(Sick of my puns yet?)
This morning, in contrast to the morning before, we woke up at 5:30AM and were out the door and on our way to Stratford-Upon-Avon. I was so tired during the drive there that I can’t remember a single thing. We arrived just as the Shakespeare Birthplace opened at 9AM, bought our tickets, and went inside. To Daddy’s delight, our early rising payed off and we beat the crowds.
The Shakespeare Exhibition before the house was very nice. Admittedly, all I knew about Shakespeare the man was what I saw in Shakespeare in Love, so the little blurbs about his life were quite enlightening. I have always thoroughly enjoyed his work, however, and have read Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, Othello, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, The Taming of the Shrew, and Much Ado About Nothing. Once of my life goals is to at some point read all 41 of Shakespeare’s plays.
I was rather disappointed about the Birthplace itself; there were hardly any informative signs telling you what you were looking at. Thankfully there was a lady in the “Birth Chamber” running like a broken record: “This is the place where Shakespeare was believed to be born. This is the place….” Despite the bad presentation, I did find one fact interesting in particular – that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson visited the Birthplace together roughly one hundred-fifty years after it was opened to visitors. Ah; our history collides.
After the Birthplace, we spent several hours walking around the fun (though rather touristy) town of Stratford-Upon-Avon. I enjoyed the shopping immensely; there were plenty of roads set up specifically for shoppers, with cobblestone roads closed off to vehicle traffic. With twenty pounds or so to blow, I did some serious shopping. I spent way too much time saving that money at work to not spend it. (Of course, anything I have left will go towards postage for my seven autograph requests that Daddy is going to send for me via Royal Mail – better chance of success that way.)
Sitting on a park bench on the River Avon, we quickly ate our lunch before scooting off to pick up our tickets for the play. Finally seated and settled, we waited for the play to begin at 1:30PM. The play was “As You Like It”, and has been running this year since August 5th. Starring Barnaby Kay as Orlando, the show was absolutely fantastic. It would be hard to compare it to “Thomas More” because it is a different kind of play, but it was good in its own right. It was a lighthearted and romantic, and a perfect way to end the trip.
Three and a half hours later, we left the theatre, utterly hooked on plays. Chatting excitedly, we made plans to give up our monthly “dinner out” at home to go to a matinee of a play in Washington D.C. It would be so much fun, but I’m not sure that Kenny would agree. Ah well.
Thus elated, we practically ran into Barnaby Kay (Orlando) outside the theatre. I fear that all three of us girls were inflicted by various stages of crushes on the poor fellow, so none of us had the gumption to stop him for an autograph. Instead, we all kind of stared dumbly and I cursed myself bitterly for not being more forward. I made up my mind to write to him c/o the RSC for an autograph as soon as possible.
After mulling about the town a bit more, we ate our dinner at The Garrick. The food was good there, but the service left something to be desired. Also, the fish in the fish n’ chips still had its scales – blech. I was glad I ordered chicken and mushroom.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Day 15 - Family
Sadly, we spent most the morning slowly packing up our things for the return trip to the United States. My head swam as I spread my purchases out on my bed and realized how much I spent on so little; roughly 120 pounds on pieces of paper and some tea things. Using plastic shopping bags and clothing, I gently wrapped and stuffed my new teapot and the six teacups that I bought for myself and others. I thanked God that I finished most of the books that I brought, because I could pack them in my suitcase to leave room in my carry-on for breakables. There is no way that I am trusting those baggage handlers with my teacups!
Since it was late in the day before we left the house, we visited something close to home. Looking through our guidebooks, we chose Audley End. We were planning on going there the first week without Daddy, but had to skip it in deference to other exciting things. It all worked out because we had a wonderfully relaxing afternoon there with Daddy.
Walking through the remarkable Jacobean mansion, looking at the previous owner’s tremendous collection of stuffed birds from around the world, strolling through the various beautiful gardens, and exploring the grounds took about six hours. The flowers were at their peak, and the day, though a little on the chilly side, was bright and sunny. The house and location didn't matter much...we just wanted to be together for the afternoon in peace. Although our carefully laid plans for the day did not work out, a day together in a gorgeous setting was the best way to gather and bond as a family before we go our separate busy ways at home again.
But this year I do not intend to let my family life fall to the wayside as it did the last. Just as during the spring semester I worked on balancing a job and school, this time I will focus on striking a balance between family and school. My grades are just as important as ever (and this new semester will be difficult, I promise you!), but this summer has made me remember what I lost by ignoring those around me. It doesn’t have to be a huge amount of time; perhaps fifteen-twenty minutes an evening drinking tea and chatting together.
Since it was late in the day before we left the house, we visited something close to home. Looking through our guidebooks, we chose Audley End. We were planning on going there the first week without Daddy, but had to skip it in deference to other exciting things. It all worked out because we had a wonderfully relaxing afternoon there with Daddy.
Walking through the remarkable Jacobean mansion, looking at the previous owner’s tremendous collection of stuffed birds from around the world, strolling through the various beautiful gardens, and exploring the grounds took about six hours. The flowers were at their peak, and the day, though a little on the chilly side, was bright and sunny. The house and location didn't matter much...we just wanted to be together for the afternoon in peace. Although our carefully laid plans for the day did not work out, a day together in a gorgeous setting was the best way to gather and bond as a family before we go our separate busy ways at home again.
But this year I do not intend to let my family life fall to the wayside as it did the last. Just as during the spring semester I worked on balancing a job and school, this time I will focus on striking a balance between family and school. My grades are just as important as ever (and this new semester will be difficult, I promise you!), but this summer has made me remember what I lost by ignoring those around me. It doesn’t have to be a huge amount of time; perhaps fifteen-twenty minutes an evening drinking tea and chatting together.
Day 14 - More "More"?
Three years ago I studied St. (King) Edward the Confessor for history class. There is a story that at one point in his life something happened that put him in fear of his life (I can’t remember what it was) and he prayed to St. Peter for deliverance. I believe the situation had something to do with his horse falling into a deep gully. Thankfully, he was snatched from the throes of death and fell to his knees, promising St. Peter that he would build him a church such that the world had never seen.
Soon construction began on Westminster Abbey in London. The church took a long time to build, and at the end plans were made to consecrate it. But apparently St. Peter had other plans. The night before the consecration, a vision appeared in the abbey of St. Peter and attending angels. They were consecrating the church. Next morning, St. Edward cancelled the formal earthly ceremony and to this day Westminster Abbey has not been consecrated by mortal hands.
I was incredibly excited to see Westminster Abbey during this trip, and everyone put themselves out to get there. Unfortunately, the place was a huge disappointment. An overglorified graveyard, the Abbey is choked with monuments and memorials. Not a scrap of its Catholic history remains. Although St. Edward’s tomb still rests there (they have not been able to remove it because of legal issues), there is a tall fence around it blocking any view, as well as any pilgrims. One could not even appreciate the beauty of the stained glass or the size of the church for fear of tripped over a memorial stone or running headlong into a stone angel or death-mask.
Among the few things that were impressive about the site was the ceiling of the Henry VII Chapel. With its gorgeous fan vaulting and milky-white designs that dip down towards the floor, the ceiling made me catch my breath every time I dared to look. Other fun highlights included a lovely memorial of a man defending his wife from a skeleton, representing death, and the coronation chair which holds the Stone of Scone during every Coronation Ceremony. (The Stone of Scone was the stone on which all Scottish kings were crowned, and was captured when England first ruled its proud neighbor. Though the stone has since been returned, Scotland lends it back to England for every Coronation.)
Other things that the Abbey is famous for were disappointing as well. The famous marble floor before the altar was covered for cleaning, and the Poet’s Corner was mostly – again – monuments. Very few of the poet’s commemorated there are actually interred in Westminster Abbey. For example, one stone reads: “Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland, interred in Oxford, etc.” Never again will I set foot in Westminster Abbey! By the end of the audio tour I didn’t even have the heart to buy postcards or the pen-and-ink drawings of the Abbey I wanted to buy for Monsignor Hughes.
From the Abbey we walked across the street and used the famous bathrooms across the street. It is a silly thing, but two years ago when we went there they had automatic hand dryers that blew really hard. And I mean really hard – your skin rippled in a disgusting fashion over your bones. Everyone wanted to see them again, so we had it on our list unofficially to use those bathrooms.
Once again on our way, we ate our lunch as we walked down the Thames to the Tate Britain Art Gallery. It was scheduled to close in twenty minutes, so we took a very quick run around the pre-Raphaelite exhibitions. Quickly I memorized the titles of my favorites so that I could look them up later: “Mariana”, “April Love”, and “Order of Release”.
Shuffled rudely out of the gallery by museum employees, we headed towards the tube to meet a tour at Tower Hill Station. I am going to have to give in a minute and relate (rather immaturely) what has been dubbed by Kenny my “Rather Romantic Tube Ride.” On the way through the tunnels to the train I noticed that a young, tall, blond fellow in front of me kept turning around to “check me out.” My interest was peaked, and when he turned back around I tried to get a decent look myself. Prone to remarkable clumsiness at incredibly inopportune times, I stepped on his foot. As I – red in the face, most likely - jumped back safely to Kenny’s side, the boy turned around and told me it was okay.
The train pulled up, and was fairly crowded. Looking around when I boarded, I noted that there were two seats free next to (who else?) the young man I tripped over. Normally I would have taken the seat further away, but seized with a sudden daring that fails me at home, I sat down in the seat next to him. Out of my eye I saw him smile, and I smiled back. Two stops later he went to get off the train, but at the door he paused and looked slowly back at me. For a moment we exchanged meaning glances, and he left. That was all. I must admit that I am continually shocked at my own audacity over here.
At 7PM sharp the “St. Thomas More Ramble” through London started from Tower Hill. Monsignor Stark, an elderly but very energetic British priest, led the walking tour. Little did we know when we began that we were joining a six-and-a-half mile jaunt around London! We saw practically every spot touched by the life of St. Thomas: Tower Hill (the site of his execution), his parish church when a young man (the smallest church in London), St. Anthony’s (his primary school), Milk Street (where he was born), the sit of St. Mary Magdalene (where he was baptized), St. Lawrence Jewry (where St. Thomas delivered a series of lectures which formed the basis of his Utopia), the building where he worked, Lincoln’s Inn, and several other sites. How surreal to walk in the footsteps of a saint; it wasn't too difficult to imagine the bustling narrow streets of the early 1500's. An interesting and sad fact we learned on the tour was that there were originally 126 parishes within the square mile of London, but most were destroyed in the Great Fire.
It was very hard to keep up with the Monsignor and even harder to hear what he was saying. We were told by one of the ninety-six other "ramblers" that the little priest had been giving the same tour for thirty-six years. Afterwards we got a chance to talk to him ourselves. A very genial man, with perhaps the one failing of being a little too proud of his title, he told us of his visits to the United States and what pleased him (and displeased him) about our country.
The time being nearly 10:30PM, we climbed on the nearest tube and rode it back to Cockfosters, and from there drove home. No eventful or disastrous tube rides this time!
Soon construction began on Westminster Abbey in London. The church took a long time to build, and at the end plans were made to consecrate it. But apparently St. Peter had other plans. The night before the consecration, a vision appeared in the abbey of St. Peter and attending angels. They were consecrating the church. Next morning, St. Edward cancelled the formal earthly ceremony and to this day Westminster Abbey has not been consecrated by mortal hands.
I was incredibly excited to see Westminster Abbey during this trip, and everyone put themselves out to get there. Unfortunately, the place was a huge disappointment. An overglorified graveyard, the Abbey is choked with monuments and memorials. Not a scrap of its Catholic history remains. Although St. Edward’s tomb still rests there (they have not been able to remove it because of legal issues), there is a tall fence around it blocking any view, as well as any pilgrims. One could not even appreciate the beauty of the stained glass or the size of the church for fear of tripped over a memorial stone or running headlong into a stone angel or death-mask.
Among the few things that were impressive about the site was the ceiling of the Henry VII Chapel. With its gorgeous fan vaulting and milky-white designs that dip down towards the floor, the ceiling made me catch my breath every time I dared to look. Other fun highlights included a lovely memorial of a man defending his wife from a skeleton, representing death, and the coronation chair which holds the Stone of Scone during every Coronation Ceremony. (The Stone of Scone was the stone on which all Scottish kings were crowned, and was captured when England first ruled its proud neighbor. Though the stone has since been returned, Scotland lends it back to England for every Coronation.)
Other things that the Abbey is famous for were disappointing as well. The famous marble floor before the altar was covered for cleaning, and the Poet’s Corner was mostly – again – monuments. Very few of the poet’s commemorated there are actually interred in Westminster Abbey. For example, one stone reads: “Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland, interred in Oxford, etc.” Never again will I set foot in Westminster Abbey! By the end of the audio tour I didn’t even have the heart to buy postcards or the pen-and-ink drawings of the Abbey I wanted to buy for Monsignor Hughes.
From the Abbey we walked across the street and used the famous bathrooms across the street. It is a silly thing, but two years ago when we went there they had automatic hand dryers that blew really hard. And I mean really hard – your skin rippled in a disgusting fashion over your bones. Everyone wanted to see them again, so we had it on our list unofficially to use those bathrooms.
Once again on our way, we ate our lunch as we walked down the Thames to the Tate Britain Art Gallery. It was scheduled to close in twenty minutes, so we took a very quick run around the pre-Raphaelite exhibitions. Quickly I memorized the titles of my favorites so that I could look them up later: “Mariana”, “April Love”, and “Order of Release”.
Shuffled rudely out of the gallery by museum employees, we headed towards the tube to meet a tour at Tower Hill Station. I am going to have to give in a minute and relate (rather immaturely) what has been dubbed by Kenny my “Rather Romantic Tube Ride.” On the way through the tunnels to the train I noticed that a young, tall, blond fellow in front of me kept turning around to “check me out.” My interest was peaked, and when he turned back around I tried to get a decent look myself. Prone to remarkable clumsiness at incredibly inopportune times, I stepped on his foot. As I – red in the face, most likely - jumped back safely to Kenny’s side, the boy turned around and told me it was okay.
The train pulled up, and was fairly crowded. Looking around when I boarded, I noted that there were two seats free next to (who else?) the young man I tripped over. Normally I would have taken the seat further away, but seized with a sudden daring that fails me at home, I sat down in the seat next to him. Out of my eye I saw him smile, and I smiled back. Two stops later he went to get off the train, but at the door he paused and looked slowly back at me. For a moment we exchanged meaning glances, and he left. That was all. I must admit that I am continually shocked at my own audacity over here.
At 7PM sharp the “St. Thomas More Ramble” through London started from Tower Hill. Monsignor Stark, an elderly but very energetic British priest, led the walking tour. Little did we know when we began that we were joining a six-and-a-half mile jaunt around London! We saw practically every spot touched by the life of St. Thomas: Tower Hill (the site of his execution), his parish church when a young man (the smallest church in London), St. Anthony’s (his primary school), Milk Street (where he was born), the sit of St. Mary Magdalene (where he was baptized), St. Lawrence Jewry (where St. Thomas delivered a series of lectures which formed the basis of his Utopia), the building where he worked, Lincoln’s Inn, and several other sites. How surreal to walk in the footsteps of a saint; it wasn't too difficult to imagine the bustling narrow streets of the early 1500's. An interesting and sad fact we learned on the tour was that there were originally 126 parishes within the square mile of London, but most were destroyed in the Great Fire.
It was very hard to keep up with the Monsignor and even harder to hear what he was saying. We were told by one of the ninety-six other "ramblers" that the little priest had been giving the same tour for thirty-six years. Afterwards we got a chance to talk to him ourselves. A very genial man, with perhaps the one failing of being a little too proud of his title, he told us of his visits to the United States and what pleased him (and displeased him) about our country.
The time being nearly 10:30PM, we climbed on the nearest tube and rode it back to Cockfosters, and from there drove home. No eventful or disastrous tube rides this time!
Day 13 - "Life is a stage..."
Our plan for today was to go to the city of St. Alban’s, the third largest Roman city in England, to visit the Roman museum and theatre as well as what is reportedly the oldest pub in the world (Ye Olde Fighting Cocks). Unfortunately, awful traffic blocked the roads all the way to the city, making our drive an hour and a half longer than it should have been. Because of this plans had to change: as soon as we arrived in St. Alban’s we turned around and drove home, for fear of missing the play for which we reserved tickets.
Soon enough we were back at the house, tidying up and ensuring that our dress fit the “snappy casual” dress code. We met Daddy at JAC Molesworth and drove to The Swan Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon, the home of William Shakespeare. To my delight, the play was titled “Thomas More”. (I said that this was the “St. Thomas More Tour”!)
For the girls the experience of a play was a new one. Whispering excitedly, they waited for the lights to dim in the theatre. Our seats, carefully chosen by me, were quite good. And the layout of The Swan, a traditional Elizabethan theatre, minimizes the number of bad seats.
The play began at 7:30PM sharp, and starred Nigel Cooke in the title role. Though not entirely a Shakespeare piece, one scene in the first act was written by Shakespeare and so the play qualifies being shown in “his” theatre. Originally penned during the reign of King Henry VIII, the play was censored so greatly by the king that it has never had a major performance until this year. Of course, Henry was well to be nervous of the play; it has a decidedly “pro-More” slant.
The first act focused on the career of young Thomas More, centering particularly on the racist May Day riots in London. For his wise and gentle pacification of the rioters, Thomas More was awarded knighthood. After the first act the play takes the course of most stories about St. Thomas More, detailing his time as Lord Chancellor and his death.
When we left the theatre Kenny remarked that it was a lot like “A Man for All Seasons.” Naturally, how different can one expect two plays about one man to be? But “Thomas More” displayed some facets of his life “cleaned up” in “A Man for All Seasons”. These included his gaiety, his often ribald jokes and remarks, and his love for plays. Another central figure to this part of England’s history (and left out of A Man for All Seasons in a serious oversight), St. John Fisher, had a role in the play. The brave Bishop of Rochester, refusing steadfastly to take the oath, is contrasted with the family man Sir Thomas More, who must consider all his options
If anyone has a chance to see this play, I wholeheartedly recommend it. Not only was the story a timeless one, but the acting was also superb. Though Mr. Cooke looks a bit on the shady side, with slicked back black hair and a very gaunt figure, he brought St. Thomas More to vivid life. More’s son, Roper, did an excellent job, as did the man who played St. John Fisher. For the whole three hours I was held spellbound. At first I thought the minimalist sets and costumes would detract from the play, but I admit that I did not notice.
Outside the stage door, we waited for the actors/actresses to leave the building. Several of them left furtively, hoping that we did not notice them. Others were extremely friendly. Two fellows in particular, one named Nigel Betts, stuck around to sign autographs and chat with our family awhile. While I hung shyly towards the back of the bunch, Mr. Betts signed autographs for the rest of my siblings. But he noticed me anyway, and asked if I wanted one. I looked up and said: “I suppose so”, to which he answered, with a smile, “Well, I’m not going to force you.” I laughed and said that wasn’t what I meant and handed him my book. He signed it: “Best Wishes Sweetheart. Nigel Betts”.
Meanwhile, Mr. Cooke tried to sneak past us unnoticed, but with a look of alarm from me my father basically tackled him. Caught, he quickly gave us autographs and before he left, loosened up a bit and even laughed and chatted a little. He left and we stayed to chat a couple more minutes with the other two gentlemen.
Eventually they had to go for dinner, so we slowly walked back to the car and drove home. It was a wonderful evening, and one, I think, that St. Thomas himself would have enjoyed immensely.
Soon enough we were back at the house, tidying up and ensuring that our dress fit the “snappy casual” dress code. We met Daddy at JAC Molesworth and drove to The Swan Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon, the home of William Shakespeare. To my delight, the play was titled “Thomas More”. (I said that this was the “St. Thomas More Tour”!)
For the girls the experience of a play was a new one. Whispering excitedly, they waited for the lights to dim in the theatre. Our seats, carefully chosen by me, were quite good. And the layout of The Swan, a traditional Elizabethan theatre, minimizes the number of bad seats.
The play began at 7:30PM sharp, and starred Nigel Cooke in the title role. Though not entirely a Shakespeare piece, one scene in the first act was written by Shakespeare and so the play qualifies being shown in “his” theatre. Originally penned during the reign of King Henry VIII, the play was censored so greatly by the king that it has never had a major performance until this year. Of course, Henry was well to be nervous of the play; it has a decidedly “pro-More” slant.
The first act focused on the career of young Thomas More, centering particularly on the racist May Day riots in London. For his wise and gentle pacification of the rioters, Thomas More was awarded knighthood. After the first act the play takes the course of most stories about St. Thomas More, detailing his time as Lord Chancellor and his death.
When we left the theatre Kenny remarked that it was a lot like “A Man for All Seasons.” Naturally, how different can one expect two plays about one man to be? But “Thomas More” displayed some facets of his life “cleaned up” in “A Man for All Seasons”. These included his gaiety, his often ribald jokes and remarks, and his love for plays. Another central figure to this part of England’s history (and left out of A Man for All Seasons in a serious oversight), St. John Fisher, had a role in the play. The brave Bishop of Rochester, refusing steadfastly to take the oath, is contrasted with the family man Sir Thomas More, who must consider all his options
If anyone has a chance to see this play, I wholeheartedly recommend it. Not only was the story a timeless one, but the acting was also superb. Though Mr. Cooke looks a bit on the shady side, with slicked back black hair and a very gaunt figure, he brought St. Thomas More to vivid life. More’s son, Roper, did an excellent job, as did the man who played St. John Fisher. For the whole three hours I was held spellbound. At first I thought the minimalist sets and costumes would detract from the play, but I admit that I did not notice.
Outside the stage door, we waited for the actors/actresses to leave the building. Several of them left furtively, hoping that we did not notice them. Others were extremely friendly. Two fellows in particular, one named Nigel Betts, stuck around to sign autographs and chat with our family awhile. While I hung shyly towards the back of the bunch, Mr. Betts signed autographs for the rest of my siblings. But he noticed me anyway, and asked if I wanted one. I looked up and said: “I suppose so”, to which he answered, with a smile, “Well, I’m not going to force you.” I laughed and said that wasn’t what I meant and handed him my book. He signed it: “Best Wishes Sweetheart. Nigel Betts”.
Meanwhile, Mr. Cooke tried to sneak past us unnoticed, but with a look of alarm from me my father basically tackled him. Caught, he quickly gave us autographs and before he left, loosened up a bit and even laughed and chatted a little. He left and we stayed to chat a couple more minutes with the other two gentlemen.
Eventually they had to go for dinner, so we slowly walked back to the car and drove home. It was a wonderful evening, and one, I think, that St. Thomas himself would have enjoyed immensely.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Day 12 - Step Back Into Ancient History
Although we had a bit of trouble getting out the door this morning, everything worked out well. We headed over to the Base to fill the car with petrol, and then were on our way to Peterborough, Norfolk. While still in the States Mommy discovered an archeological dig site called Flag Fen, and was excited to take us there.
As usual Mommy was absolutely right, and Flag Fen was a really interesting place. Excavations are still in progress (you could actually watch the archeologists at work in the fen) to dig out the remains of late Bronze Age and early Iron Age settlements. On either side of the fen (a wet, swampy area) are two sections of dry land called the Fengate and the Northey. This is where the settlements are found. Also, the foundations of a Roman road, called the Fen Way, can be seen there.
But the treasure of the site was found in the fen itself, preserved by the slime and mud. 60,000 wooden posts, arranged across the fen, fan out from a huge wooden platform a hectare in breadth. Today, to preserve the posts, they are kept in a controlled-climate (very wet!) building. Still it baffles historians as to why the posts were erected; most believe that they have something to do with a religious ritual of a sort, because all kinds of articles (jewelry, pots, knives, swords, and even dogs) have been found amongst the posts, all deliberately broken. Did these ancient people think that the fen was a window to the other world, and threw things into it for their dead ancestors?
It was truly an amazing and somewhat creepy feeling to stand on the platform and gaze at the 3,000 year-old wooden posts. Talking to Mommy later, I realized that the creepy feeling stems from the fact that we do not know what the posts mean. The room where they were kept had the same hushed and reverent atmosphere as Stonehenge; people that came in after us were “shhh”-ing each other as thought they were entering a church. Were the posts used for some religious ritual? If so, was it a portal to another world or a place to pacify a much-feared god? Or was it simply some prehistoric trash dump? I suppose we will never know for sure.
After “ooohing” and “aaaahing” over the Roman roads – I have done extensive reading about the building of Roman roads – we climbed in the car and started off for our next adventure. With quite a bit of trouble we finally found our way to Grimes’ Graves, a Neolithic flint mine that I have wanted to visit since our trip in 2003. When we drove up there during that trip, the site was closed on account of some excavations.
Our efforts were repaid in full. But I’m afraid that I can’t recommend the site for the site alone, for from the parking lot the place doesn’t look like much: a field of bumpy mounds and a little shop/museum/shed in the center. The true treasure of the site – at least in my eyes – is only temporal.
A young man, glowing with enthusiasm for the history of his country, was our tour guide for Grimes’ Graves. The place literally came alive for us as he told us the story of the site, from how the flint was formed by glaciers to his own personal stories of “babysitting” documentary crews in the mines. He speculated that one mound (the second highest point in Norfolk) may have been the very place where Boadicea rallied her troops to rebel against the Romans.
Before going through the numerous but fascinating things our guide told us about England, I have to digress and drying talk a bit about the history of the site, etc. With our hard hats on our heads, we climbed down a ladder into a 30-foot shaft mined for flint in 3000 B.C. Still visible are some of the huge holes where large chunks of flint were mined with the antler of the local red deer. Stone Age man dug this tunnel in a mere four months.
Around this mine, the only one open to the public, are 433 known mines. I say known, because it is suspected that there are as many as 700 more in the area of Grimes’ Graves. Out of the 433 tunnels discovered already, only 28 of them have been excavated and explored. Much, much more is still to be unearthed regarding the world of over 3,000 years ago.
After exploring the dark, cool tunnels around the main shaft we all climbed back up the ladder. For about an hour we continued to talk to our guide, Jason, about the history of the land. Several things came up in conversation and were explained from the vast knowledge the young man had:
(1) St. George and St. Michael are in actuality the same person. Both are famous for slaying dragons.
(2) There are unexplainable lines going up and down the continent called “leylines”. One runs from St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall to Mont St. Michel in France. Along this line, oddly, are landmarks and monuments with the name either of St. George or St. Michael the Archangel. Normally explained as an “energy flow” by New Age followers, these leylines remain a mystery much like the standing stones of Stonehenge.
(3) Jason had an interesting theory to offer on what Stonehenge really is. First he told us about an awful tangle of roundabouts (raised on stilts) in England called “Spaghetti Junction” and mused that perhaps two thousand years from now all that would be left of these roundabouts would be the stilts. At that point what was Spaghetti Junction would look like a series of standing stones. Thus, Stonehenge really is an ancient roundabout!
(4) The U.K., he explained, is quite honestly an island resting on a spongy mass beneath. During the Ice Age, a huge glacier covered the Southeast corner of England, and “tipping” the U.K. As a result, thousands of years after the glacier melted, the country is still trying to right itself. Every year the Southeast corner of England rises a tenth of a millimeter, and the Northwest corner of Scotland falls the same amount. Who would have imagined?
(5) Scientists really don’t know how flint is formed. Jason said that it is great asking geologists about that and seeing the “smoke come from their ears”.
(6) The flint mines we saw were 19 times older than the United States, 2.5 times older than Christianity, and many scholars believe that the world did not exist when the mines were built!
(7) Commenting on something I said about England having much more history than America, Jason pointed out that for most Americans, before 1492 our history was Europe’s history. “For one thing”, he said to me, “your red hair suggests that you come from an Irish background, and in turn from a Celtic background. Boadicea herself was known for her mane of flaming red hair.” Here he laughed, and indicated with a wave of his hand the hill he mentioned before where that pagan warrior rallied her troops. “Maybe I don’t want you going up there – you may come back, sword in hand, to kill us all!”
As I write I can feel the color coming into my face. I must admit that, ever since I he started talking, I liked Jason very much. Though he was probably eight or so years my senior, I noted that he was “interested” and the age difference didn’t stop me from “playing the game”. Yes, I shifted my weight from one hip to the other, brushed my hair behind my ear, tossed my head, and laughed at all his jokes. Thankfully this didn’t end in embarrassment (as it usually does when I flirt!) and he responded with compliments and attentions. Quite honestly, I would have happily run away with him right then and there had he asked me (which he wouldn’t have – I only just met him). Looking back, I am a bit ashamed of my girlish heart and how I let it run away with me. At least I know his name; it was fun and exciting while it lasted.
To the chiding comments and teasing of my all-to-wise brother Kenny, who knows me too well, we left Grimes’ Graves and went to meet Daddy at the Super Tesco’s in Peterborough. Daddy is so cute: he loves Tesco’s dearly as his own little “discovery.” It is a store much like a Target in our country. But everything is cheaper there, so I did a lot of my shopping for gifts. It is a sort of family ritual to go to Tesco’s at least twice a week.
Tired and hungry, we arrived at the Lodge and ate our dinner. Thinking about everything we had done and seen (and trying to invent ways to describe the experiences), I got ready and climbed into bed. For the third night Elizabeth slept, curled up in a comforter, on the floor next to me. I love her so much – it is very hard to believe that she is already going to be twelve years old in December. Times goes by so quickly.
As usual Mommy was absolutely right, and Flag Fen was a really interesting place. Excavations are still in progress (you could actually watch the archeologists at work in the fen) to dig out the remains of late Bronze Age and early Iron Age settlements. On either side of the fen (a wet, swampy area) are two sections of dry land called the Fengate and the Northey. This is where the settlements are found. Also, the foundations of a Roman road, called the Fen Way, can be seen there.
But the treasure of the site was found in the fen itself, preserved by the slime and mud. 60,000 wooden posts, arranged across the fen, fan out from a huge wooden platform a hectare in breadth. Today, to preserve the posts, they are kept in a controlled-climate (very wet!) building. Still it baffles historians as to why the posts were erected; most believe that they have something to do with a religious ritual of a sort, because all kinds of articles (jewelry, pots, knives, swords, and even dogs) have been found amongst the posts, all deliberately broken. Did these ancient people think that the fen was a window to the other world, and threw things into it for their dead ancestors?
It was truly an amazing and somewhat creepy feeling to stand on the platform and gaze at the 3,000 year-old wooden posts. Talking to Mommy later, I realized that the creepy feeling stems from the fact that we do not know what the posts mean. The room where they were kept had the same hushed and reverent atmosphere as Stonehenge; people that came in after us were “shhh”-ing each other as thought they were entering a church. Were the posts used for some religious ritual? If so, was it a portal to another world or a place to pacify a much-feared god? Or was it simply some prehistoric trash dump? I suppose we will never know for sure.
After “ooohing” and “aaaahing” over the Roman roads – I have done extensive reading about the building of Roman roads – we climbed in the car and started off for our next adventure. With quite a bit of trouble we finally found our way to Grimes’ Graves, a Neolithic flint mine that I have wanted to visit since our trip in 2003. When we drove up there during that trip, the site was closed on account of some excavations.
Our efforts were repaid in full. But I’m afraid that I can’t recommend the site for the site alone, for from the parking lot the place doesn’t look like much: a field of bumpy mounds and a little shop/museum/shed in the center. The true treasure of the site – at least in my eyes – is only temporal.
A young man, glowing with enthusiasm for the history of his country, was our tour guide for Grimes’ Graves. The place literally came alive for us as he told us the story of the site, from how the flint was formed by glaciers to his own personal stories of “babysitting” documentary crews in the mines. He speculated that one mound (the second highest point in Norfolk) may have been the very place where Boadicea rallied her troops to rebel against the Romans.
Before going through the numerous but fascinating things our guide told us about England, I have to digress and drying talk a bit about the history of the site, etc. With our hard hats on our heads, we climbed down a ladder into a 30-foot shaft mined for flint in 3000 B.C. Still visible are some of the huge holes where large chunks of flint were mined with the antler of the local red deer. Stone Age man dug this tunnel in a mere four months.
Around this mine, the only one open to the public, are 433 known mines. I say known, because it is suspected that there are as many as 700 more in the area of Grimes’ Graves. Out of the 433 tunnels discovered already, only 28 of them have been excavated and explored. Much, much more is still to be unearthed regarding the world of over 3,000 years ago.
After exploring the dark, cool tunnels around the main shaft we all climbed back up the ladder. For about an hour we continued to talk to our guide, Jason, about the history of the land. Several things came up in conversation and were explained from the vast knowledge the young man had:
(1) St. George and St. Michael are in actuality the same person. Both are famous for slaying dragons.
(2) There are unexplainable lines going up and down the continent called “leylines”. One runs from St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall to Mont St. Michel in France. Along this line, oddly, are landmarks and monuments with the name either of St. George or St. Michael the Archangel. Normally explained as an “energy flow” by New Age followers, these leylines remain a mystery much like the standing stones of Stonehenge.
(3) Jason had an interesting theory to offer on what Stonehenge really is. First he told us about an awful tangle of roundabouts (raised on stilts) in England called “Spaghetti Junction” and mused that perhaps two thousand years from now all that would be left of these roundabouts would be the stilts. At that point what was Spaghetti Junction would look like a series of standing stones. Thus, Stonehenge really is an ancient roundabout!
(4) The U.K., he explained, is quite honestly an island resting on a spongy mass beneath. During the Ice Age, a huge glacier covered the Southeast corner of England, and “tipping” the U.K. As a result, thousands of years after the glacier melted, the country is still trying to right itself. Every year the Southeast corner of England rises a tenth of a millimeter, and the Northwest corner of Scotland falls the same amount. Who would have imagined?
(5) Scientists really don’t know how flint is formed. Jason said that it is great asking geologists about that and seeing the “smoke come from their ears”.
(6) The flint mines we saw were 19 times older than the United States, 2.5 times older than Christianity, and many scholars believe that the world did not exist when the mines were built!
(7) Commenting on something I said about England having much more history than America, Jason pointed out that for most Americans, before 1492 our history was Europe’s history. “For one thing”, he said to me, “your red hair suggests that you come from an Irish background, and in turn from a Celtic background. Boadicea herself was known for her mane of flaming red hair.” Here he laughed, and indicated with a wave of his hand the hill he mentioned before where that pagan warrior rallied her troops. “Maybe I don’t want you going up there – you may come back, sword in hand, to kill us all!”
As I write I can feel the color coming into my face. I must admit that, ever since I he started talking, I liked Jason very much. Though he was probably eight or so years my senior, I noted that he was “interested” and the age difference didn’t stop me from “playing the game”. Yes, I shifted my weight from one hip to the other, brushed my hair behind my ear, tossed my head, and laughed at all his jokes. Thankfully this didn’t end in embarrassment (as it usually does when I flirt!) and he responded with compliments and attentions. Quite honestly, I would have happily run away with him right then and there had he asked me (which he wouldn’t have – I only just met him). Looking back, I am a bit ashamed of my girlish heart and how I let it run away with me. At least I know his name; it was fun and exciting while it lasted.
To the chiding comments and teasing of my all-to-wise brother Kenny, who knows me too well, we left Grimes’ Graves and went to meet Daddy at the Super Tesco’s in Peterborough. Daddy is so cute: he loves Tesco’s dearly as his own little “discovery.” It is a store much like a Target in our country. But everything is cheaper there, so I did a lot of my shopping for gifts. It is a sort of family ritual to go to Tesco’s at least twice a week.
Tired and hungry, we arrived at the Lodge and ate our dinner. Thinking about everything we had done and seen (and trying to invent ways to describe the experiences), I got ready and climbed into bed. For the third night Elizabeth slept, curled up in a comforter, on the floor next to me. I love her so much – it is very hard to believe that she is already going to be twelve years old in December. Times goes by so quickly.
Day 11 - Crash & Burn
Today was a difficult day, because Mommy came down with a bad cold last night. In addition, I made us about two hours late. At around 6AM I woke up feeling very sick, and spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom throwing up. In more pain than I have ever felt before, I honestly thought that I was going to die and wished that I could at least pass out to escape the pain. But after I crawled into bed again, curled up, and began a rosary, the pain subsided and I fell back asleep. When I woke up I felt 100% better and we left for York.
Normally it is only a three hour drive to York, but Mommy was falling asleep at the wheel so we pulled over and let her sleep for an hour. Finally we arrived at Castle Howard, a Georgian palace still occupied by the Howard family, at 2PM in the afternoon. Mommy asked to sleep a little longer, and meanwhile we all went and perused the four gift shops in the courtyard of the palace.
By the time that we woke Mommy up, it was already an hour later. At this point it seemed ridiculous to pay 25 pounds to see the house for an hour an a half. So we left and headed towards York for a tour of York Minster and perhaps a little shopping. Our hopes scrambled out of the dirt and dusted themselves off.
However, the day was insistent on not be resurrected. We parked in York, and promptly realized that we couldn’t find the cell phone anywhere. Searching every nook and cranny of the car and every pocket occupied our time for roughly 45 minutes. Eventually we gave up and Mommy used a pay phone to make a long distance call to our cell phone, while I remained in the car to listen. With relief I heard a ringing sound coming from the inside of the driver’s seat. Somehow the phone had been wedged inside the seat, and I, without too much trouble, found and rescued it.
By now we had missed the last tour of York Minster. Despite our continuing misfortune, we walked towards York Minster to at least walk around the church. At least in this we were rewarded.
Though we visited York Minster two years ago, I only had ten minutes to look around and had barely enough time to appreciate the windows. Being the English Cathedral fanatic that I am, York Minster was something I simply had to see again. For an hour I walked around the Minster, holding Elizabeth’s hand and trying to impress upon her the magnificent beauty that were witnessing. Adding enchanting “mood music” to our tour, Evensong started at 5PM.
However, the music was unnecessary. World-renowned for their intricacy and delicate structure, the stained glass windows of York Minster sing a soaring song of their own. I have never seen such creations before, pieced together from colored common glass. Even now, when I think back to what I saw, I can hardly believe that such things existed on earth. Our Lord must be honored by such craftsmanship.
Unfortunately an hour was only all we were granted before the sun ceased to sparkle through the glass. Nearly all at once the Minster lost its enchantment. I found Mommy, sitting in a dark corner enjoying the experience of saying her rosary in a Catholic-turned-Anglican cathedral. We gathered our belongings and left.
All the shops were closed in the town so shopping was out of the question. On the way back to the car we got lost in the city, and were forced to sprint (for me a sprint is more of a brisk clip) to the car before our parking ticket expired. We made it just in time, climbed into the car, and started the drive home.
Halfway home we stopped at a Moto, which, during our 2003 British tour, was our favorite pit stop. Every year for the past three it has won the “Loo of the Year” Award for cleanliness. Sadly, service there has declined in the past two years, and though the loos won the 2005 Award (it was displayed on the wall), they did not deserve them. The restrooms were filthy. To be fair I must admit that they are still better than most bathrooms in England, which seems to be plagued as a nation with bad plumbing.
At 10:30PM we slunk into the driveway and tumbled out of the car and into the house. A ray of warmth, Daddy had a delicious dinner of spaghetti ready and we really enjoyed something as a family for the first time all day. While cleaning the dishes, we acted out “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra”. Daddy never fails to laugh when we act them out, and we know all his favorite parts. His smiles – and his rare laughter – are like gold. Most of the time he is so stressed out and serious that even light moments are strained. Thus, although the day started badly and was rough, it ended on a happy note.
Normally it is only a three hour drive to York, but Mommy was falling asleep at the wheel so we pulled over and let her sleep for an hour. Finally we arrived at Castle Howard, a Georgian palace still occupied by the Howard family, at 2PM in the afternoon. Mommy asked to sleep a little longer, and meanwhile we all went and perused the four gift shops in the courtyard of the palace.
By the time that we woke Mommy up, it was already an hour later. At this point it seemed ridiculous to pay 25 pounds to see the house for an hour an a half. So we left and headed towards York for a tour of York Minster and perhaps a little shopping. Our hopes scrambled out of the dirt and dusted themselves off.
However, the day was insistent on not be resurrected. We parked in York, and promptly realized that we couldn’t find the cell phone anywhere. Searching every nook and cranny of the car and every pocket occupied our time for roughly 45 minutes. Eventually we gave up and Mommy used a pay phone to make a long distance call to our cell phone, while I remained in the car to listen. With relief I heard a ringing sound coming from the inside of the driver’s seat. Somehow the phone had been wedged inside the seat, and I, without too much trouble, found and rescued it.
By now we had missed the last tour of York Minster. Despite our continuing misfortune, we walked towards York Minster to at least walk around the church. At least in this we were rewarded.
Though we visited York Minster two years ago, I only had ten minutes to look around and had barely enough time to appreciate the windows. Being the English Cathedral fanatic that I am, York Minster was something I simply had to see again. For an hour I walked around the Minster, holding Elizabeth’s hand and trying to impress upon her the magnificent beauty that were witnessing. Adding enchanting “mood music” to our tour, Evensong started at 5PM.
However, the music was unnecessary. World-renowned for their intricacy and delicate structure, the stained glass windows of York Minster sing a soaring song of their own. I have never seen such creations before, pieced together from colored common glass. Even now, when I think back to what I saw, I can hardly believe that such things existed on earth. Our Lord must be honored by such craftsmanship.
Unfortunately an hour was only all we were granted before the sun ceased to sparkle through the glass. Nearly all at once the Minster lost its enchantment. I found Mommy, sitting in a dark corner enjoying the experience of saying her rosary in a Catholic-turned-Anglican cathedral. We gathered our belongings and left.
All the shops were closed in the town so shopping was out of the question. On the way back to the car we got lost in the city, and were forced to sprint (for me a sprint is more of a brisk clip) to the car before our parking ticket expired. We made it just in time, climbed into the car, and started the drive home.
Halfway home we stopped at a Moto, which, during our 2003 British tour, was our favorite pit stop. Every year for the past three it has won the “Loo of the Year” Award for cleanliness. Sadly, service there has declined in the past two years, and though the loos won the 2005 Award (it was displayed on the wall), they did not deserve them. The restrooms were filthy. To be fair I must admit that they are still better than most bathrooms in England, which seems to be plagued as a nation with bad plumbing.
At 10:30PM we slunk into the driveway and tumbled out of the car and into the house. A ray of warmth, Daddy had a delicious dinner of spaghetti ready and we really enjoyed something as a family for the first time all day. While cleaning the dishes, we acted out “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra”. Daddy never fails to laugh when we act them out, and we know all his favorite parts. His smiles – and his rare laughter – are like gold. Most of the time he is so stressed out and serious that even light moments are strained. Thus, although the day started badly and was rough, it ended on a happy note.
Day 10 - "More" and More Pilgrimages
As is usual on weekends, Daddy dragged us out of bed bright and early at 5:30AM. As quickly as possible we got ready and prepared lunches/snacks for the day. In the bustle of the preparations we realized how grossly small our new accommodations were. Given barely enough room to move around, we squeezed about the house (in all honesty made for three at the very most). It was a huge relief to burst through the doors, even if it was only for a moment before climbing into the car.
Two hours later (during which time most of us slept), the family arrived at Aylesford Priory in Aylesford. Famous because it houses the relics of St. Simon Stock, the Priory was recommended to us by Monsignor Hughes, our pastor at our home parish. It was a beautiful, untouched retreat that quietly passes unnoticed unless purposefully sought. Though at one time the Priory boasted forty brothers and priests, the numbers have dwindled now to only twelve.
We hurried in to Mass and afterwards stayed for morning prayer with the Carmelite priests and brothers. When it was over, we all walked out and Daddy went to find someone to open the relic chapel for us. He found a young Indonesian priest – a certain Fr. Augustinus – to let us in and show us around. But beforehand Father wanted to chat with us a while.
A short, dark man with glasses and an unassuming manner, he charmed each and every one of us. For a year he has been living in England, practicing the English language. It was truly wonderful to talk to him and help him along, as his tongue unfamiliarly tripped over words and his eyes pleaded for assistance when it came to vocabulary. When given the right words, he had quite a story to tell.
Fr. Augustinus’ parents converted to Catholicism from Islam in 1965 on account of missionary priests who visited near his village. Of Father’s nine brothers and sisters, only himself and one other has accepted the newfound religion of his parents. Most of the others still retain their Muslim faith, the largest in Indonesia. Interestingly, Fr. Augustinus is now a missionary to Indonesia himself, who with his brethren convert and baptize approximately eighteen Muslims per month. When asked the one thing that convinces members of Islam to convert to Catholicism, Father said that in his experience it was largely that the Muslims themselves realized that their fanaticism perhaps it not the right way. Some, after coming to this crossroads, join the Buddhists, and others the Catholic Church.
By this time a brother had come and “absconded” Mommy and Kenny to take them on a historical tour of the Priory. I was disappointed to miss the tour, but it would have been rude to leave Fr. Augustinus at this point in the conversation. Noting the disappointment, perhaps, on the rest of our faces at missing the tour, he decided to take us on our own.
First he brought us into the relic chapel, where the relics of St. Simon Stock lay in a huge reliquary behind the main altar. Although the outside was made of clear glass, we tried unsuccessfully to see inside. Finally another brother, seeing our confusion, came into the chapel and planted himself nearby. Mischievously looking at Celeste, Elizabeth, and I, he said “I can show you how to look at the relics, but it will cost you a pound fifty per girl.” We all giggled as he switched on a light inside the reliquary and disappeared down a corridor. In fact, the relic is the upper part of St. Simon’s cranium, or skull, and it lies on a black-and-white checked cloth.
Briefly we venerated the relics and left the chapel. Leaving us with Fr. Augustinus, Daddy went to see if he could find Mommy and Kenny. Meanwhile, Father wanted to continue the tour (and practicing his English) and took the rest of us on a walk through the ample and lovely gardens along the river. It was so peaceful, bringing to my mind memories of the Dominican House where I spent so much of my time last year. I can even smell the air inside, heavy with incense. As we walked Father picked a rose for Elizabeth and gave Celeste a pretty rosary bracelet from his pocket. I chatted with him about the differences between Aristotle and Immanuel Kant.
After we finished our walk, Daddy found us again. He had attempted unsuccessfully to find Mommy. Waiting in the hopes that she would show up, we stood in the courtyard a while longer and talked to Fr. Augustinus. About fifteen minutes later and elderly brother – the one who “absconded” Kenny and Mommy – came out of the eating hall in the corner of the Priory and said hello to us. Introducing himself as Brother Lawrence, he proved to be a crusty fellow who insisted that in England the “honeymoon was over” in the Church and who had many stories to tell.
I suppose I should give a bit of history about the Priory itself. Originally the first Carmelite Priory in England, it was abandoned at some point and turned into an estate. Later, in the early 1940s, the Carmelites bought back the property and did a little excavating when they moved in to their new (old) home. They found, underneath where the open-air church now stands, the foundations of the original church dedicated to St. Simon Stock. Where the stables were on the estate, pilgrim are now housed; where a flight of steps stands on the porch which aided ladies in mounting their horses, a bell announcing the beginning of Mass is rung three times a day.
Tearing ourselves away from this joyous place, we climbed into the car and drove the rest of the way to Dover Castle, which as you probably know stands on the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Nicknamed the “Key to England”, the defensive battlements enclose 2000 years of history. On the property you can see a Roman lighthouse (phantos), an example (the finest) of Anglo-Saxon churches in Kent, walls built by William the Conqueror, a keep built by Henry II, various tunnels dug during the Napoleonic Wars, and a three-level network of tunnels occupied by the military headquarters during World War II.
First of all, we joined a tour of the famous tunnels, which were only recently opened to the public as unclassified. The first level held a huge hospital. Below this, the second level (“The Annex”) was very important. In the tunnels in this level was the headquarters of Admiral Bertram Ramsey, who orchestrated the “miracle” rescue of over 338,000 British and French soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk. Also open to the public is a barracks which housed 500 soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars, but was partitioned into several rooms during the Second World War. Finally, fifteen meters below the second level, lays “Dumpy”, the deepest network of tunnels which is yet unexplored and supposedly was the headquarters for the Army, Navy, and Air Force of England.
Next we moved on to visit the medieval keep, visitor-friendly because of its colorful exhibitions. Unfortunately, I find these “Disney-style” audio-visual activities kind of degrading. They teach little or no history, and merely suffice to impress upon little ones that the Middle Ages were a time of colorful theatricality and senseless noise. Nonetheless, the roof of the keep offered a breathtaking view of the English Channel and the surrounding countryside.
Putting this behind us we climbed down not a few stairs to the medieval tunnels underneath the keep. These, again, were dug during the Napoleonic Wars but have not been used since. Kenny and I, a bit more brave (or stupid?) than the rest of the family, went ahead into the dark tunnels. Apparently the English Heritage organization that runs the rest of the site didn’t see fit to install much lighting in the medieval tunnels. Aided by the faint glow of Kenny’s digital camera, we explored some of the deeper regions. There was one pitch-black small tunnel, however, at the end of a dim passageway, which I would absolutely not enter. Eventually Daddy and the rest caught up with us and only then would I go inside.
Despite my apprehensions, the tunnel led to a huge, creepy, black room. This room in turn led to more tunnels that we dared not enter. But it was incredibly exciting; the same adrenaline rush you feel at the peak of a roller coaster, or when you just know that someone – or something - is going to jump out at you out of the dark. Somehow it felt safer when Daddy was in there.
Above ground once again, we hiked across the grounds to a scenic overlook dubbed “Admiral’s Lookout” in honor of ADM Bertram Ramsey. From a viewing platform you get a fantastic view of the White Cliffs of Dover, as well as the bustling seaport of Dover. For roughly an hour we stood up there: feeling the clear sea air, trying to find France across the Channel, musing as swimmers struggled against the current in preparation for attempting the Channel, and watching boats come in and out of port. No one wanted to leave.
Daddy and Kenny went to get the car so that Mommy and I didn’t have to walk so far. Seated at the base of a bronze statue of ADM Ramsey, we talked quietly about how much times have changed since only sixty years ago. In the 1940s ADM Ramsey was trying to plan “Operation Dynamo” to rescue hundreds of thousands of men from Dunkirk in France. Even before this Dover Castle repulsed the siege of Prince Louise of France. Today, three or four ships ferry hundreds of European visitors across the Channel every hour, and more brave the twenty-minute long Chunnel. While sixty years ago the German machine, swathed in a swastika, roared across Europe, today I sat on a bench at Dover Castle listening carefully to conversations around me Auf Deutsch. How much this world has changed…how much more will it change in my lifetime?
The last thing on the agenda for this busy day was a very quick visit to St. Dunstan’s in Canterbury to venerate the relics of St. Thomas More. Waiting for the Evensong service to let out, we strode slowly up and down St. Dunstan’s Street, snapping pictures of the gate to William and Margaret Roper’s house in the 16th century. Finally Reverend Worgen finished his service and was free to take us around the church.
Unspeakably awed, I stood over the Roper vault in the corner of St. Dunstan’s Church in Canterbury. Gently I knelt to kiss the “E” on “THOMAS MORE” written on the stone above the vault. The Vicar, a gray-haired soft-spoken fellow who thought that everything we did or said was “lovely”, told us that the small lead casket containing his head was directly beneath that letter.
At the beginning of every new semester I formally dedicate my studies to St. Thomas More and every morning I bed his help to remain discerning. A feeling of security pervaded my soul as I realized that he was with me; he will not abandon me. What better representative could I have in the court of Christ than a man who was one of the most religious and brilliant men in the realm of England?
Having paid my respects to the late Lord Chancellor of England, we left Canterbury. It was a long trip home, and we were all very tired when we arrived.
Two hours later (during which time most of us slept), the family arrived at Aylesford Priory in Aylesford. Famous because it houses the relics of St. Simon Stock, the Priory was recommended to us by Monsignor Hughes, our pastor at our home parish. It was a beautiful, untouched retreat that quietly passes unnoticed unless purposefully sought. Though at one time the Priory boasted forty brothers and priests, the numbers have dwindled now to only twelve.
We hurried in to Mass and afterwards stayed for morning prayer with the Carmelite priests and brothers. When it was over, we all walked out and Daddy went to find someone to open the relic chapel for us. He found a young Indonesian priest – a certain Fr. Augustinus – to let us in and show us around. But beforehand Father wanted to chat with us a while.
A short, dark man with glasses and an unassuming manner, he charmed each and every one of us. For a year he has been living in England, practicing the English language. It was truly wonderful to talk to him and help him along, as his tongue unfamiliarly tripped over words and his eyes pleaded for assistance when it came to vocabulary. When given the right words, he had quite a story to tell.
Fr. Augustinus’ parents converted to Catholicism from Islam in 1965 on account of missionary priests who visited near his village. Of Father’s nine brothers and sisters, only himself and one other has accepted the newfound religion of his parents. Most of the others still retain their Muslim faith, the largest in Indonesia. Interestingly, Fr. Augustinus is now a missionary to Indonesia himself, who with his brethren convert and baptize approximately eighteen Muslims per month. When asked the one thing that convinces members of Islam to convert to Catholicism, Father said that in his experience it was largely that the Muslims themselves realized that their fanaticism perhaps it not the right way. Some, after coming to this crossroads, join the Buddhists, and others the Catholic Church.
By this time a brother had come and “absconded” Mommy and Kenny to take them on a historical tour of the Priory. I was disappointed to miss the tour, but it would have been rude to leave Fr. Augustinus at this point in the conversation. Noting the disappointment, perhaps, on the rest of our faces at missing the tour, he decided to take us on our own.
First he brought us into the relic chapel, where the relics of St. Simon Stock lay in a huge reliquary behind the main altar. Although the outside was made of clear glass, we tried unsuccessfully to see inside. Finally another brother, seeing our confusion, came into the chapel and planted himself nearby. Mischievously looking at Celeste, Elizabeth, and I, he said “I can show you how to look at the relics, but it will cost you a pound fifty per girl.” We all giggled as he switched on a light inside the reliquary and disappeared down a corridor. In fact, the relic is the upper part of St. Simon’s cranium, or skull, and it lies on a black-and-white checked cloth.
Briefly we venerated the relics and left the chapel. Leaving us with Fr. Augustinus, Daddy went to see if he could find Mommy and Kenny. Meanwhile, Father wanted to continue the tour (and practicing his English) and took the rest of us on a walk through the ample and lovely gardens along the river. It was so peaceful, bringing to my mind memories of the Dominican House where I spent so much of my time last year. I can even smell the air inside, heavy with incense. As we walked Father picked a rose for Elizabeth and gave Celeste a pretty rosary bracelet from his pocket. I chatted with him about the differences between Aristotle and Immanuel Kant.
After we finished our walk, Daddy found us again. He had attempted unsuccessfully to find Mommy. Waiting in the hopes that she would show up, we stood in the courtyard a while longer and talked to Fr. Augustinus. About fifteen minutes later and elderly brother – the one who “absconded” Kenny and Mommy – came out of the eating hall in the corner of the Priory and said hello to us. Introducing himself as Brother Lawrence, he proved to be a crusty fellow who insisted that in England the “honeymoon was over” in the Church and who had many stories to tell.
I suppose I should give a bit of history about the Priory itself. Originally the first Carmelite Priory in England, it was abandoned at some point and turned into an estate. Later, in the early 1940s, the Carmelites bought back the property and did a little excavating when they moved in to their new (old) home. They found, underneath where the open-air church now stands, the foundations of the original church dedicated to St. Simon Stock. Where the stables were on the estate, pilgrim are now housed; where a flight of steps stands on the porch which aided ladies in mounting their horses, a bell announcing the beginning of Mass is rung three times a day.
Tearing ourselves away from this joyous place, we climbed into the car and drove the rest of the way to Dover Castle, which as you probably know stands on the famous White Cliffs of Dover. Nicknamed the “Key to England”, the defensive battlements enclose 2000 years of history. On the property you can see a Roman lighthouse (phantos), an example (the finest) of Anglo-Saxon churches in Kent, walls built by William the Conqueror, a keep built by Henry II, various tunnels dug during the Napoleonic Wars, and a three-level network of tunnels occupied by the military headquarters during World War II.
First of all, we joined a tour of the famous tunnels, which were only recently opened to the public as unclassified. The first level held a huge hospital. Below this, the second level (“The Annex”) was very important. In the tunnels in this level was the headquarters of Admiral Bertram Ramsey, who orchestrated the “miracle” rescue of over 338,000 British and French soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk. Also open to the public is a barracks which housed 500 soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars, but was partitioned into several rooms during the Second World War. Finally, fifteen meters below the second level, lays “Dumpy”, the deepest network of tunnels which is yet unexplored and supposedly was the headquarters for the Army, Navy, and Air Force of England.
Next we moved on to visit the medieval keep, visitor-friendly because of its colorful exhibitions. Unfortunately, I find these “Disney-style” audio-visual activities kind of degrading. They teach little or no history, and merely suffice to impress upon little ones that the Middle Ages were a time of colorful theatricality and senseless noise. Nonetheless, the roof of the keep offered a breathtaking view of the English Channel and the surrounding countryside.
Putting this behind us we climbed down not a few stairs to the medieval tunnels underneath the keep. These, again, were dug during the Napoleonic Wars but have not been used since. Kenny and I, a bit more brave (or stupid?) than the rest of the family, went ahead into the dark tunnels. Apparently the English Heritage organization that runs the rest of the site didn’t see fit to install much lighting in the medieval tunnels. Aided by the faint glow of Kenny’s digital camera, we explored some of the deeper regions. There was one pitch-black small tunnel, however, at the end of a dim passageway, which I would absolutely not enter. Eventually Daddy and the rest caught up with us and only then would I go inside.
Despite my apprehensions, the tunnel led to a huge, creepy, black room. This room in turn led to more tunnels that we dared not enter. But it was incredibly exciting; the same adrenaline rush you feel at the peak of a roller coaster, or when you just know that someone – or something - is going to jump out at you out of the dark. Somehow it felt safer when Daddy was in there.
Above ground once again, we hiked across the grounds to a scenic overlook dubbed “Admiral’s Lookout” in honor of ADM Bertram Ramsey. From a viewing platform you get a fantastic view of the White Cliffs of Dover, as well as the bustling seaport of Dover. For roughly an hour we stood up there: feeling the clear sea air, trying to find France across the Channel, musing as swimmers struggled against the current in preparation for attempting the Channel, and watching boats come in and out of port. No one wanted to leave.
Daddy and Kenny went to get the car so that Mommy and I didn’t have to walk so far. Seated at the base of a bronze statue of ADM Ramsey, we talked quietly about how much times have changed since only sixty years ago. In the 1940s ADM Ramsey was trying to plan “Operation Dynamo” to rescue hundreds of thousands of men from Dunkirk in France. Even before this Dover Castle repulsed the siege of Prince Louise of France. Today, three or four ships ferry hundreds of European visitors across the Channel every hour, and more brave the twenty-minute long Chunnel. While sixty years ago the German machine, swathed in a swastika, roared across Europe, today I sat on a bench at Dover Castle listening carefully to conversations around me Auf Deutsch. How much this world has changed…how much more will it change in my lifetime?
The last thing on the agenda for this busy day was a very quick visit to St. Dunstan’s in Canterbury to venerate the relics of St. Thomas More. Waiting for the Evensong service to let out, we strode slowly up and down St. Dunstan’s Street, snapping pictures of the gate to William and Margaret Roper’s house in the 16th century. Finally Reverend Worgen finished his service and was free to take us around the church.
Unspeakably awed, I stood over the Roper vault in the corner of St. Dunstan’s Church in Canterbury. Gently I knelt to kiss the “E” on “THOMAS MORE” written on the stone above the vault. The Vicar, a gray-haired soft-spoken fellow who thought that everything we did or said was “lovely”, told us that the small lead casket containing his head was directly beneath that letter.
At the beginning of every new semester I formally dedicate my studies to St. Thomas More and every morning I bed his help to remain discerning. A feeling of security pervaded my soul as I realized that he was with me; he will not abandon me. What better representative could I have in the court of Christ than a man who was one of the most religious and brilliant men in the realm of England?
Having paid my respects to the late Lord Chancellor of England, we left Canterbury. It was a long trip home, and we were all very tired when we arrived.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Day 9 - A Pilgrimage of Personal Importance
In the morning we finished our packing and moved our things into the other house. Only one story, it is a much smaller house. Briefly, the entry opens into a common area, with two foldout sofa beds and a television (four stations). Off of the common area is a bedroom with two beds (Mommy and Daddy’s room) and the kitchen. In addition, off the kitchen is a full bathroom and a small bedroom with a single bed. This is where my siblings have decided I will sleep; but I think I will surprise them and bed down with them in the common area. I can sleep alone anytime I like at home.
We all piled into the car and drove to Bosworth Battlefield, near the town of Market Bosworth in Northumberland. This weekend they are hosting a special Medieval Weekend, an event I found while scrounging on the internet before we left the U.S. Though it has always been on my list, I thought something like this would make it more fun for the rest of the family while I enjoyed making a pilgrimage to the place where the medieval era ended.
The Weekend was a little bit like out Renaissance Festivals back at home, but much less commercialized. There were a few vendors, but not screaming at you from every side. Instead, most effort was put into the historical side of everything. It was unusual to be in an atmosphere where everyone truly appreciated history for what it was, instead of merely reducing it to fairytale costumes, huge lamb shanks, and ale.
Spread around a central area, a hundred or so tents were set up so that visitors could move among them and see what was going on inside. Some sheltered footmen, some cavalrymen, and some common men like weavers and basket makers. You could talk to and ask questions of any person in costume. In one corner of the battlefield was a huge armory.
Several events took place during the day in the central area, including jousting, falconry, and mustering of soldiers. Two events in particular were my favorites: the jousts and the re-enactment of the Battle of Bosworth. Throughout my life I have always enjoyed reading stories that described jousts – Ivanhoe, to name one. Heraldic banners snapping in the wind, lovely ladies honored, and brave knights dealing in death and daring. A more bracing atmosphere you could not find.
This joust was not disappointing. Four men, apparently professionals because they had jousted for Queen Elizabeth II herself, rode their sturdy horses into the arena. Each knight was arrayed in full steel armor, said to weight anywhere between 50 and 70 pounds. A “commentator” explained the rules of the joust (dating back to the late 1400s, when a Constable of England wrote them down) and ordered that the pages set up the lists. Finally, the crowd was taught to cheer “Huzzah” in medieval fashion for their heroes and the joust began.
For and hour or so the contest continued. At the end the two highest scoring knights had it out, and a highly unfavored Frenchman eventually won with 15 points. The commentator then introduced each knight to the crowd for huzzahs. Dismissing them from the field, the commentator invited “everyone, most especially the pretty young ladies, to come visit the four knights in the jousting tents.” Unfortunately I was fairly stuck wandering around the “educational” tents with the rest of the family, or else I would have taken them up on the invitation. One of the jousters wasn’t all that bad looking, in fact. ;-)
At 4PM the crowd began to gather for the centerpiece of the afternoon, the reenactment, which lasted an hour and a half. The Battle of Bosworth took place on August 22, 1485, between the reigning King Richard III and the exiled rebel Henry Tudor (later King Henry VII). It was the battle that ended both the medieval period and the Wars of the Roses with the death of the last Plantagenet, Richard. It is a battle that I have reviewed in my mind’s eye a thousand times over, imagining how tragic the day must have felt to the worn and vanquished Yorkshire army.
Before our eyes history was replayed: the thunder of cannons, cavalry skirmishes, the whistle of arrows, gunshot, and the clash of steel as the two armies locked in combat. Breathlessly I watched King Richard III, alone but for a few close supporters, in his final charge down the hill on Henry Tudor. If it hadn’t been for the traitorous Stanleys – supposed friends to Richard – turning on him at the last moment, the battle would have been a Plantagenet victory.
This was not to be the case. To the end Richard fought bravely, hacking through his enemies in a vain attempt to cut down Henry. But soon the King was knocked from his horse and quickly dismissed with a dozen sword points. His army dispersed, running for their lives. A servant cut the crown from Richard’s helmet and gave it to Henry, who raised it on high in a gesture of victory.
The late king’s body, stripped of its armor and clothing, was hoisted onto a horse. From Market Bosworth it was carried to Leistershire where it was hung on public display for two days as a warning to all who dared oppose their new king Henry VII. The body was finally laid to rest in a monastery, but was later removed after the monastery was destroyed during the Reformation. Eventually, King Richard III’s bones would be desecrated and thrown into a river.
Something I have always found fascinating about Henry Tudor was his remarkable (and rather suspicious) efforts to rewrite history after he took the throne. Soldiers were sent out to all nobles, etc. who had dealings of any kind with Richard and every single scrap of paper relating to him was collected and carefully burnt. Then, Henry saw to it that new statements were written (by force), back dated, and signed by friends of the late king decrying him as a monster and a tyrant. Thus history is as it exists now.
But Henry could not have foreseen the advance of science. Revealing his plot, carbon dating on these documents has revealed that the dates written on the pages and the age of the paper and ink do not correspond. In addition, historians have found diaries belonging to friends of Richard, detailing how they were forced to help Henry ruin the name of Richard Plantagenet.
So the visit to Bosworth Field meant a lot to me; it was a pilgrimage of sorts that I have wanted to make for several years. In two days, on the anniversary of King Richard’s death, the annual memorial service will take place. I wish I could be there.
When the day was over, we left and ate dinner at a nearby pub/restaurant called The Hinckley Knight. The food was good, but there wasn’t much atmosphere to speak about. On the way home we stopped at Tesco’s for a little shopping. Exhausted but satisfied with a fun day, we arrived back at St. Neot’s, unpacked, and crawled into bed.
We all piled into the car and drove to Bosworth Battlefield, near the town of Market Bosworth in Northumberland. This weekend they are hosting a special Medieval Weekend, an event I found while scrounging on the internet before we left the U.S. Though it has always been on my list, I thought something like this would make it more fun for the rest of the family while I enjoyed making a pilgrimage to the place where the medieval era ended.
The Weekend was a little bit like out Renaissance Festivals back at home, but much less commercialized. There were a few vendors, but not screaming at you from every side. Instead, most effort was put into the historical side of everything. It was unusual to be in an atmosphere where everyone truly appreciated history for what it was, instead of merely reducing it to fairytale costumes, huge lamb shanks, and ale.
Spread around a central area, a hundred or so tents were set up so that visitors could move among them and see what was going on inside. Some sheltered footmen, some cavalrymen, and some common men like weavers and basket makers. You could talk to and ask questions of any person in costume. In one corner of the battlefield was a huge armory.
Several events took place during the day in the central area, including jousting, falconry, and mustering of soldiers. Two events in particular were my favorites: the jousts and the re-enactment of the Battle of Bosworth. Throughout my life I have always enjoyed reading stories that described jousts – Ivanhoe, to name one. Heraldic banners snapping in the wind, lovely ladies honored, and brave knights dealing in death and daring. A more bracing atmosphere you could not find.
This joust was not disappointing. Four men, apparently professionals because they had jousted for Queen Elizabeth II herself, rode their sturdy horses into the arena. Each knight was arrayed in full steel armor, said to weight anywhere between 50 and 70 pounds. A “commentator” explained the rules of the joust (dating back to the late 1400s, when a Constable of England wrote them down) and ordered that the pages set up the lists. Finally, the crowd was taught to cheer “Huzzah” in medieval fashion for their heroes and the joust began.
For and hour or so the contest continued. At the end the two highest scoring knights had it out, and a highly unfavored Frenchman eventually won with 15 points. The commentator then introduced each knight to the crowd for huzzahs. Dismissing them from the field, the commentator invited “everyone, most especially the pretty young ladies, to come visit the four knights in the jousting tents.” Unfortunately I was fairly stuck wandering around the “educational” tents with the rest of the family, or else I would have taken them up on the invitation. One of the jousters wasn’t all that bad looking, in fact. ;-)
At 4PM the crowd began to gather for the centerpiece of the afternoon, the reenactment, which lasted an hour and a half. The Battle of Bosworth took place on August 22, 1485, between the reigning King Richard III and the exiled rebel Henry Tudor (later King Henry VII). It was the battle that ended both the medieval period and the Wars of the Roses with the death of the last Plantagenet, Richard. It is a battle that I have reviewed in my mind’s eye a thousand times over, imagining how tragic the day must have felt to the worn and vanquished Yorkshire army.
Before our eyes history was replayed: the thunder of cannons, cavalry skirmishes, the whistle of arrows, gunshot, and the clash of steel as the two armies locked in combat. Breathlessly I watched King Richard III, alone but for a few close supporters, in his final charge down the hill on Henry Tudor. If it hadn’t been for the traitorous Stanleys – supposed friends to Richard – turning on him at the last moment, the battle would have been a Plantagenet victory.
This was not to be the case. To the end Richard fought bravely, hacking through his enemies in a vain attempt to cut down Henry. But soon the King was knocked from his horse and quickly dismissed with a dozen sword points. His army dispersed, running for their lives. A servant cut the crown from Richard’s helmet and gave it to Henry, who raised it on high in a gesture of victory.
The late king’s body, stripped of its armor and clothing, was hoisted onto a horse. From Market Bosworth it was carried to Leistershire where it was hung on public display for two days as a warning to all who dared oppose their new king Henry VII. The body was finally laid to rest in a monastery, but was later removed after the monastery was destroyed during the Reformation. Eventually, King Richard III’s bones would be desecrated and thrown into a river.
Something I have always found fascinating about Henry Tudor was his remarkable (and rather suspicious) efforts to rewrite history after he took the throne. Soldiers were sent out to all nobles, etc. who had dealings of any kind with Richard and every single scrap of paper relating to him was collected and carefully burnt. Then, Henry saw to it that new statements were written (by force), back dated, and signed by friends of the late king decrying him as a monster and a tyrant. Thus history is as it exists now.
But Henry could not have foreseen the advance of science. Revealing his plot, carbon dating on these documents has revealed that the dates written on the pages and the age of the paper and ink do not correspond. In addition, historians have found diaries belonging to friends of Richard, detailing how they were forced to help Henry ruin the name of Richard Plantagenet.
So the visit to Bosworth Field meant a lot to me; it was a pilgrimage of sorts that I have wanted to make for several years. In two days, on the anniversary of King Richard’s death, the annual memorial service will take place. I wish I could be there.
When the day was over, we left and ate dinner at a nearby pub/restaurant called The Hinckley Knight. The food was good, but there wasn’t much atmosphere to speak about. On the way home we stopped at Tesco’s for a little shopping. Exhausted but satisfied with a fun day, we arrived back at St. Neot’s, unpacked, and crawled into bed.
Day 8 - When isn't it rainy in England?
Today we made lunches and piled into the car for the long drive to Sutton Hoo, near Suffolk on the east coast of England. The day itself was cold, windy, and very rainy. It is owned by the National Trust, but is extremely hard to find. The signs, rather than being the usual large green signs, were tiny and yellow. We thought for sure that no one would be there except for us, especially because of the rain.
But it seems that the English enjoy the rain; the car park was full and there were British tourists everywhere at Sutton Hoo. A bit daunted by the rain but not ready to let the Brits beat us, we parked and climbed out of the car. Of course, we didn’t forget our umbrellas, the quintessential tools in Great Britain.
Back during the reign of King Henry VIII, farmers found what resembled large rusted nails at the base of one of the many mounds in the field of what would be known as Sutton Hoo. Henry saw himself as a patron of treasure hunting and gave permission for digging to start in the field. Apparently, the remains of a large ship, full of treasure and some human remains, was discovered near the nails. To the chagrin of historians today, all the treasure was plundered and the site refilled. For a few hundred years Sutton Hoo remained untouched.
In the early 1930s, the sister of a woman who now owned the fields reported seeing ghostly figures hovering near the mounds. Intrigued, the owner hired an archeologist in 1936 to come and begin excavations of the mounds. Out of fourteen total mounds, one was excavated.
Though the mound had mostly caved in and flattened all it contained, many things were still salvageable. The stain of another ship was found in the soil, along with treasures beyond the diggers’ imaginations, and the remains of a body. Beautiful helmets, gold belt buckles, swords, and shoulder plates were among the gems. Slowly the story was pieced together; the ship was dragged from the nearby river and buried under the mound in a burial ritual. Everyone was excited to work on the other mounds.
But the Second World War began and halted all progress. After the work on the first mound was finished, the excavation was filled and the bumpy field of Sutton Hoo was used for tank exercises, doing who knows how much damage to what lay beneath. Finally, in 1980, excavations began once again at Sutton Hoo.
By this time carbon dating on many of the objects found in the 1930s dated the burial to the early 600s, the Anglo-Saxon era in British history. The man buried in the ship was likely King Raedwald, the first Christian king. To put the Anglo-Saxons in their proper place on the timeline, after the Romans left the Anglo-Saxons arrived from the icy countries of the north, and later the Vikings would arrive to wipe out the Anglo-Saxons. It was during the Anglo-Saxon era that the epic poem Beowulf was written.
Two other mounds in particular offered some excitement: one was the one originally excavated during the reign of Henry VIII, and the other that of a warrior buried next to his horse. Various other burial sites were found in the area as well – full cremation bowls, child burials, etc. A gallows and the graves of supposed criminals from a later period were also found. Dating to the later Christian era, historians believe that it was considered an awful punishment for a criminal to find his final resting place amongst ancient pagans.
The museum at Sutton Hoo was fantastic, showcasing some replicas of the treasures (the real ones are in the British Museum in London) and giving a great deal of history of the Anglo-Saxon people. When we had finished in the museum we braved the rain for a walk around the mounds themselves. Sheep graze on them now.
It was quite exciting to walk around the sites of such ancient burials, dating back over 1,400 years ago. Perhaps there were still unexcavated burials, right beneath our feet. With every new discovery will come a new window on the life of those people, who disappeared with the arrival of the Vikings. Were the Saxons slaughtered, or simply absorbed into the population of foreign arrivals? Knowing the Vikings, it was probably the former.
Though we originally planned to do more than one thing today, Sutton Hoo took us twice as long as we budgeted for it. So we ate our lunch at the car and decided to meet Daddy and Miss Leshinski at the RAF Mildenhall Exchange for some shopping. I bought some gifts for people back at home, and everyone had dinner in the food court.
We arrived home at St. Neot’s at 10PM and began packing up our stuff to move the next morning. Sadly we were only able to rent The Garden House for one week, and have to move to The Cottage, which it much smaller but it still comfortable. Slowly everyone tired and fell asleep.
But it seems that the English enjoy the rain; the car park was full and there were British tourists everywhere at Sutton Hoo. A bit daunted by the rain but not ready to let the Brits beat us, we parked and climbed out of the car. Of course, we didn’t forget our umbrellas, the quintessential tools in Great Britain.
Back during the reign of King Henry VIII, farmers found what resembled large rusted nails at the base of one of the many mounds in the field of what would be known as Sutton Hoo. Henry saw himself as a patron of treasure hunting and gave permission for digging to start in the field. Apparently, the remains of a large ship, full of treasure and some human remains, was discovered near the nails. To the chagrin of historians today, all the treasure was plundered and the site refilled. For a few hundred years Sutton Hoo remained untouched.
In the early 1930s, the sister of a woman who now owned the fields reported seeing ghostly figures hovering near the mounds. Intrigued, the owner hired an archeologist in 1936 to come and begin excavations of the mounds. Out of fourteen total mounds, one was excavated.
Though the mound had mostly caved in and flattened all it contained, many things were still salvageable. The stain of another ship was found in the soil, along with treasures beyond the diggers’ imaginations, and the remains of a body. Beautiful helmets, gold belt buckles, swords, and shoulder plates were among the gems. Slowly the story was pieced together; the ship was dragged from the nearby river and buried under the mound in a burial ritual. Everyone was excited to work on the other mounds.
But the Second World War began and halted all progress. After the work on the first mound was finished, the excavation was filled and the bumpy field of Sutton Hoo was used for tank exercises, doing who knows how much damage to what lay beneath. Finally, in 1980, excavations began once again at Sutton Hoo.
By this time carbon dating on many of the objects found in the 1930s dated the burial to the early 600s, the Anglo-Saxon era in British history. The man buried in the ship was likely King Raedwald, the first Christian king. To put the Anglo-Saxons in their proper place on the timeline, after the Romans left the Anglo-Saxons arrived from the icy countries of the north, and later the Vikings would arrive to wipe out the Anglo-Saxons. It was during the Anglo-Saxon era that the epic poem Beowulf was written.
Two other mounds in particular offered some excitement: one was the one originally excavated during the reign of Henry VIII, and the other that of a warrior buried next to his horse. Various other burial sites were found in the area as well – full cremation bowls, child burials, etc. A gallows and the graves of supposed criminals from a later period were also found. Dating to the later Christian era, historians believe that it was considered an awful punishment for a criminal to find his final resting place amongst ancient pagans.
The museum at Sutton Hoo was fantastic, showcasing some replicas of the treasures (the real ones are in the British Museum in London) and giving a great deal of history of the Anglo-Saxon people. When we had finished in the museum we braved the rain for a walk around the mounds themselves. Sheep graze on them now.
It was quite exciting to walk around the sites of such ancient burials, dating back over 1,400 years ago. Perhaps there were still unexcavated burials, right beneath our feet. With every new discovery will come a new window on the life of those people, who disappeared with the arrival of the Vikings. Were the Saxons slaughtered, or simply absorbed into the population of foreign arrivals? Knowing the Vikings, it was probably the former.
Though we originally planned to do more than one thing today, Sutton Hoo took us twice as long as we budgeted for it. So we ate our lunch at the car and decided to meet Daddy and Miss Leshinski at the RAF Mildenhall Exchange for some shopping. I bought some gifts for people back at home, and everyone had dinner in the food court.
We arrived home at St. Neot’s at 10PM and began packing up our stuff to move the next morning. Sadly we were only able to rent The Garden House for one week, and have to move to The Cottage, which it much smaller but it still comfortable. Slowly everyone tired and fell asleep.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Day 7 - Peace and Quiet in the Cotswolds
Mommy was really tired this morning so we all slept until around 9AM. I woke up at 7:30AM and made good use of my time. Since I hadn’t had much time to myself for the past few days, I took advantage of a quiet house to eat breakfast, read, and drink my tea in peace. I finished my latest book – The Turn of the Screw – and then prepared the lunches for the day.
After everything and everyone was ready we piled into the car to take a driving tour of the Cotswolds. It seems we overlooked telling Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth what exactly we were doing that day and they figured that we were going somewhere. For this reason Kenny spend most of the time driving up to the Cotswolds on the Gameboy, and the girls slept. At least Mommy and I enjoyed the scenery!
The Cotswolds, at you probably know, are formed by rolling limestone hills. Since early times the owners of farms there could get nothing to grow in the limestone and so started grazing sheep in the fields. Thus the wool business grew very famous there. The scenery, of course, is world-famous as well.
For the most part, the houses look the same: small stone houses in the same local limestone brick, with small windows and window boxes filled with a profusion of colorful flowers. Nearly as charming are the hundreds of feet of stone walls built throughout both villages and countryside, in the ancient style which made mortar of any kind unnecessary. The towns also look the same, but one could never tire of the simply beauty of the little towns.
Unfortunately, however, modern development scars the scenery in many places. Though builders have tried to imitate the color of the limestone and size of the original houses, the newer additions stand out like ugly monuments to the encroachment of a swelling immigrant population in England. At this point the only places that remain safe are far away from the cities – the Yorkshire Dales and wild Northumbria.
Our driving tour took us through Bibury (a huge tourist town), Uley, Tetbury, Painswick (nice looking young men), Stow-on-the-Wold (famous but quite ugly), Chipping Norton, and Bourton-on-the-Water. We attempted to visit Owlpen, but when the road was reduced to a two-way, barely one-lane road, we found a way to turn around and decided to skip that stop.
Our last stop was Bourton-on-the-Water, and on the way we stopped at several scenic overlooks of the Cotswolds. From one, at an elevation of ______ feet, we could see Wales across the river. It is at these incredible moments that you realize how small this country really is. Standing on the edge of that cliff, the cold wind whipping around me (and drying out my contact lenses, meanwhile), I felt invincible. The only thing taking away from this feeling was this nasty broken leg. Ah well.
Bourton-on-the-Water was a very nice little town. Mommy really wanted to visit the Miniature Village, a little stone replica of Bourton-on-the-Water modeled from the same limestone as the town itself. Apparently, when Mommy and Daddy visited England many years ago, they wanted to see it but it was closed. So we saw it this time.
After doing a little shopping in the general store, we settled down on the banks of the river running through the town and enjoyed the peace of the surroundings. Celeste and Elizabeth pulled off their shoes and went wading in the cool water, following the example (nearly) of two little children skinny-dipping nearby. Everything was very peaceful and pleasant.
Once the girls were absolutely freezing, they got out of the water and dried off. We all walked down the street and got dinner at a sidewalk Fish n’ Chips place. Dinner took about an hour, and then we started back to the car. On the way we fed the ducks in the stream – there were about twenty of them fighting for bits of chips – and laughed at their antics. Noting that it was quickly becoming dark, we hurried on to the car park and drove home.
Sitting in the dark on the way home, I couldn’t help thinking about how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family. I am the first to admit that I often take them for granted. Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought about school, which is fast approaching. While I am at school, though I may be living at home, I am not really there. My mind is occupied wholly with homework, study, and the people at school. Hopefully, this year I will be able to make time for family in my schedule. I must.
After everything and everyone was ready we piled into the car to take a driving tour of the Cotswolds. It seems we overlooked telling Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth what exactly we were doing that day and they figured that we were going somewhere. For this reason Kenny spend most of the time driving up to the Cotswolds on the Gameboy, and the girls slept. At least Mommy and I enjoyed the scenery!
The Cotswolds, at you probably know, are formed by rolling limestone hills. Since early times the owners of farms there could get nothing to grow in the limestone and so started grazing sheep in the fields. Thus the wool business grew very famous there. The scenery, of course, is world-famous as well.
For the most part, the houses look the same: small stone houses in the same local limestone brick, with small windows and window boxes filled with a profusion of colorful flowers. Nearly as charming are the hundreds of feet of stone walls built throughout both villages and countryside, in the ancient style which made mortar of any kind unnecessary. The towns also look the same, but one could never tire of the simply beauty of the little towns.
Unfortunately, however, modern development scars the scenery in many places. Though builders have tried to imitate the color of the limestone and size of the original houses, the newer additions stand out like ugly monuments to the encroachment of a swelling immigrant population in England. At this point the only places that remain safe are far away from the cities – the Yorkshire Dales and wild Northumbria.
Our driving tour took us through Bibury (a huge tourist town), Uley, Tetbury, Painswick (nice looking young men), Stow-on-the-Wold (famous but quite ugly), Chipping Norton, and Bourton-on-the-Water. We attempted to visit Owlpen, but when the road was reduced to a two-way, barely one-lane road, we found a way to turn around and decided to skip that stop.
Our last stop was Bourton-on-the-Water, and on the way we stopped at several scenic overlooks of the Cotswolds. From one, at an elevation of ______ feet, we could see Wales across the river. It is at these incredible moments that you realize how small this country really is. Standing on the edge of that cliff, the cold wind whipping around me (and drying out my contact lenses, meanwhile), I felt invincible. The only thing taking away from this feeling was this nasty broken leg. Ah well.
Bourton-on-the-Water was a very nice little town. Mommy really wanted to visit the Miniature Village, a little stone replica of Bourton-on-the-Water modeled from the same limestone as the town itself. Apparently, when Mommy and Daddy visited England many years ago, they wanted to see it but it was closed. So we saw it this time.
After doing a little shopping in the general store, we settled down on the banks of the river running through the town and enjoyed the peace of the surroundings. Celeste and Elizabeth pulled off their shoes and went wading in the cool water, following the example (nearly) of two little children skinny-dipping nearby. Everything was very peaceful and pleasant.
Once the girls were absolutely freezing, they got out of the water and dried off. We all walked down the street and got dinner at a sidewalk Fish n’ Chips place. Dinner took about an hour, and then we started back to the car. On the way we fed the ducks in the stream – there were about twenty of them fighting for bits of chips – and laughed at their antics. Noting that it was quickly becoming dark, we hurried on to the car park and drove home.
Sitting in the dark on the way home, I couldn’t help thinking about how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family. I am the first to admit that I often take them for granted. Tears sprang to my eyes as I thought about school, which is fast approaching. While I am at school, though I may be living at home, I am not really there. My mind is occupied wholly with homework, study, and the people at school. Hopefully, this year I will be able to make time for family in my schedule. I must.
Day 6 - Includes A Utopia of Sorts
In an attempt to resurrect our trip, we awoke and left early at 7:30 AM. It was a long drive to Battle Abbey in the bustling city of Battle. Fortunately it was very scenic so we weren’t bored. Mommy and I talked, listened to music, sang to the radio, and as we drove nearer to the beach, enjoyed the exhilarating fresh air with the windows rolled down. It was an indescribable feeling I indulged in as I let my hand hang out the window and let the wind blow through my hair. At the risk of sounding silly, it felt like flying.
After navigating our way through streets too tiny for comfort (we almost lost a mirror on the way), we arrived at the famed Battle Abbey. We paid the entrance fee and took the longer walking tour around the battlefield itself. On that fateful morning of October 14, 1066, two rivals for the crown of England assembled with their troops. Howard, with the Saxons, held the high ground where Battle Abbey now stands. William and his Norman troops, on the other hand, were at a huge disadvantage down in the valley. Soon what would become one of the most famous battles in history began.
For hours on end the battle raged. Those who lived to tell the tale describe the battlefield thick with body parts – the Saxons had special double-headed axes that the Normans did not own. The ground was wet with blood. At one point a rumor buzzed round the field that William had been killed. As his soldiers started to retreat in dismay, William, unhurt, lifted his helmet so that all could see that he still lived.
Finally the battle was ended and England claimed for Normandy when William used an ancient tactic: he faked out the enemy. The Normans pretended to retreat, and then turned round on the Saxons who were in full pursuit. It was a rout, and the Saxons retreated in shame. Howard was supposedly shot with an arrow through the eye and died.
To atone for his sins, William later returned to Battle and built Battle Abbey on the spot where Harold was killed. Unfortunately, most of the Abbey is closed to the public because it is a school building, but some rooms can be seen.
It thrilled me to my foundations to know that I was walking on the very spot where modern England was born roughly 1000 years ago. I could almost feel the heavy atmosphere of death and smell the blood in the air. What I would give to go back in time and see William lift his helmet to rally his frightened troops!
A funny story about William that we heard on the audio tour: when he landed on the shores of nearly Hastings, he fell flat on his face in the mud. Always a man of good humor, he grabbed two fistfuls of dirt and stood up. Lifting his arms above his head, he cried: “I have taken England with both hands!”
We spent a bit of time in the gift shop and soon were on our way to our next stop, Bodiam Castle. Famous for its romantic appearance, it is truly wonderful to photograph. I suppose I felt a little disappointed because the castle has very little history and it largely a ruin inside. Nonetheless, the moat is unusually large and the outside of the castle picturesque enough to deserve a visit.
But it was fun to observe the Brits on vacation there near the seashore. Almost like stepping back in time to a hundred years ago, people, their straw hats and picnic baskets scattered on checked blankets, had low lawn chairs out on the grass across the huge moat. Some were sitting under the ample shade of trees, painting, drawing, and using pastels to record their impressions of the castle. I wished that I could throw my pack down on the grass as well and simply drink in the atmosphere of the place.
But, as busy tourists, we had to get on the road. The final place on our itinerary was a surprise planned by Mommy, another castle called Scotney Castle. Nestled in the middle of Kent (The “Garden of England”), Scotney is a glittering gem. Most renowned for its extensive gardens, Scotney also has a small castle and moat supposedly haunted by a ghost.
The gardens were amazing – never in my life have I seen such flowers! Roses, lavender, jonquils, and every type that you could name, were there. Covering the estate from corner to corner were lakes, trails, dramatic weeping willows, lilies, and romantically draped ivy. Honestly, Scotney was my favorite place of all thus far.
The Castle had a bit more history than Bodiam, Catholic history in fact. The owners of the castle during the Reformation hid priests from the authorities in “priest-holes”. One of these was open to the public, surprising for anti-Catholic England. Sadly I don’t know much about Catholic British history (a victim of Protestant history books), and had never thought that such things were necessary.
While Mommy was explaining the history of the castle to us, two young British men came along. One, particularly talkative, was a Catholic who was traveling to America to study a Masters in Theology at Steubenville in the Fall. Shy, with curly red hair, he gave us some hints as to other Catholic sites in England and admitted some apprehension at going to school in a foreign country.
Eventually we had to tear ourselves away from this lovely utopia. The drive home was wonderful (again the windows were down) and uneventful. When we got home we all made dinner together, ate, and had tea before bed.
After navigating our way through streets too tiny for comfort (we almost lost a mirror on the way), we arrived at the famed Battle Abbey. We paid the entrance fee and took the longer walking tour around the battlefield itself. On that fateful morning of October 14, 1066, two rivals for the crown of England assembled with their troops. Howard, with the Saxons, held the high ground where Battle Abbey now stands. William and his Norman troops, on the other hand, were at a huge disadvantage down in the valley. Soon what would become one of the most famous battles in history began.
For hours on end the battle raged. Those who lived to tell the tale describe the battlefield thick with body parts – the Saxons had special double-headed axes that the Normans did not own. The ground was wet with blood. At one point a rumor buzzed round the field that William had been killed. As his soldiers started to retreat in dismay, William, unhurt, lifted his helmet so that all could see that he still lived.
Finally the battle was ended and England claimed for Normandy when William used an ancient tactic: he faked out the enemy. The Normans pretended to retreat, and then turned round on the Saxons who were in full pursuit. It was a rout, and the Saxons retreated in shame. Howard was supposedly shot with an arrow through the eye and died.
To atone for his sins, William later returned to Battle and built Battle Abbey on the spot where Harold was killed. Unfortunately, most of the Abbey is closed to the public because it is a school building, but some rooms can be seen.
It thrilled me to my foundations to know that I was walking on the very spot where modern England was born roughly 1000 years ago. I could almost feel the heavy atmosphere of death and smell the blood in the air. What I would give to go back in time and see William lift his helmet to rally his frightened troops!
A funny story about William that we heard on the audio tour: when he landed on the shores of nearly Hastings, he fell flat on his face in the mud. Always a man of good humor, he grabbed two fistfuls of dirt and stood up. Lifting his arms above his head, he cried: “I have taken England with both hands!”
We spent a bit of time in the gift shop and soon were on our way to our next stop, Bodiam Castle. Famous for its romantic appearance, it is truly wonderful to photograph. I suppose I felt a little disappointed because the castle has very little history and it largely a ruin inside. Nonetheless, the moat is unusually large and the outside of the castle picturesque enough to deserve a visit.
But it was fun to observe the Brits on vacation there near the seashore. Almost like stepping back in time to a hundred years ago, people, their straw hats and picnic baskets scattered on checked blankets, had low lawn chairs out on the grass across the huge moat. Some were sitting under the ample shade of trees, painting, drawing, and using pastels to record their impressions of the castle. I wished that I could throw my pack down on the grass as well and simply drink in the atmosphere of the place.
But, as busy tourists, we had to get on the road. The final place on our itinerary was a surprise planned by Mommy, another castle called Scotney Castle. Nestled in the middle of Kent (The “Garden of England”), Scotney is a glittering gem. Most renowned for its extensive gardens, Scotney also has a small castle and moat supposedly haunted by a ghost.
The gardens were amazing – never in my life have I seen such flowers! Roses, lavender, jonquils, and every type that you could name, were there. Covering the estate from corner to corner were lakes, trails, dramatic weeping willows, lilies, and romantically draped ivy. Honestly, Scotney was my favorite place of all thus far.
The Castle had a bit more history than Bodiam, Catholic history in fact. The owners of the castle during the Reformation hid priests from the authorities in “priest-holes”. One of these was open to the public, surprising for anti-Catholic England. Sadly I don’t know much about Catholic British history (a victim of Protestant history books), and had never thought that such things were necessary.
While Mommy was explaining the history of the castle to us, two young British men came along. One, particularly talkative, was a Catholic who was traveling to America to study a Masters in Theology at Steubenville in the Fall. Shy, with curly red hair, he gave us some hints as to other Catholic sites in England and admitted some apprehension at going to school in a foreign country.
Eventually we had to tear ourselves away from this lovely utopia. The drive home was wonderful (again the windows were down) and uneventful. When we got home we all made dinner together, ate, and had tea before bed.
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