I can now report firsthand that Stonehenge is just a big ol’ bunch of nuthin’.
You were expecting me to say that I stood in the ancient stone circle and had visions and felt the souls of long-ago Druids dancing around on my head, right? After all, Stonehenge is supposed to be a large deal to tourists, right? People come by the busload to bear witness to these mysterious icons.
Jeez. I’m sorry, but these people need to get a life!
In fact, it may be sacrilege to suggest it, but Stonehenge could benefit from some Disneyfication. I wouldn’t ordinarily go out on this particular limb, but this particular attraction doesn’t warrant the big build-up it has gotten over the years, in my view.
Picture it: You’ve got your map, you’re motoring down the road in anticipation, you take a right fork, and WHOA: That’s it. That’s IT? All of a sudden you’re driving by these monoliths that are right there in a field by the side of the road. They’re much smaller than I expected. And except for one small road sign, there was no dramatic approach. Just lots of sheep contentedly wandering about in the mud. Blink, and you miss ‘em all.
By the time I arrived on this particular afternoon, the parking lot was closed, so there was no way to access the field, which is enclosed by a fence. I gathered the fence was to keep the sheep in, not to keep the tourists and Druids out. But you could easily see all there was to see from the road, which was very little of nothing.
The sheep were cute, I give 'em that. The whole scene was such a dud, about the only thing to do was laugh.
I’m not saying the Brits should install a concession stand across the road or hang up some neon signs. If Stonehenge were in the States, no doubt some capitalists would have long ago added permanent carnival rides, a Pizza Hut and souvenir vendors to try to make a buck. Leave it to us Americans to take the tacky quotient over the top.
In fact, I admire the way this country has mostly resisted commercialization. The British countryside is still unspoiled. No billboards along the highways. After all, the entire kingdom is like an historical theme park.
But given the great press Stonehenge has gotten for the last 5,000 years or so, one would expect at least a nice little plaque on the property, a platform for a proper photo op, or a Ben & Jerry’s flavour named after it. There wasn't even a T-shirt. Prime property for a clever promoter, I should say.
***
Going to another extreme, yesterday I went to Hampton Court Palace, King Henry VIII's digs, where a crew happened to be filming a scene from the next "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie. I swear I saw Johnny Depp in his Jack Sparrow costume. OK, it was only for a second, a mere glimpse, really. But that's my story, and I'm sticking to it! Also saw lots of extras dressed as British soldiers in their red coats -- very handsome, they were.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
An Open Memo to the Queen
Dear Majesty,
As you may know, I am on an extended holiday here in your glorious kingdom. I am on a house swap with a couple in Newbury in West Berkshire – not all that far from your country digs in Windsor -- and am enjoying myself very much indeed.
I’ve seeing some new sights, revisiting many venues that have impressed me in the past, and soaking up as much of your delightful British culture as possible in my five weeks here. For example, last week I took my friend Susan, a first-time visitor to the U.K., to the city of Bath and the Rothschilds’ estate at Waddesdon, both of which she loved, and to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which failed to impress her (“the ceilings are too high”). Last night we attended the London Welsh Men’s Choir Festival at Royal Albert Hall featuring a 600-voice mass choir. Imagine! A choir of SIX HUNDRED MEN! Susan’s reaction was less than overwhelming (“Why can’t they sing everything in English?”). For myself, I was blown away (600 men!!). There’s just no predicting people’s reactions, is there?
On another trip up to London one day last week, Susan and I attended an after-hours activity at the Queens Gallery right there at your house. I’m sure you’ve seen the current exhibit – Love and Passion: The Art of Victoria & Albert – which features art purchased by your great-great-grandparents during their marriage. It’s a beautiful display and certainly dispels the theory that Victoria was a prude. Who says she was opposed to nudity?!
Anyway, this ticketed “do” had been promoted as a behind-the-scenes look at the exhibit, with mini-lectures by members of the Curator’s staff, plus refreshments. The staff were certainly knowledgeable and gracious, and their presentations were really interesting. I particularly enjoyed hearing music of the era played on Victoria and Albert’s own decorative piano, which is part of the royal collection on display. I hadn’t known that Felix Mendelssohn taught Prince Albert to play the instrument, and that Albert himself composed songs.
The Curator and his staff mingled with guests all evening to answer questions and make us feel closer to the fascinating couple who had collected these objects. So far so good.
However, I feel it is my duty to report on the sad, sad issue of the refreshments.
Lilibet, honey. This function was held in Buckingham Palace. One would have expected certain Standards to be upheld!
Would it have broken the royal kitchen’s budget to come up with a plate of cheese and fruit? Maybe a little pate with some nice crackers? Some chilled shrimp would have been nice.
Alas, what we got were some disspirited, off-brand corn chips (sans salsa), a few pretzels and some potato chips. IN PLASTIC BOWLS. Susan and I agreed that we ate better snacks at slumber parties in 7th grade. We were not amused.
You own some of the finest china in the world, and these serving vessels were straight from Dollar General! I’ve seen better ware in WalMart.
It appeared as if somebody had made a quick run by the local budget supermarket, grabbed a few cellophane bags and some boring, plain white paper napkins and called it a day. I wouldn’t have even minded the crisps (we call 'em potato chips) if they had been presented in a nice silver or Royal Doulton bowl. Or had the napkins been embossed with the Windsor crest, suitable for a commoner's scrapbook. But plastic and paper?? Tacky, tacky, tacky! And there wasn’t even any onion dip.
I feel it is my duty as a wannabe subject to let you know of these embarrassing oversights.
On the other hand, I am all too happy to allow you to make it up to me. I'm available for dinner at the Palace any evening this week. Don't go to any special trouble. Whatever you and Phillip are having (on the royal china) will be fine with me.
I remain at your command,
Your loyal lifelong fan,
Emily
As you may know, I am on an extended holiday here in your glorious kingdom. I am on a house swap with a couple in Newbury in West Berkshire – not all that far from your country digs in Windsor -- and am enjoying myself very much indeed.
I’ve seeing some new sights, revisiting many venues that have impressed me in the past, and soaking up as much of your delightful British culture as possible in my five weeks here. For example, last week I took my friend Susan, a first-time visitor to the U.K., to the city of Bath and the Rothschilds’ estate at Waddesdon, both of which she loved, and to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which failed to impress her (“the ceilings are too high”). Last night we attended the London Welsh Men’s Choir Festival at Royal Albert Hall featuring a 600-voice mass choir. Imagine! A choir of SIX HUNDRED MEN! Susan’s reaction was less than overwhelming (“Why can’t they sing everything in English?”). For myself, I was blown away (600 men!!). There’s just no predicting people’s reactions, is there?
On another trip up to London one day last week, Susan and I attended an after-hours activity at the Queens Gallery right there at your house. I’m sure you’ve seen the current exhibit – Love and Passion: The Art of Victoria & Albert – which features art purchased by your great-great-grandparents during their marriage. It’s a beautiful display and certainly dispels the theory that Victoria was a prude. Who says she was opposed to nudity?!
Anyway, this ticketed “do” had been promoted as a behind-the-scenes look at the exhibit, with mini-lectures by members of the Curator’s staff, plus refreshments. The staff were certainly knowledgeable and gracious, and their presentations were really interesting. I particularly enjoyed hearing music of the era played on Victoria and Albert’s own decorative piano, which is part of the royal collection on display. I hadn’t known that Felix Mendelssohn taught Prince Albert to play the instrument, and that Albert himself composed songs.
The Curator and his staff mingled with guests all evening to answer questions and make us feel closer to the fascinating couple who had collected these objects. So far so good.
However, I feel it is my duty to report on the sad, sad issue of the refreshments.
Lilibet, honey. This function was held in Buckingham Palace. One would have expected certain Standards to be upheld!
Would it have broken the royal kitchen’s budget to come up with a plate of cheese and fruit? Maybe a little pate with some nice crackers? Some chilled shrimp would have been nice.
Alas, what we got were some disspirited, off-brand corn chips (sans salsa), a few pretzels and some potato chips. IN PLASTIC BOWLS. Susan and I agreed that we ate better snacks at slumber parties in 7th grade. We were not amused.
You own some of the finest china in the world, and these serving vessels were straight from Dollar General! I’ve seen better ware in WalMart.
It appeared as if somebody had made a quick run by the local budget supermarket, grabbed a few cellophane bags and some boring, plain white paper napkins and called it a day. I wouldn’t have even minded the crisps (we call 'em potato chips) if they had been presented in a nice silver or Royal Doulton bowl. Or had the napkins been embossed with the Windsor crest, suitable for a commoner's scrapbook. But plastic and paper?? Tacky, tacky, tacky! And there wasn’t even any onion dip.
I feel it is my duty as a wannabe subject to let you know of these embarrassing oversights.
On the other hand, I am all too happy to allow you to make it up to me. I'm available for dinner at the Palace any evening this week. Don't go to any special trouble. Whatever you and Phillip are having (on the royal china) will be fine with me.
I remain at your command,
Your loyal lifelong fan,
Emily
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The perils of choral music
We human beings land ourselves in some pretty precarious pickles in pursuit of amusement, don’t we? I mean, we’re the only animal species who willingly dive out of airplanes, ride surfboards over treacherous waves in the ocean, or jump off bridges with only a bungee chord strapped to our ankles – all in the name of fun.
Me, I’ve never been the danger-pursuing type. Call me a wimp, but I’m not into perilous, adrenalin-inducing sport. No, my entertainments of choice involve either movies, theatre or choral music. Over here in the U.K., I’ve got all of those on my radar screen. Nice, low-key, wholesome activities and above all, safe.
Wrong. Last night I had a ticket to a concert by the City of Oxford Choir at Exeter College Chapel on the campus of Oxford University.
That I made it back home in one piece is a testament to dumb luck and the intervention of my higher angels, who must have been howling with mirth that I should have been so stupid as to undertake such an outing.
Now, you must understand that Oxford was laid out shortly after the Earth cooled. Its street map is the two-dimensional equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube. The chaps in the Middle Ages had never heard of (1) a straight line, (2) signage of any kind, (3) motor cars. Aside from being Medieval eye candy, the Oxford town center is simply not equipped to handle 21st Century traffic.
Which is why the Oxford Tourism Board’s website says very plainly, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE IN OXFORD. Park your car in a satellite lot and TAKE THE BUS.”
On the drive up to Oxford in the afternoon I had lunch with the delightful sister and brother-in-law of my house exchange partners, who live in a fascinating old (circa 1650) blacksmith’s house. As they drew me maps to show me how to get into the town center, they kept saying, in typical British understatement, “Oxford is not very car-friendly, I’m afraid. Have you considered the PARK-AND-RIDE SCHEME?”
Back on the main highway, I kept seeing warnings, “USE PARK-AND-RIDE FOR OXFORD,” and “YOU MUST TURN HERE FOR PARK-AND-RIDE.” On the main road leading into the town center, one lane is conspicuously designated For Buses Only. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s Saturday evening, not mid-week. Driving my automobile into town is my right as a citizen, correct?
As I passed the park-and-ride lot, I swear there was a sign along the lines of “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Driveth Here.” A skull-and-crossbones wasn’t visible, but I was beginning to get the idea. I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had a strategy: Find the railway station and navigate from there. Oh, wait, the railway station is not where it’s supposed to be. There are no signs anywhere. OK, I’ll reason it out by turning…here.
My confidence took its first hit when I found myself on a one-way street heading the wrong way – with a bus coming straight at me. Ooopsy. I make a quick left. Oh, dear. I’m in a dead end alley. OK, all I have to do is make a quick seven-point turn and head back where I was. AAACK! I can’t find reverse, where’s reverse, doesn’t this car have reverse???
Deep, cleansing breaths. Slowly, slowly I meandered and got back out to a “main” street, only to realize that hmmmmm, there seem to be no other cars around. Only people on foot. Lots and lots of people on foot – in the middle of the street. As in, “This is a pedestrian mall. And I’m driving on it.”
“Oh, S***!!!!!”
The next 15 minutes were a blur. Not many options here: I’m lost, I’m driving around in circles on streets that are closed to automobiles, my maps are meaningless, I’m inches away from being pulverized by the Buses That Rule Oxford, I’m dodging dozens of kamikaze bicyclists, I’m being stared at by hundreds of Oxonians who are clearly wondering which planet I come from, and I’ve got to find a loo SOON.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do under similar circumstances: I smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and pretended to know EXACTLY where I was and where I was going. Faking confidence, I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had gleaned one fact from all the online and hand-drawn maps given to me – find Broad Street, and I’d be near Exeter College. By sheer magic Broad Street finally materialized. After all, even a blind squirrel can find a couple of nuts. I sensed I was closing in on Exeter. I decided to park and strike out on foot.
Only problem with this gem of a plan is that there are NO SIGNS on any building at Oxford. Wouldn’t be cool, I suppose. It’s as if the exclusivity of the place has been perpetuated by insiders who know the secret handshake. Obviously I didn’t know the secret handshake or the code or whatever cryptograms the Chosen Ones use to find their lairs.
After asking a half-dozen student-type individuals, I found Exeter College and its gorgeous little chapel, which could have been straight out of a Harry Potter movie set. Stepping into the quad of the vine-covered college was like stepping back several centuries. Really enchanting! I couldn’t imagine being privileged enough to attend school there, or at any of the 30-something colleges that make up the University. On the other hand, you’d have to be pretty hardy to withstand the discomforts of living in dorms that old.
The concert was, frankly, a let-down after the rigors of the trip to get there. It was OK, but the theme – plainsong through the ages – was so high-brow I’m not sure I “got it.” I suppose I should have expected something that erudite. It was at the oldest and most prestigious University in the world, after all.
I’m happy to report that I managed to escape the rabbit warren of streets without killing more than one or two bicyclists, and found my way home. But never let it be said that choral music has no perils or hazards. I’d take white water rafting on a Class 5 river over Oxford traffic any day.
Me, I’ve never been the danger-pursuing type. Call me a wimp, but I’m not into perilous, adrenalin-inducing sport. No, my entertainments of choice involve either movies, theatre or choral music. Over here in the U.K., I’ve got all of those on my radar screen. Nice, low-key, wholesome activities and above all, safe.
Wrong. Last night I had a ticket to a concert by the City of Oxford Choir at Exeter College Chapel on the campus of Oxford University.
That I made it back home in one piece is a testament to dumb luck and the intervention of my higher angels, who must have been howling with mirth that I should have been so stupid as to undertake such an outing.
Now, you must understand that Oxford was laid out shortly after the Earth cooled. Its street map is the two-dimensional equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube. The chaps in the Middle Ages had never heard of (1) a straight line, (2) signage of any kind, (3) motor cars. Aside from being Medieval eye candy, the Oxford town center is simply not equipped to handle 21st Century traffic.
Which is why the Oxford Tourism Board’s website says very plainly, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE IN OXFORD. Park your car in a satellite lot and TAKE THE BUS.”
On the drive up to Oxford in the afternoon I had lunch with the delightful sister and brother-in-law of my house exchange partners, who live in a fascinating old (circa 1650) blacksmith’s house. As they drew me maps to show me how to get into the town center, they kept saying, in typical British understatement, “Oxford is not very car-friendly, I’m afraid. Have you considered the PARK-AND-RIDE SCHEME?”
Back on the main highway, I kept seeing warnings, “USE PARK-AND-RIDE FOR OXFORD,” and “YOU MUST TURN HERE FOR PARK-AND-RIDE.” On the main road leading into the town center, one lane is conspicuously designated For Buses Only. But I’m determined to do this on my own. It’s Saturday evening, not mid-week. Driving my automobile into town is my right as a citizen, correct?
As I passed the park-and-ride lot, I swear there was a sign along the lines of “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Driveth Here.” A skull-and-crossbones wasn’t visible, but I was beginning to get the idea. I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had a strategy: Find the railway station and navigate from there. Oh, wait, the railway station is not where it’s supposed to be. There are no signs anywhere. OK, I’ll reason it out by turning…here.
My confidence took its first hit when I found myself on a one-way street heading the wrong way – with a bus coming straight at me. Ooopsy. I make a quick left. Oh, dear. I’m in a dead end alley. OK, all I have to do is make a quick seven-point turn and head back where I was. AAACK! I can’t find reverse, where’s reverse, doesn’t this car have reverse???
Deep, cleansing breaths. Slowly, slowly I meandered and got back out to a “main” street, only to realize that hmmmmm, there seem to be no other cars around. Only people on foot. Lots and lots of people on foot – in the middle of the street. As in, “This is a pedestrian mall. And I’m driving on it.”
“Oh, S***!!!!!”
The next 15 minutes were a blur. Not many options here: I’m lost, I’m driving around in circles on streets that are closed to automobiles, my maps are meaningless, I’m inches away from being pulverized by the Buses That Rule Oxford, I’m dodging dozens of kamikaze bicyclists, I’m being stared at by hundreds of Oxonians who are clearly wondering which planet I come from, and I’ve got to find a loo SOON.
So I did what any self-respecting American would do under similar circumstances: I smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, and pretended to know EXACTLY where I was and where I was going. Faking confidence, I downshifted and plowed boldly forward.
I had gleaned one fact from all the online and hand-drawn maps given to me – find Broad Street, and I’d be near Exeter College. By sheer magic Broad Street finally materialized. After all, even a blind squirrel can find a couple of nuts. I sensed I was closing in on Exeter. I decided to park and strike out on foot.
Only problem with this gem of a plan is that there are NO SIGNS on any building at Oxford. Wouldn’t be cool, I suppose. It’s as if the exclusivity of the place has been perpetuated by insiders who know the secret handshake. Obviously I didn’t know the secret handshake or the code or whatever cryptograms the Chosen Ones use to find their lairs.
After asking a half-dozen student-type individuals, I found Exeter College and its gorgeous little chapel, which could have been straight out of a Harry Potter movie set. Stepping into the quad of the vine-covered college was like stepping back several centuries. Really enchanting! I couldn’t imagine being privileged enough to attend school there, or at any of the 30-something colleges that make up the University. On the other hand, you’d have to be pretty hardy to withstand the discomforts of living in dorms that old.
The concert was, frankly, a let-down after the rigors of the trip to get there. It was OK, but the theme – plainsong through the ages – was so high-brow I’m not sure I “got it.” I suppose I should have expected something that erudite. It was at the oldest and most prestigious University in the world, after all.
I’m happy to report that I managed to escape the rabbit warren of streets without killing more than one or two bicyclists, and found my way home. But never let it be said that choral music has no perils or hazards. I’d take white water rafting on a Class 5 river over Oxford traffic any day.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Pacing myself, but still enjoying the sights and sounds
I’m having a sweetly laid-back week here in West Berkshire. No thrills and spills; just unremarkable domesticity, a cathedral concert or two, and the odd visit to a stately home. You know – just the usual stuff if you’re a culture vulture like me.
Saturday I fancied hearing some choral music. According to my online research, the choirs of Winchester Cathedral, less than 25 miles away, were going to accommodate me. I knew generally how to get to Winchester, and figured that finding the cathedral shouldn’t be an issue. Drive to the city center, look up and find the spires, right?
Wrong. The town center occupies the bottom of a big bowl. So instead of being built on the town’s highest point, as many grand cathedrals are, Winchester’s cathedral was built in a gulley. I drove around in circles for over an hour trying to find it.
Finally I ditched the car in a parking garage and started walking. Down, down, down. Found the cathedral at last and settled in for what I hoped would be a wonderful evening of music. WOW! I was absolutely blown away!
First of all, Winchester took the bold move in 1999 to allow girls to sing. Imagine! For the first time in its 900-year history, the cathedral accepted girls into their music program. They’re still secondary to the choristers – little boys as young as age 6 who attend the cathedral’s residential school full-time, are given the best vocal training in the world, rehearse daily and sing in most of the services until their voices break. But the girls, teenagers who rehearse only twice a week, hold their own.
Both the girls and boy choristers sang songs by themselves and with the Lay Clerks, adult men who are paid for their vocal services in the cathedral’s choir. Many of them started their musical lives as choristers in cathedral choirs and have returned after their voices matured.
The concert featured both sacred and secular selections. I particularly got a kick out of the little boys singing “My Way” and “The Way You Look Tonight,” and the big boys singing “Penny Lane” and “Is You Is?” They teamed up to perform “Five Negro Spirituals” that brought tears to my eyes. The fact that you didn’t expect to hear Jerome Kern or McCartney/Lennon or songs from the American South in one of the country’s major cathedrals just made it all that more special. The entire program was simply stunning.
On Monday I took advantage of the spectacular sunshine to get out of the house and drive. Everybody I encountered that day was commenting on the magnificent fall weather, which around here was considered epic. Normally, there are so many clouds and so little sunshine at this time of year that when the sun bursts forth, it’s the stuff of legend. Monday was doubtless recorded in the history books.
Armed with my trusty map and a spirit of adventure, off I headed to two rather obscure National Trust properties in neighboring Hampshire, Hinton Ampner and Mottisford Abbey. Except for their cafes, where I had lunch at one and tea at the other, I didn’t even go inside the structures. Their gardens were in their end-of-season decline, unfortunately, except for some hearty late-performing dahlias. But at Mottisford, there was a lovely walk alongside a clear stream teeming with trout. It was such a gorgeous cloudless day I didn’t have a care in the world. Give me a full tank of gas and some back roads in the English countryside, and I’m a happy camper.
Tuesday I went back to Winchester, this time with a friend, to a lunchtime organ recital by the cathedral's three resident organists. Outstanding! My attendance may have dropped the median age of the audience, but I was evermore happy to be there despite my relative youth.
Today my agenda was far less adventurous, but practical: I jettisoned 10 kilos of my stuff (which may be anywhere from 5 to 50 lbs.) and shipped it back home to Charlotte. I’m the world’s worst about packing too many clothes, and this trip was no exception. So with the help of DHL Express and an obscene number of British pounds, off went all those summer-weight clothes I thought I needed for France, and various other bits and bobs that I really can live without here in the U.K. My suitcase will still weigh a ton, but hopefully will be a little more manageable on the return journey, especially since I won’t have a sherpa to help me.
Tomorrow I’m heading up to London for yet more choral music – a concert by an ensemble called London Oriana, who’s performing a concert entitled “Shall I Compare You to a Summer’s Day?” at St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. All of their selections have texts from Shakespeare’s poetry. Doesn’t that sound fab?!
Guess my week isn’t so mundane, after all…
Saturday I fancied hearing some choral music. According to my online research, the choirs of Winchester Cathedral, less than 25 miles away, were going to accommodate me. I knew generally how to get to Winchester, and figured that finding the cathedral shouldn’t be an issue. Drive to the city center, look up and find the spires, right?
Wrong. The town center occupies the bottom of a big bowl. So instead of being built on the town’s highest point, as many grand cathedrals are, Winchester’s cathedral was built in a gulley. I drove around in circles for over an hour trying to find it.
Finally I ditched the car in a parking garage and started walking. Down, down, down. Found the cathedral at last and settled in for what I hoped would be a wonderful evening of music. WOW! I was absolutely blown away!
First of all, Winchester took the bold move in 1999 to allow girls to sing. Imagine! For the first time in its 900-year history, the cathedral accepted girls into their music program. They’re still secondary to the choristers – little boys as young as age 6 who attend the cathedral’s residential school full-time, are given the best vocal training in the world, rehearse daily and sing in most of the services until their voices break. But the girls, teenagers who rehearse only twice a week, hold their own.
Both the girls and boy choristers sang songs by themselves and with the Lay Clerks, adult men who are paid for their vocal services in the cathedral’s choir. Many of them started their musical lives as choristers in cathedral choirs and have returned after their voices matured.
The concert featured both sacred and secular selections. I particularly got a kick out of the little boys singing “My Way” and “The Way You Look Tonight,” and the big boys singing “Penny Lane” and “Is You Is?” They teamed up to perform “Five Negro Spirituals” that brought tears to my eyes. The fact that you didn’t expect to hear Jerome Kern or McCartney/Lennon or songs from the American South in one of the country’s major cathedrals just made it all that more special. The entire program was simply stunning.
On Monday I took advantage of the spectacular sunshine to get out of the house and drive. Everybody I encountered that day was commenting on the magnificent fall weather, which around here was considered epic. Normally, there are so many clouds and so little sunshine at this time of year that when the sun bursts forth, it’s the stuff of legend. Monday was doubtless recorded in the history books.
Armed with my trusty map and a spirit of adventure, off I headed to two rather obscure National Trust properties in neighboring Hampshire, Hinton Ampner and Mottisford Abbey. Except for their cafes, where I had lunch at one and tea at the other, I didn’t even go inside the structures. Their gardens were in their end-of-season decline, unfortunately, except for some hearty late-performing dahlias. But at Mottisford, there was a lovely walk alongside a clear stream teeming with trout. It was such a gorgeous cloudless day I didn’t have a care in the world. Give me a full tank of gas and some back roads in the English countryside, and I’m a happy camper.
Tuesday I went back to Winchester, this time with a friend, to a lunchtime organ recital by the cathedral's three resident organists. Outstanding! My attendance may have dropped the median age of the audience, but I was evermore happy to be there despite my relative youth.
Today my agenda was far less adventurous, but practical: I jettisoned 10 kilos of my stuff (which may be anywhere from 5 to 50 lbs.) and shipped it back home to Charlotte. I’m the world’s worst about packing too many clothes, and this trip was no exception. So with the help of DHL Express and an obscene number of British pounds, off went all those summer-weight clothes I thought I needed for France, and various other bits and bobs that I really can live without here in the U.K. My suitcase will still weigh a ton, but hopefully will be a little more manageable on the return journey, especially since I won’t have a sherpa to help me.
Tomorrow I’m heading up to London for yet more choral music – a concert by an ensemble called London Oriana, who’s performing a concert entitled “Shall I Compare You to a Summer’s Day?” at St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. All of their selections have texts from Shakespeare’s poetry. Doesn’t that sound fab?!
Guess my week isn’t so mundane, after all…
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Following the Sun to Cornwall
Just got back from a marvellous side trip to Cornwall, which I do believe qualifies as one of the most gorgeous spots on the face of the planet. Since Cornwall is a peninsula stuck out there in the Atlantic, it has a distinctive climate all its own. It’s as far south and west as you can get and still be in the U.K.
Cornish natives sort of have the same attitude as we American Southerners do: We’re certainly part of the U.S., but we’re evermore proud of our own Southern heritage and feel a little bit sorry for the rest of the country that they’re not us. Cornwall traces its roots back to the Celts, whereas it was the Angles, Saxons, Romans and Vikings who formed the melting pot for the rest of England. Geographically, Cornwall remained more isolated from all that infighting and carried on instead as a haven for pirates and thieves.
I think Cornwall hogs the country’s best weather, keeping much of England’s allotment of sunshine all for itself. By the time Cornwall enjoys some mild temps and blue skies, the sun sort of wimps out and gives in to clouds for the rest of its eastbound journey across the country. It’s no wonder that Cornwall is viewed as somewhat of a nation apart – not unlike Miami.
This little side trip, my third to Cornwall, included a visit with some of my previous home exchangers, in whose house I stayed in 2005. They live in Penzance on from the beach overlooking St. Michael’s Mount, a mysterious island rising out of the bay on the English Channel side of the Cornish peninsula.
With its picturesque cliffs, pirate coves and windswept moors, Cornwall is now a magnet for hikers and tourists. If I ever win the lottery, it’ll be where I buy a cottage overlooking the sea. I see myself writing splendid, best-selling novels inspired by the romantic view from my sun-bathed conservatory.
But alas, I had to tear myself away from Cornwall yesterday with nothing but the bubble-bursting real estate ads from this week’s Cornishman newspaper. The train journey from Penzance back to Newbury started out fine. Lots of empty seats in a clean, quiet coach. In Plymouth, however, when a horde of people – most of whom were under the age of five – boarded, I knew I was in trouble. I don’t “do” children under the best of circumstances. When they’re screeching, screaming, squealing, whining, crying, or making demands in loud, high-toned voices – as these creatures were -- I lose it.
By the time all of this humanity squeezed on, it was obvious there were more passengers than seats. And so we were packed in cheek to jowl in Third-World fashion, taking on more poor souls at every station the closer we got to London. My last nerve was fast approaching overload.
Then in Devon the train ran over a cow. You may want to read that sentence again: Yes, the train RAN OVER A COW. We stopped dead in our tracks, literally. Though obviously undone, the conductor apologized profusely and gave us periodic updates over the intercom. Until the train people could assess the situation, we were stuck.
Curiously, I seemed to be the only passenger who got the least bit antsy over the Cow Incident. I had nowhere to be at any particular time, but I could feel my American impatience rearing its ugly head. “Let’s get on with it, guys!” I was tempted to scream. (Not that I would have been heard over the din of the kindergarten crew around me…) My fellow travellers, on the other hand, at least those over the age of six, remained as calm and unruffled as could be. Maybe they were seething inside, but nary a murmur of malcontent did I hear as we sat and sat and sat... Ah, those stiff upper lips!
I’m not sure exactly how the authorities concluded that if they just started up the train again, gave it some gas and moved forward, we’d be OK. But this strategy took an hour to figure out. In the meantime, all the little chil’ren were screaming in overdrive and the volume had reached several decibels in my particular coach. The cow was obviously hamburger by now, but hadn’t been much of a match for a big ol’ choo-choo train, so Train People decided anon we might proceed safely without further delay.
Just when my nerves had been pulvarized into a sticky paste we finally reached Reading, where I had to switch trains to Newbury. Naturally, all the trains in Reading were crowded and running late – it being the Twelfth of Never or some odd celestial occurrence screwing up the British railway system. At this time I would have gladly hailed an ox cart to take me the rest of the way home. I rolled in at 9 o’clock, only seven hours after leaving the magnificent, palm-lined shores of Cornwall.
It came as no surprise at all that today dawned cloudy in Newbury with threats of drizzle. True to form, the sun exhausted itself yesterday in Cornwall and simply couldn’t make it this far east.
Cornish natives sort of have the same attitude as we American Southerners do: We’re certainly part of the U.S., but we’re evermore proud of our own Southern heritage and feel a little bit sorry for the rest of the country that they’re not us. Cornwall traces its roots back to the Celts, whereas it was the Angles, Saxons, Romans and Vikings who formed the melting pot for the rest of England. Geographically, Cornwall remained more isolated from all that infighting and carried on instead as a haven for pirates and thieves.
I think Cornwall hogs the country’s best weather, keeping much of England’s allotment of sunshine all for itself. By the time Cornwall enjoys some mild temps and blue skies, the sun sort of wimps out and gives in to clouds for the rest of its eastbound journey across the country. It’s no wonder that Cornwall is viewed as somewhat of a nation apart – not unlike Miami.
This little side trip, my third to Cornwall, included a visit with some of my previous home exchangers, in whose house I stayed in 2005. They live in Penzance on from the beach overlooking St. Michael’s Mount, a mysterious island rising out of the bay on the English Channel side of the Cornish peninsula.
With its picturesque cliffs, pirate coves and windswept moors, Cornwall is now a magnet for hikers and tourists. If I ever win the lottery, it’ll be where I buy a cottage overlooking the sea. I see myself writing splendid, best-selling novels inspired by the romantic view from my sun-bathed conservatory.
But alas, I had to tear myself away from Cornwall yesterday with nothing but the bubble-bursting real estate ads from this week’s Cornishman newspaper. The train journey from Penzance back to Newbury started out fine. Lots of empty seats in a clean, quiet coach. In Plymouth, however, when a horde of people – most of whom were under the age of five – boarded, I knew I was in trouble. I don’t “do” children under the best of circumstances. When they’re screeching, screaming, squealing, whining, crying, or making demands in loud, high-toned voices – as these creatures were -- I lose it.
By the time all of this humanity squeezed on, it was obvious there were more passengers than seats. And so we were packed in cheek to jowl in Third-World fashion, taking on more poor souls at every station the closer we got to London. My last nerve was fast approaching overload.
Then in Devon the train ran over a cow. You may want to read that sentence again: Yes, the train RAN OVER A COW. We stopped dead in our tracks, literally. Though obviously undone, the conductor apologized profusely and gave us periodic updates over the intercom. Until the train people could assess the situation, we were stuck.
Curiously, I seemed to be the only passenger who got the least bit antsy over the Cow Incident. I had nowhere to be at any particular time, but I could feel my American impatience rearing its ugly head. “Let’s get on with it, guys!” I was tempted to scream. (Not that I would have been heard over the din of the kindergarten crew around me…) My fellow travellers, on the other hand, at least those over the age of six, remained as calm and unruffled as could be. Maybe they were seething inside, but nary a murmur of malcontent did I hear as we sat and sat and sat... Ah, those stiff upper lips!
I’m not sure exactly how the authorities concluded that if they just started up the train again, gave it some gas and moved forward, we’d be OK. But this strategy took an hour to figure out. In the meantime, all the little chil’ren were screaming in overdrive and the volume had reached several decibels in my particular coach. The cow was obviously hamburger by now, but hadn’t been much of a match for a big ol’ choo-choo train, so Train People decided anon we might proceed safely without further delay.
Just when my nerves had been pulvarized into a sticky paste we finally reached Reading, where I had to switch trains to Newbury. Naturally, all the trains in Reading were crowded and running late – it being the Twelfth of Never or some odd celestial occurrence screwing up the British railway system. At this time I would have gladly hailed an ox cart to take me the rest of the way home. I rolled in at 9 o’clock, only seven hours after leaving the magnificent, palm-lined shores of Cornwall.
It came as no surprise at all that today dawned cloudy in Newbury with threats of drizzle. True to form, the sun exhausted itself yesterday in Cornwall and simply couldn’t make it this far east.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Playing house and loving it
It may not seem like “living large” to a lot of folks, but I’m evermore enjoying playing house here in the U.K.
My English exchange partners left Sunday on their way to Charlotte, leaving me alone for the first time since my French exchangers arrived at my house Sept. 9. For somebody who lives by herself, that’s an awfully long time to maintain some semblance of civility. I tend not to like an audience for my slovenly ways. When there are other people about, I often feel the need to defend my natural laziness.
Only children like myself also lean toward selfishness. I plead guilty to that one, too. I’ve never played well with others.
So while I loved my English hosts to bits, I was glad to have their house to myself at last. I celebrated by doing laundry. This chore may sound mundane as dirt, but given the peculiarities of European appliances I considered it a huge victory that I was able to operate the washing machine without mishap.
Getting the clothes clean was a piece o’ cake. As usual, however, the drying process is a two- to three-day affair. There’s a dryer in the garage, but I think it was rejected when the Mayflower sailed, so after an hour of futile tumbling I gave up on it. That left a drill that involved a drying rack, radiators, the stair railing, several chairs and a closet thingy called an “airing cupboard.” I had the option of hanging the clothes on a line in the garden but the English weather is notoriously unreliable so I decided to take my chances indoors, machine-free.
Until you’ve lived in somebody else’s house for any length of time, you’ve probably not considered how many little quirks and idiosyncrasies a house can have, including your own. I’ll bet you take the operation of things like your TV remote control, your dish washer and heating system for granted. But imagine if strangers came to your house and were faced with figuring out how they worked.
Exchangers prepare homeowner manuals with these details, but it’s a huge help to have a personal demonstration. That’s why I was so grateful to have nearly a week with the Martins, my British hosts, to become oriented to their home here in Newbury. I can only imagine how they’re coping with my house back in Charlotte. What seems so simple and convenient to me may be driving them nuts.
Yesterday after Fun With Laundry I drove down to the New Forest, a national park near Southampton that was originally established as a royal hunting ground by William the Conquerer after his arrival in 1066. Given its history, I hardly see how the area qualifies as “new,” but it is the home of lots of wildlife, notably free-ranging ponies. I had read about the ponies, which are protected by the Crown, and wanted to see them in their natural habitat.
The New Forest is a beautiful park, no doubt about it, and all the creatures have plenty of grazing land, but I’m here to tell you, those ponies are the saddest bunch of animals I’ve ever seen. I got some pictures and wish I could upload them. I saw dozens of ponies throughout the forest and along the heather-covered meadows, and every one looked like they were sorely in need of some Prozac. Given their sweet gig – wander aimlessly throughout a lovely nature preserve, eat to their hearts’ content, let the tourists gawk a bit – you’d think they’d be over the moon.
[I need to insert here that while it has manual transmission, the Martins' car is the polar opposite of the one that came with the house in France. It is comfortable, zips down the Motorway like a giselle and is as easy as pie to drive. Those gears practically change themselves! Can I hear an "Amen!"?]
Back at the house I settled in for the evening. I may be one of the only visitors in the kingdom who gets a large kick out of British telly. Among the choices last night: “Hairy Women, a programme focusing on female body hair, illustrating where women have it and why many want to get rid of it,” and “There’s a Hippo in My House, an endearing documentary of a retired South African game keeper whose pet hippopotamus, Jessica, is resisting his efforts to coax her into a date with a wild male hippo.” I’m not making this up.
Over on Radio 4, the Pick of the Day was – I swear this is true – “The Secret Science of Pee, a report on an unpublicised, unloved but gilt-edged resource – urine.”
I ended up watching a dramatisation of a Peter Robinson mystery, “Aftermath.”
The fun just never stops around here. Oh, wait, I take that back. Have you ever taken a shower under which the mechanism sounds just like a leaf-blower?
But in contrast to the house in France, I have no complaints in England whatsoever. After all, here I have excellent amenities like a garbage can in the kitchen. And heat.
I’m afraid the poor Martins are already exasperated trying to figure out how to turn on my lamps.
My English exchange partners left Sunday on their way to Charlotte, leaving me alone for the first time since my French exchangers arrived at my house Sept. 9. For somebody who lives by herself, that’s an awfully long time to maintain some semblance of civility. I tend not to like an audience for my slovenly ways. When there are other people about, I often feel the need to defend my natural laziness.
Only children like myself also lean toward selfishness. I plead guilty to that one, too. I’ve never played well with others.
So while I loved my English hosts to bits, I was glad to have their house to myself at last. I celebrated by doing laundry. This chore may sound mundane as dirt, but given the peculiarities of European appliances I considered it a huge victory that I was able to operate the washing machine without mishap.
Getting the clothes clean was a piece o’ cake. As usual, however, the drying process is a two- to three-day affair. There’s a dryer in the garage, but I think it was rejected when the Mayflower sailed, so after an hour of futile tumbling I gave up on it. That left a drill that involved a drying rack, radiators, the stair railing, several chairs and a closet thingy called an “airing cupboard.” I had the option of hanging the clothes on a line in the garden but the English weather is notoriously unreliable so I decided to take my chances indoors, machine-free.
Until you’ve lived in somebody else’s house for any length of time, you’ve probably not considered how many little quirks and idiosyncrasies a house can have, including your own. I’ll bet you take the operation of things like your TV remote control, your dish washer and heating system for granted. But imagine if strangers came to your house and were faced with figuring out how they worked.
Exchangers prepare homeowner manuals with these details, but it’s a huge help to have a personal demonstration. That’s why I was so grateful to have nearly a week with the Martins, my British hosts, to become oriented to their home here in Newbury. I can only imagine how they’re coping with my house back in Charlotte. What seems so simple and convenient to me may be driving them nuts.
Yesterday after Fun With Laundry I drove down to the New Forest, a national park near Southampton that was originally established as a royal hunting ground by William the Conquerer after his arrival in 1066. Given its history, I hardly see how the area qualifies as “new,” but it is the home of lots of wildlife, notably free-ranging ponies. I had read about the ponies, which are protected by the Crown, and wanted to see them in their natural habitat.
The New Forest is a beautiful park, no doubt about it, and all the creatures have plenty of grazing land, but I’m here to tell you, those ponies are the saddest bunch of animals I’ve ever seen. I got some pictures and wish I could upload them. I saw dozens of ponies throughout the forest and along the heather-covered meadows, and every one looked like they were sorely in need of some Prozac. Given their sweet gig – wander aimlessly throughout a lovely nature preserve, eat to their hearts’ content, let the tourists gawk a bit – you’d think they’d be over the moon.
[I need to insert here that while it has manual transmission, the Martins' car is the polar opposite of the one that came with the house in France. It is comfortable, zips down the Motorway like a giselle and is as easy as pie to drive. Those gears practically change themselves! Can I hear an "Amen!"?]
Back at the house I settled in for the evening. I may be one of the only visitors in the kingdom who gets a large kick out of British telly. Among the choices last night: “Hairy Women, a programme focusing on female body hair, illustrating where women have it and why many want to get rid of it,” and “There’s a Hippo in My House, an endearing documentary of a retired South African game keeper whose pet hippopotamus, Jessica, is resisting his efforts to coax her into a date with a wild male hippo.” I’m not making this up.
Over on Radio 4, the Pick of the Day was – I swear this is true – “The Secret Science of Pee, a report on an unpublicised, unloved but gilt-edged resource – urine.”
I ended up watching a dramatisation of a Peter Robinson mystery, “Aftermath.”
The fun just never stops around here. Oh, wait, I take that back. Have you ever taken a shower under which the mechanism sounds just like a leaf-blower?
But in contrast to the house in France, I have no complaints in England whatsoever. After all, here I have excellent amenities like a garbage can in the kitchen. And heat.
I’m afraid the poor Martins are already exasperated trying to figure out how to turn on my lamps.
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