proud of themselves for beheading this guy), an imperial arch, and the capital of France.

Or, at least, where the capital of France was when Charles de Gaulle was running things from over the channel. They've put a statue of him across from the building, so he can remember where his house is.

Speaking of finding one's house, and World War II, and other such, our next stop was the Churchill War Rooms.

(In between these two stops, I hiked up to Leicester Square to see if I could snag a ticket for the last night of One Man, Two Gov'nors. Turns out I couldn't. So then I hiked back down. There was some walking. That's okay, though, right? I can walk forever and ever. I'm tough.)

So the War Rooms are where Churchill and his staff camped out during the Blitz, keeping track of everything on a primitive GPS known as "a giant map pinned to the wall with pins in it." It's a little warren of meeting rooms and basic housing, plus one super-secret telephone to the White House disguised as the only proper bathroom in the facility.

The parts of the complex that weren't restored have been made into a Churchill museum, assembled by the Imperial War Museum (which is made up of folks that know a thing or two about museums, believe you me). The man was a great speechwriter. He was also kind of full of himself and seems to have given the poor typists merry hell, but a heck of a great speechwriter.

I caved here and finally bought something from a gift shop: a bottle of dandelion and burdock soda. Yaay, wartime ration treats! It was actually pretty tasty.

After a good wander through the War Rooms, I teamed up with Ashlyn and Tyler to hit Camden Market, where Tyler hadn't been, Ashlyn had been but wanted to check out some brooches, and I wanted to go to get a cup of tea at my favorite tea shop. It is still the very best tea shop.



We also discovered Ashlyn's compelling and bizarre love of antique suitcases.

So after a good wander, and a hike up the road to find an ATM, and a hike back to the market to buy shirts (Tyler's, not mine) and an umbrella (finally found one for 3 pounds . . . and now it will never rain again), and a hike to find a useful bus station, and a hike from the bus's drop-off back to the house, I am curled up in my bed and wondering, "Why do my legs feel all funny?"