As if yesterday’s bad luck wasn’t enough, today tops everything. Daddy left his car for us to use for sightseeing (Mommy dropped him off at work). We woke up early, well rested, and made lunches and finished our travel preparations. After piling into the car, Mommy went to start it. Guess what? It didn’t work; we didn’t even leave the driveway.
The rest of the morning was pretty quiet – we spent the time reading, writings, playing games, and painting (Celeste like to paint) in the garden. At around 1PM Daddy arrived to drop off another rental car for us to use. Sadly, by this time the day was fairly wasted. However, we still wanted to make an attempt to resurrect it, so we got in the car and drove to Cambridge for some shopping.
Drowning our sorrows, we stopped in almost every shop in Cambridge and I spent nearly ₤35 on lavender-scented items. Thankfully we didn’t spend too many hours in the city, and I escaped with a few pence left in my pockets. We all drove home (I fell asleep!) and met Daddy. After he changed clothes we all went out to an old favorite, The Stukely Inn, for dinner. A coworker of Daddy’s also joined us for dinner.
The final adventure of the day was a trip to the Tesco’s (a store much like our Giant, but larger). Now I am home and much too tired to write anything else. Tomorrow morning we will be up bright and early and back on track for sightseeing again.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Day 4 - Lewis/Tolkien Tour
The morning was an early one, but we spent several hours out doing various and sundry necessary things (getting gas, going to the grocery store) until noon. At this point we left for Oxford, one of Kenny’s requests. The drive lasted about two and a half hours, and we read, chatted, and laughed all the way.
What is my general impression of Oxford? It is a snooty, dirty, touristy town that is much larger than Cambridge and too large to be charming. Throughout the day this impression was only confirmed over and over again, rather than shaken.
After visiting the tourist office to buy a map (ads, really, with a teensy tiny map in the center) we walked around for a short time. Among the things we saw was the Bridge of Sighs, the round library, St. Mary the Virgin parish Church, and a round theatre where J.R.R. Tolkien once worked. At around 4:10 PM we made our way to a “museum and ride” called The Oxford Story, right outside the historical district.
If any of you ever goes to Oxford, skip this waste of money. The tickets are incredibly expensive for what you get. Both the website and the brochures are very misleading, showing what looks like a large museum showcasing the history of the city of Oxford and a ride showing you visually what you learned in the museum. Before the ride they push you into a little room where you watch a video advertising the college. In reality the place was made up of only the (short!) ride narrating the famous people who graduated from Oxford. It was dinky, dusty, and felt dangerously old. In addition, the audio tour and the ride were extremely anti-Catholic, and I spent most of the time explaining to the girls that everything the audio tour said was a blatant lie.
I will never understand how a country as Catholic as England was become so anti-Catholic in a short amount of time. Is it something inherent in the British character? God only knows. But on the ride the narrators described how, after the fall of the Church, a “new and far more stable form of religion established itself”. A monk who lived 100 years before the Protestant Reformation, but who championed the same separation from the Pope, was placed on a pedestal. An entire room was devoted to hanging, smoldering, pieces of the monk's writings as the narrator explained how the Catholic Church was against the advance of modern thought by burning the heretic’s thoughtful writings. Near the end the bravery of the Protestant martyrs was praised to the highest heavens, and the dying speech of some of them was heard. Finally, the tour finished with the soaring phrase: “Even today, Oxford continues to foster diversity in sex, race, and religion.” And we paid to hear these hypocritical lies? I can’t believe it.
We did a little shopping after the ride and before we drove to Lewis Close. In Lewis Close, at the end of a little residential area, is the C.S. Lewis Nature Reserve. The Reserve, which used to be Lewis’ backyard, contains a pond on which Lewis would reportedly row out to work on his Chronicles of Narnia. Tolkien, visiting, would take hikes through the woods surrounding the pond. Also, near the Reserve is the house that once belonged to C.S. Lewis himself. Unfortunately, it is a private residence now and so we could only take pictures of the outside. We were not alone either; there was one other solitary pilgrim to this place.
Afterwards, we drove around and finally found the Jewish Cemetery where J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife are buried. While driving (it was a difficult search and we found it thanks to the GPS), we read a very good article written by a Tolkien fan who visited the site and who described it very well. J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife Edith are buried in the Catholic corner of the cemetery, and there are little signs to guide you to the grave.
Though not affected with the same sense of awe that struck the writer of the article, it was surreal to be standing next to his grave. It was true, what was said to be written on the stone: underneath their names was written “Beren and Luthien”. The story of Beren and Luthien, a mortal man who falls in love with an elven princess and must win her hand, is my favorite in the Silmarillion. We snapped some pictures as reverently as possible, and said a prayer.
As quickly as possible (the cemetery was supposed to close soon) we walked back to the car. It was sad to see the state of the rest of the graves. In contrast with Tolkien’s decorated grace bedecked with flowers, rosaries, and Lord of the Rings figures, these other graves were barren. Some of the headstones had been pulled up by tree roots, making one wonder whether any bones were visible. I wanted to leave a flower and say a prayer at every single one. “At least”, said Kenny, “all these people are probably in heaven.” I said a prayer anyway.
Halfway through the two and a half hour drive home, everything seemed to be going very well. We chatted about dinner (we were all starving), our favorite places we visited, and rude Brits. But we weren’t going to be home for dinner for a long time. The emergency light on the car flickered on, and about one hundred feet further down the road we veered off and broke down. Literally in the middle of nowhere, we started calling AA to come and tow us to a garage in the nearest town.
At 11PM, the tow truck arrived and the guy drove us home before dropping the car somewhere. He was a nice guy, but we were too tired to say much. At this point, after two “adventures” in a row, we wanted to go home. We arrived at the Garden House at around 12:30AM, ate dinner, and went to bed.
What is my general impression of Oxford? It is a snooty, dirty, touristy town that is much larger than Cambridge and too large to be charming. Throughout the day this impression was only confirmed over and over again, rather than shaken.
After visiting the tourist office to buy a map (ads, really, with a teensy tiny map in the center) we walked around for a short time. Among the things we saw was the Bridge of Sighs, the round library, St. Mary the Virgin parish Church, and a round theatre where J.R.R. Tolkien once worked. At around 4:10 PM we made our way to a “museum and ride” called The Oxford Story, right outside the historical district.
If any of you ever goes to Oxford, skip this waste of money. The tickets are incredibly expensive for what you get. Both the website and the brochures are very misleading, showing what looks like a large museum showcasing the history of the city of Oxford and a ride showing you visually what you learned in the museum. Before the ride they push you into a little room where you watch a video advertising the college. In reality the place was made up of only the (short!) ride narrating the famous people who graduated from Oxford. It was dinky, dusty, and felt dangerously old. In addition, the audio tour and the ride were extremely anti-Catholic, and I spent most of the time explaining to the girls that everything the audio tour said was a blatant lie.
I will never understand how a country as Catholic as England was become so anti-Catholic in a short amount of time. Is it something inherent in the British character? God only knows. But on the ride the narrators described how, after the fall of the Church, a “new and far more stable form of religion established itself”. A monk who lived 100 years before the Protestant Reformation, but who championed the same separation from the Pope, was placed on a pedestal. An entire room was devoted to hanging, smoldering, pieces of the monk's writings as the narrator explained how the Catholic Church was against the advance of modern thought by burning the heretic’s thoughtful writings. Near the end the bravery of the Protestant martyrs was praised to the highest heavens, and the dying speech of some of them was heard. Finally, the tour finished with the soaring phrase: “Even today, Oxford continues to foster diversity in sex, race, and religion.” And we paid to hear these hypocritical lies? I can’t believe it.
We did a little shopping after the ride and before we drove to Lewis Close. In Lewis Close, at the end of a little residential area, is the C.S. Lewis Nature Reserve. The Reserve, which used to be Lewis’ backyard, contains a pond on which Lewis would reportedly row out to work on his Chronicles of Narnia. Tolkien, visiting, would take hikes through the woods surrounding the pond. Also, near the Reserve is the house that once belonged to C.S. Lewis himself. Unfortunately, it is a private residence now and so we could only take pictures of the outside. We were not alone either; there was one other solitary pilgrim to this place.
Afterwards, we drove around and finally found the Jewish Cemetery where J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife are buried. While driving (it was a difficult search and we found it thanks to the GPS), we read a very good article written by a Tolkien fan who visited the site and who described it very well. J.R.R. Tolkien and his wife Edith are buried in the Catholic corner of the cemetery, and there are little signs to guide you to the grave.
Though not affected with the same sense of awe that struck the writer of the article, it was surreal to be standing next to his grave. It was true, what was said to be written on the stone: underneath their names was written “Beren and Luthien”. The story of Beren and Luthien, a mortal man who falls in love with an elven princess and must win her hand, is my favorite in the Silmarillion. We snapped some pictures as reverently as possible, and said a prayer.
As quickly as possible (the cemetery was supposed to close soon) we walked back to the car. It was sad to see the state of the rest of the graves. In contrast with Tolkien’s decorated grace bedecked with flowers, rosaries, and Lord of the Rings figures, these other graves were barren. Some of the headstones had been pulled up by tree roots, making one wonder whether any bones were visible. I wanted to leave a flower and say a prayer at every single one. “At least”, said Kenny, “all these people are probably in heaven.” I said a prayer anyway.
Halfway through the two and a half hour drive home, everything seemed to be going very well. We chatted about dinner (we were all starving), our favorite places we visited, and rude Brits. But we weren’t going to be home for dinner for a long time. The emergency light on the car flickered on, and about one hundred feet further down the road we veered off and broke down. Literally in the middle of nowhere, we started calling AA to come and tow us to a garage in the nearest town.
At 11PM, the tow truck arrived and the guy drove us home before dropping the car somewhere. He was a nice guy, but we were too tired to say much. At this point, after two “adventures” in a row, we wanted to go home. We arrived at the Garden House at around 12:30AM, ate dinner, and went to bed.
Day 3 - Accidents Happen
This morning we slept in until 10:30AM so that everyone could recover from jet lag enough to actually enjoy sightseeing. Though we were all a bit annoyed that this had to happen, it was for the better. No one wanted one of our drivers to fall asleep at the wheel.
I promised to describe The Garden House today, so I will give a brief overview of the house. Through the front door you come to a small foyer and from there enter into the dining room, with windows that open out into the walled garden. There is a bathroom and a huge kitchen with a stone floor off of the dining room. The garden in the back is beautiful, where ivy and roses are profuse. At the top of the stairs is one bedroom (where Mommy and Daddy sleep) and a huge common area with two fold-out couches and a television (four channels). Down the hallway from there is another bathroom and another bedroom (Celeste and I slept here). All in all it is a large and comfortable house.
When all the day’s travel preparations were finished, we drove to Epping. From here (the end of the Central Line) we took the Tube to right outside the National Portrait Gallery. The Gallery was one of Mommy’s few requests and I backed her on it because Paul Scofield personally recommended it to me as one of the finest things to see in London (along with the Tate Gallery and St. Magnus the Martyr). Though Kenny wasn’t too crazy about going to an “art museum”, even he enjoyed looking at all the portraits. To my delight, the very first painting we encountered was the original of a beautiful family portrait of the More family, painted after St. Thomas More’s death. I have always wanted to see it in person.
While Mommy and Daddy went off on their own, I took Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth with me, giving them a history lesson as we went along. British history throughout these periods is my particular element, so I was well equipped to give an off-the-cuff tour. We continued through several centuries of portraits – the Tudors, the 17th Century, the 18th Century, and the late 18th and early 19th Century. Also, there was a large collection of etchings and painting of Lord Nelson on display. One favorite painting we unexpectedly came across was a portrait of George Washington, naturally shoved in a corner amidst a slew of other mediocre paintings.
Before we left we hurried through a visiting exhibition called “Shooting Stars”. A fun collection, it was a group of portraits taken of celebrities by one artist. My favorite was one taken of Paul Scofield, though unfortunately I wasn’t able to find a copy of it in the gift shop downstairs. But this exhibition was very crowded, so we left as soon as we could and flew through the gift shop before it closed. (Thankfully we were all allowed inside; there was a rule posted on the door that only ten children were allowed in at any one time.)
From near the Portrait Gallery we took a Tube to the Brompton Oratory, a breathtaking church that Monsignor Hughes highly recommended. Apparently he took a retreat there many years ago. In the middle of central London (a mere few blocks ago from Harrods department store), the Oratory provides a place of escape and recollection for the surviving remnant of Catholicism. The priests still say Mass facing the altar (away from the congregation) at the Oratory and everyone received Holy Communion at the rail.
We went to Sunday Mass, the Feast of the Assumption – our parish feast – at the Brompton Oratory. Though I was fully attentive at Mass, I must admit that my thoughts were with those celebrating at our annual parish picnic back at home. I can see it now: the balloon toss (Fr. Baer moderating), the elderly parishioners congregating for dinner, and Deacon Klco up to his own tricks. Perhaps Fr. Joe would even make an appearance…who knows? I really miss being there.
There is something sublime about attending a Mass where it is said in the traditional way (pre-
Vatican II style). The way the priest says the Mass facing the Altar rather than the people is one thing that I really do wish the Catholic Church hadn’t lost. It really gives the whole Mass a different attitude: one of prayer, reverent worship, and sacrifices reminiscent of those of the Jewish priestly order in the Old Testament. Instead of looking at the priest, you feel as though you are participating with the priest in the offering. It is a sorry thing that more people do not appreciate the beauty of the old Mass.
After Mass, we walked to a restaurant we had seen two years ago called the Bunch of Grapes for dinner. Before we went inside, Daddy went ahead to find out if children were welcome. Thankfully they were, because we were all starving. As an interesting note, this particular restaurant dates back to the mid-1700s. Dinner was very good, and the waitress extremely sweet. Meals ordered ranged from traditional fish and chips to chicken wrapped in bacon and a hearty shepherd’s pie.
Dinner being over, we hopped on a double-decker to go to Piccadilly Circus. From Piccadilly we took a walk to Trafalgar Square, one of Lizzy’s requests. The magic of Trafalgar Square at night is difficult to describe. The fountains, the lights, the huge lions, the illuminated Portrait Gallery and the statue of Nelson all combine to make not a sight, but an experience not to be missed.
We stuck around, relaxing, until 11PM when they turned off the lights. Soon enough we found a Tube station at Charing Cross and hopped aboard. Leaving the big city behind, we sped quickly towards my beloved countryside. Quite honestly, I forgot how much I hated the city of London. Even more so that I remember two years ago, the people are incredibly rude. I can’t even count the times that I was pushed, shoved, and trampled in the course of this one day. Not a single person says “Excuse me” or even acknowledges that you exist. Never in my life have I met such rude people as the Londoners.
Though we thought that our day was over and we would soon be home, we were wrong. The adventure was to continue. Not being natives, we were ignorant of the fact that the Tube stops running at 11:45 PM, whether it be at the end of the line or in the middle of the line. Our train stopped at a station in the middle of nowhere, twenty minutes or so from Epping where our car was. Since Mommy has a bum knee, we weren’t going to attempt to walk so a night watchman at the stations helped Daddy find a 24 hour cab service.
The cab only held four, so Daddy and I stayed behind while Mommy, Kenny, and the girls went to get the car and pick us up. Meanwhile, Graham (the watchman) hung around to keep us company and keep an eye on us until our ride arrived. A tall, broad man with short red hair, he said that there had been some muggings in the area, and he didn’t want anything to happen to us. To pass the time we chatted about this and that: about how the Tube works, how heat affects the UK, how Spain is “saturated” with Brits now who treat it as their Florida, and more. The reason that the train shuts down before midnight is because all trains run on a single tracks, so maintenance can only be done at night.
Finally the rest of the family arrived and we piled into the car for the ride home. Graham gave us directions for the ride back to St. Neots and we left. We arrived home at 2AM Monday morning and crashed into bed.
I promised to describe The Garden House today, so I will give a brief overview of the house. Through the front door you come to a small foyer and from there enter into the dining room, with windows that open out into the walled garden. There is a bathroom and a huge kitchen with a stone floor off of the dining room. The garden in the back is beautiful, where ivy and roses are profuse. At the top of the stairs is one bedroom (where Mommy and Daddy sleep) and a huge common area with two fold-out couches and a television (four channels). Down the hallway from there is another bathroom and another bedroom (Celeste and I slept here). All in all it is a large and comfortable house.
When all the day’s travel preparations were finished, we drove to Epping. From here (the end of the Central Line) we took the Tube to right outside the National Portrait Gallery. The Gallery was one of Mommy’s few requests and I backed her on it because Paul Scofield personally recommended it to me as one of the finest things to see in London (along with the Tate Gallery and St. Magnus the Martyr). Though Kenny wasn’t too crazy about going to an “art museum”, even he enjoyed looking at all the portraits. To my delight, the very first painting we encountered was the original of a beautiful family portrait of the More family, painted after St. Thomas More’s death. I have always wanted to see it in person.
While Mommy and Daddy went off on their own, I took Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth with me, giving them a history lesson as we went along. British history throughout these periods is my particular element, so I was well equipped to give an off-the-cuff tour. We continued through several centuries of portraits – the Tudors, the 17th Century, the 18th Century, and the late 18th and early 19th Century. Also, there was a large collection of etchings and painting of Lord Nelson on display. One favorite painting we unexpectedly came across was a portrait of George Washington, naturally shoved in a corner amidst a slew of other mediocre paintings.
Before we left we hurried through a visiting exhibition called “Shooting Stars”. A fun collection, it was a group of portraits taken of celebrities by one artist. My favorite was one taken of Paul Scofield, though unfortunately I wasn’t able to find a copy of it in the gift shop downstairs. But this exhibition was very crowded, so we left as soon as we could and flew through the gift shop before it closed. (Thankfully we were all allowed inside; there was a rule posted on the door that only ten children were allowed in at any one time.)
From near the Portrait Gallery we took a Tube to the Brompton Oratory, a breathtaking church that Monsignor Hughes highly recommended. Apparently he took a retreat there many years ago. In the middle of central London (a mere few blocks ago from Harrods department store), the Oratory provides a place of escape and recollection for the surviving remnant of Catholicism. The priests still say Mass facing the altar (away from the congregation) at the Oratory and everyone received Holy Communion at the rail.
We went to Sunday Mass, the Feast of the Assumption – our parish feast – at the Brompton Oratory. Though I was fully attentive at Mass, I must admit that my thoughts were with those celebrating at our annual parish picnic back at home. I can see it now: the balloon toss (Fr. Baer moderating), the elderly parishioners congregating for dinner, and Deacon Klco up to his own tricks. Perhaps Fr. Joe would even make an appearance…who knows? I really miss being there.
There is something sublime about attending a Mass where it is said in the traditional way (pre-
Vatican II style). The way the priest says the Mass facing the Altar rather than the people is one thing that I really do wish the Catholic Church hadn’t lost. It really gives the whole Mass a different attitude: one of prayer, reverent worship, and sacrifices reminiscent of those of the Jewish priestly order in the Old Testament. Instead of looking at the priest, you feel as though you are participating with the priest in the offering. It is a sorry thing that more people do not appreciate the beauty of the old Mass.After Mass, we walked to a restaurant we had seen two years ago called the Bunch of Grapes for dinner. Before we went inside, Daddy went ahead to find out if children were welcome. Thankfully they were, because we were all starving. As an interesting note, this particular restaurant dates back to the mid-1700s. Dinner was very good, and the waitress extremely sweet. Meals ordered ranged from traditional fish and chips to chicken wrapped in bacon and a hearty shepherd’s pie.
Dinner being over, we hopped on a double-decker to go to Piccadilly Circus. From Piccadilly we took a walk to Trafalgar Square, one of Lizzy’s requests. The magic of Trafalgar Square at night is difficult to describe. The fountains, the lights, the huge lions, the illuminated Portrait Gallery and the statue of Nelson all combine to make not a sight, but an experience not to be missed.
We stuck around, relaxing, until 11PM when they turned off the lights. Soon enough we found a Tube station at Charing Cross and hopped aboard. Leaving the big city behind, we sped quickly towards my beloved countryside. Quite honestly, I forgot how much I hated the city of London. Even more so that I remember two years ago, the people are incredibly rude. I can’t even count the times that I was pushed, shoved, and trampled in the course of this one day. Not a single person says “Excuse me” or even acknowledges that you exist. Never in my life have I met such rude people as the Londoners.
Though we thought that our day was over and we would soon be home, we were wrong. The adventure was to continue. Not being natives, we were ignorant of the fact that the Tube stops running at 11:45 PM, whether it be at the end of the line or in the middle of the line. Our train stopped at a station in the middle of nowhere, twenty minutes or so from Epping where our car was. Since Mommy has a bum knee, we weren’t going to attempt to walk so a night watchman at the stations helped Daddy find a 24 hour cab service.
The cab only held four, so Daddy and I stayed behind while Mommy, Kenny, and the girls went to get the car and pick us up. Meanwhile, Graham (the watchman) hung around to keep us company and keep an eye on us until our ride arrived. A tall, broad man with short red hair, he said that there had been some muggings in the area, and he didn’t want anything to happen to us. To pass the time we chatted about this and that: about how the Tube works, how heat affects the UK, how Spain is “saturated” with Brits now who treat it as their Florida, and more. The reason that the train shuts down before midnight is because all trains run on a single tracks, so maintenance can only be done at night.
Finally the rest of the family arrived and we piled into the car for the ride home. Graham gave us directions for the ride back to St. Neots and we left. We arrived home at 2AM Monday morning and crashed into bed.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Day 2 - Yorkshire, My Future Home
Daddy dragged us out of bed bright and early (5:30 AM) for a light breakfast of tea and scones. Half asleep, we ate and then walked out to the van to wait for Mommy and Daddy to check out of the TLQ.
The weather here has been quite a shock. Thankfully I packed long pants and long-sleeved shirts. On the day before we left Maryland thermometers topped off at 100 degrees; in England today we had a high of 72. It is cloudy and drizzly – Kenny, in his usual charming way, calls it “Jane Austen rain”. Though, he is quick to point out, in all mushy love scenes in Jane Austen movies a downpour happens to dump itself on the heroine.
First on our list for today was Thirsk, an extremely charming little town in the Yorkshire Dales. In fact, its claim to fame has everything to do with its charm, so well described by its famous son James Herriot. For those who have read the books, the town looks much as it must have when he wrote. The marketplace, cobblestone streets, “Black Bull” Tavern, and host of friendly though elderly residents transport one to another era entirely.
I am constantly awed by the simplicity of these people living in the Dales. They seem to live quite happily apart from the rest of their country, London especially, and would rather not be bothered. But they love it when others appreciate what they have. Never in my life have I met such a charming people.
Other than its streets and residents, Thirsk’s main attraction is the World of James Herriot, which consists of his house as well as a museum to veterinary medicine. The house is set up very much like it would have been when he lived and worked in the 1940s (though I think that much of the clutter was for the benefit of the tourists). But somehow the time period portrayed inside the house was not alien to the outside – the town is caught in some kind of time trap.
A little on James Herriot: His name, in fact, was not James Herriot but rather James Alfred Wight. Also, one might be led to believe that “Alf’ was born in England. This is wrong – he was born in Sunderland in Scotland and was raised in Glasgow. It was only after Alf had graduated from veterinary school in England and had moved back to Sunderland to look for a job that he found a position had opened up in Thirsk. Since veterinary jobs were few and far between, he packed up his things and moved to the Yorkshire Dales.
One thing that I did not realize about James Herriot was that he never stopped practicing veterinary medicine. As his charming books rocketed him to international fame, he remained grounded. When asked what he would do with his million pounds gleaned from royalties on his books and their film adaptations, he answered “Do? I am going to go on doing what I always have - being a vet. I am, and always have been, a vet first and a writer second.”
The museum was interesting as well, but not as much as the house itself. Devoted to the history
of veterinary medicine, the museum contained a myriad collection of frightening instruments (a box to contain a cat while it was castrated?) and “interactive” exhibits. We all enjoyed the one where we got to birth a calf. ;-)
When we finished at the gift shop we took a short drive to Northallerton for lunch at Betty’s Tea Room. Because Betty’s is famous worldwide, one of Mommy’s wishes was to have tea there. There was a very long queue when we arrived so Kenny, Celeste and I went to browse the market while the rest of the family stood to wait for a seat.
The lunch was very good and extremely filling – I had lemon and seasoned chicken salad and probably drank six cups of tea. Kenny flirted with the waitress (named Rachel – he said she had lovely eyes) and made the poor girl blush awfully. I don’t think I will ever get used to my brother flirting with girls. Afterwards we piled back into the car and started the rather long trek through the Yorkshire Dales to the Forbidden Corner. On the way we passed Middleham Castle, a highlight of our 2003 visit to the Mother Country.
One would think that we came to England specifically for the Forbidden Corner, considering how excited Elizabeth was to see it. The Forbidden Corner is what is called a “folly” and was built by one man on his huge estate to entertain his grandchildren many years ago. A labyrinth of elaborate mazes, caves, streams, and gardens, it takes roughly three hours to find the way through. No expense was spared in the building of the folly: the caves, castles, and statues are all made of stone. But one shouldn’t be surprised to see arms sticking out of walls or perhaps (excuse me) a little statue of a mischievous boy that pees on you as you pass by.
Daddy had never been there before so we spent a long time following him around and enjoying his reactions to everything. I remember coming two years ago and being absolutely terrified because I was so claustrophobic. It is a very upsetting feeling to know that you can’t get out of somewhere even if you wanted to. As to pass through the various parts of the folly, the doors close and lock behind you. There is no way out except to find the correct way.
After finishing the folly the girls and I went to the bathrooms. Characteristic of the Forbidden Corner, even the bathrooms were not spared some form of trickery. The entrance was wooden, reminiscent of traditional outhouses. We opened the door and there in front of us were two holes in a bench in a wooden shed, and a sign hung over them that read “This privy occupies two, but if there is only one in here, leave the door unlocked.” There were newspapers stuck on nails on the walls for our enjoyment. Celeste said “You have got to be kidding me”, expressing all our thoughts. We did a search and finally found a hidden door into the real bathroom, an elegant one in pink marble with silver fixtures. Very funny – Kenny said that they didn’t play such a joke on the boys, of course.
We left the Forbidden Corner and started heading back through the Dales on their famous one-lane two way roads. Daddy has a habit of driving very quickly, so I got used to the sight of white knuckles on those roads. Eventually I fell asleep and continued to sleep until we stopped at Doncaster for dinner.
Unfortunately not everything during a day can go well; the day ended on a sour note here at the Lakeside Beefeater, a Family Restaurant. The portions were very small and the service extremely slow.
Dinner was over by 10PM, and we continued our drive to Mrs. Sander’s farm where we would be renting the Garden House. We dragged our things into our new house and crashed for the night. Tomorrow I will try to describe the house a bit – it is very charming and feels like home as we spent four weeks in it in 2003.
The weather here has been quite a shock. Thankfully I packed long pants and long-sleeved shirts. On the day before we left Maryland thermometers topped off at 100 degrees; in England today we had a high of 72. It is cloudy and drizzly – Kenny, in his usual charming way, calls it “Jane Austen rain”. Though, he is quick to point out, in all mushy love scenes in Jane Austen movies a downpour happens to dump itself on the heroine.
First on our list for today was Thirsk, an extremely charming little town in the Yorkshire Dales. In fact, its claim to fame has everything to do with its charm, so well described by its famous son James Herriot. For those who have read the books, the town looks much as it must have when he wrote. The marketplace, cobblestone streets, “Black Bull” Tavern, and host of friendly though elderly residents transport one to another era entirely.
I am constantly awed by the simplicity of these people living in the Dales. They seem to live quite happily apart from the rest of their country, London especially, and would rather not be bothered. But they love it when others appreciate what they have. Never in my life have I met such a charming people.Other than its streets and residents, Thirsk’s main attraction is the World of James Herriot, which consists of his house as well as a museum to veterinary medicine. The house is set up very much like it would have been when he lived and worked in the 1940s (though I think that much of the clutter was for the benefit of the tourists). But somehow the time period portrayed inside the house was not alien to the outside – the town is caught in some kind of time trap.
A little on James Herriot: His name, in fact, was not James Herriot but rather James Alfred Wight. Also, one might be led to believe that “Alf’ was born in England. This is wrong – he was born in Sunderland in Scotland and was raised in Glasgow. It was only after Alf had graduated from veterinary school in England and had moved back to Sunderland to look for a job that he found a position had opened up in Thirsk. Since veterinary jobs were few and far between, he packed up his things and moved to the Yorkshire Dales.
One thing that I did not realize about James Herriot was that he never stopped practicing veterinary medicine. As his charming books rocketed him to international fame, he remained grounded. When asked what he would do with his million pounds gleaned from royalties on his books and their film adaptations, he answered “Do? I am going to go on doing what I always have - being a vet. I am, and always have been, a vet first and a writer second.”
The museum was interesting as well, but not as much as the house itself. Devoted to the history
of veterinary medicine, the museum contained a myriad collection of frightening instruments (a box to contain a cat while it was castrated?) and “interactive” exhibits. We all enjoyed the one where we got to birth a calf. ;-)When we finished at the gift shop we took a short drive to Northallerton for lunch at Betty’s Tea Room. Because Betty’s is famous worldwide, one of Mommy’s wishes was to have tea there. There was a very long queue when we arrived so Kenny, Celeste and I went to browse the market while the rest of the family stood to wait for a seat.
The lunch was very good and extremely filling – I had lemon and seasoned chicken salad and probably drank six cups of tea. Kenny flirted with the waitress (named Rachel – he said she had lovely eyes) and made the poor girl blush awfully. I don’t think I will ever get used to my brother flirting with girls. Afterwards we piled back into the car and started the rather long trek through the Yorkshire Dales to the Forbidden Corner. On the way we passed Middleham Castle, a highlight of our 2003 visit to the Mother Country.
One would think that we came to England specifically for the Forbidden Corner, considering how excited Elizabeth was to see it. The Forbidden Corner is what is called a “folly” and was built by one man on his huge estate to entertain his grandchildren many years ago. A labyrinth of elaborate mazes, caves, streams, and gardens, it takes roughly three hours to find the way through. No expense was spared in the building of the folly: the caves, castles, and statues are all made of stone. But one shouldn’t be surprised to see arms sticking out of walls or perhaps (excuse me) a little statue of a mischievous boy that pees on you as you pass by.
Daddy had never been there before so we spent a long time following him around and enjoying his reactions to everything. I remember coming two years ago and being absolutely terrified because I was so claustrophobic. It is a very upsetting feeling to know that you can’t get out of somewhere even if you wanted to. As to pass through the various parts of the folly, the doors close and lock behind you. There is no way out except to find the correct way.
After finishing the folly the girls and I went to the bathrooms. Characteristic of the Forbidden Corner, even the bathrooms were not spared some form of trickery. The entrance was wooden, reminiscent of traditional outhouses. We opened the door and there in front of us were two holes in a bench in a wooden shed, and a sign hung over them that read “This privy occupies two, but if there is only one in here, leave the door unlocked.” There were newspapers stuck on nails on the walls for our enjoyment. Celeste said “You have got to be kidding me”, expressing all our thoughts. We did a search and finally found a hidden door into the real bathroom, an elegant one in pink marble with silver fixtures. Very funny – Kenny said that they didn’t play such a joke on the boys, of course.
We left the Forbidden Corner and started heading back through the Dales on their famous one-lane two way roads. Daddy has a habit of driving very quickly, so I got used to the sight of white knuckles on those roads. Eventually I fell asleep and continued to sleep until we stopped at Doncaster for dinner.
Unfortunately not everything during a day can go well; the day ended on a sour note here at the Lakeside Beefeater, a Family Restaurant. The portions were very small and the service extremely slow.
Dinner was over by 10PM, and we continued our drive to Mrs. Sander’s farm where we would be renting the Garden House. We dragged our things into our new house and crashed for the night. Tomorrow I will try to describe the house a bit – it is very charming and feels like home as we spent four weeks in it in 2003.
Day 1 - An Uneventful Plane Trip
After waking at 4:00AM (or, rather, washing our faces; not many of us slept with all the packing we had to do), we all piled into the car and Kevin drove us to Reagan National Airport. Much to Mommy’s dismay, a very small plane took us to Boston for the first leg of our flight. At Celeste’s count, there were fifteen passengers total.
Adding a bit of excitement to our morning, to get to the plane we had to walk across the tarmac and climb up the stairs to the plane. Daddy said that this is the “old-fashioned way” of doing things; doesn’t he fear dating himself with comments like that? Ah well.
Our flight to Boston was rather short, and we soon found ourselves inside Boston International Airport. Until now I had been wearing my short leg brace, but my foot started bothering me at this point so I sat down and strapped on the walking cast. Naturally, security gave my quite a hassle, and I found myself subjected to a wanding, pat down, and various chemical tests. Had I been less tired I may have found these chemical tests fascinating.
Mommy and Elizabeth fell fast asleep and spent most of our trip to Heathrow snoozing. Though running on very little sleep ourselves (Celeste had one hour), Celeste and I watched “The Interpreter” twice. Despite my plans to read all the way to England, I was way too tired to navigate my way through the labyrinth of Scottish accents in Rob Roy.
Other than dealing with a bevy of witchy flight attendants apparently uninterested in customer service, the flight was uneventful. Approximately 6.5 hours after leaving Boston we arrived in Heathrow. It took us roughly two hours to get through security, passport services, and “reclaim” our baggage downstairs. While standing in line to have our passports stamped, Mommy got into conversation with an elderly African (Sierra Leone, to be exact) Londoner returning from “holiday” in the States. He said that he taught for forty-two years at a University in his native country. Leave it to my mother to meet the most interesting people.
Since Daddy and Kenny still hadn’t arrived to pick us up at this point, Mommy watched the bags while the girls and I browsed the airport stores. We were interrupted by Kenny in the middle of choosing scents of shampoo we liked at Boots. Soon enough we piled into our big blue van, which was rather ugly on the outside but very comfortable inside, and started our drive to the Base.
It took about an hour and a half to get home and unload our overnight bags. The room was fairly nice as TLFs go, despite the old bubble gum in the drain and the cheerios stuck to the lamp in the common area (Elizabeth discovered these). We ate a quick dinner and climbed into bed.
While Mommy and Daddy fell asleep immediately, the rest of us stayed up for a while and watched British television. It was some sort of entertainment program showing the UK premiere of “Fantastic Four”, and included fun interviews with the stars. A highlight was Ioan Gruffudd (pronounced Jo-ann Griffith) demonstrating how he “kissed the air” in the movie when he had to kiss Invisible Girl. The general consensus in the room after the show was that Ioan was “classy” and the favorite, Jessica Alba was pretty, and Chris Evans and Michael Chiklis were pretty shallow.
The fun being over, we all fell asleep at 1:45 AM British time.
Adding a bit of excitement to our morning, to get to the plane we had to walk across the tarmac and climb up the stairs to the plane. Daddy said that this is the “old-fashioned way” of doing things; doesn’t he fear dating himself with comments like that? Ah well.
Our flight to Boston was rather short, and we soon found ourselves inside Boston International Airport. Until now I had been wearing my short leg brace, but my foot started bothering me at this point so I sat down and strapped on the walking cast. Naturally, security gave my quite a hassle, and I found myself subjected to a wanding, pat down, and various chemical tests. Had I been less tired I may have found these chemical tests fascinating.
Mommy and Elizabeth fell fast asleep and spent most of our trip to Heathrow snoozing. Though running on very little sleep ourselves (Celeste had one hour), Celeste and I watched “The Interpreter” twice. Despite my plans to read all the way to England, I was way too tired to navigate my way through the labyrinth of Scottish accents in Rob Roy.
Other than dealing with a bevy of witchy flight attendants apparently uninterested in customer service, the flight was uneventful. Approximately 6.5 hours after leaving Boston we arrived in Heathrow. It took us roughly two hours to get through security, passport services, and “reclaim” our baggage downstairs. While standing in line to have our passports stamped, Mommy got into conversation with an elderly African (Sierra Leone, to be exact) Londoner returning from “holiday” in the States. He said that he taught for forty-two years at a University in his native country. Leave it to my mother to meet the most interesting people.
Since Daddy and Kenny still hadn’t arrived to pick us up at this point, Mommy watched the bags while the girls and I browsed the airport stores. We were interrupted by Kenny in the middle of choosing scents of shampoo we liked at Boots. Soon enough we piled into our big blue van, which was rather ugly on the outside but very comfortable inside, and started our drive to the Base.
It took about an hour and a half to get home and unload our overnight bags. The room was fairly nice as TLFs go, despite the old bubble gum in the drain and the cheerios stuck to the lamp in the common area (Elizabeth discovered these). We ate a quick dinner and climbed into bed.
While Mommy and Daddy fell asleep immediately, the rest of us stayed up for a while and watched British television. It was some sort of entertainment program showing the UK premiere of “Fantastic Four”, and included fun interviews with the stars. A highlight was Ioan Gruffudd (pronounced Jo-ann Griffith) demonstrating how he “kissed the air” in the movie when he had to kiss Invisible Girl. The general consensus in the room after the show was that Ioan was “classy” and the favorite, Jessica Alba was pretty, and Chris Evans and Michael Chiklis were pretty shallow.
The fun being over, we all fell asleep at 1:45 AM British time.
So much to say!
As you may have suspected, I didn't have the means to post to my blog while I was on vacation. However, I have roughly thirty pages of material that I wrote on the road. Over the next week or so I will post it slowly to the site (including pics!) for you to enjoy - or hate, or yawn at, whatever the case may be. Cheers!
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Cheers!
I started this blog so that I could keep a travel log (and include snapshots) without using up all my space on my normal blog. My first trip is to England...Enjoy!
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