Dispatch #22: The Last, In Which I Do a Great Many Wondrous Things, and Get Ready to Come Home.

(This is the last dispatch, and I apologize that it’s taken me so long to finish it, but there were so many things that I needed/wanted to do in these last couple of weeks that it seemed almost a criminal misuse of my limited time to sit at a keyboard for hours at a stretch.  Initially, I had planned to split this into two separate dispatches but I figured it would be easier to put together one long piece, instead.  Because of the length of this one, I’ve put in subheadings along the way so that you can skip over anything that doesn’t strike your fancy, if you have a fancy to strike.  I will also be posting quite a few pictures today and tomorrow on Facebook before packing everything up and heading off to Heathrow for my flight home. Thanks for reading these dispatches. I have enjoyed writing them because it allows me to relive adventures and that makes them all the richer.)

London: Portobello Road Market and a West End Play

As much as I love being in England, it’s even better when I have company, and best when that company is Beth, my favorite fellow traveler and partner in haplessness.  We had a few things on our list of things to do when she got here but mainly we just wanted to see what happened and not worry about having a schedule that we both knew would be more stressful than enjoyable.  And that’s what we did, with great success.

We spent our first night in London and went to see the play, Once, based on the film of the same name.  If you’re not familiar with the story, it’s about a Dublin busker and an Eastern European woman, who share a love of music and might end up sharing a life, if it weren’t for—that’s all I’m saying. I’m no spoiler; you’ll have to go see it yourself.  I preferred the film to the play and, because it’s easier to rent or stream a movie than hop a plane to London, I’d recommend you do that.  A song from the film, “Falling Slowly,” won the Academy Award for Best Song in 2008.  Even though I like the movie better, it was a great evening, made even more so because before the play began, the actors/musicians came onstage for a traditional Irish session, and anyone from the audience who wanted to go up to the pub set could do so and have a pint. 

The next day, we went to the site of another film, Notting Hill, where we spent the morning at the Portobello Street Market, roaming the various antique stalls and shops and having a great time, despite the fact that neither Julia Roberts nor Hugh Grant was anywhere in sight.  I won’t be giving too much away by saying that Christmas will have a decidedly antique feel to it—in case our children happen to read this—because we came across some great treasures and actually negotiated with dealers on prices, something I would probably never have done if I hadn’t spent a number of late afternoons watching British TV programs about people finding great items and haggling over the price.  I’ve also developed a sense of what might be a hidden treasure, as evidenced by the pair of brass cobra candlesticks I bought for myself (Beth is of another opinion, and she’s welcome to it, but believe me: they’re priceless).  After a couple of hours of pushing our way through crowds, and our bags filled with the spoils of our shopping efforts, we walked to the much quieter Kensington Palace neighborhood (home of William and Kate and little…what, George?  Louis?) and then caught a train to Canterbury.

A Hike to Stodmarsh

Having been in Canterbury for a couple of months, I’d already forgotten how stunning this place can be to a visitor, and even though Beth has spent a lot of time here, too, she was once again caught up in the magic of this medieval city.  Seeing the place through her eyes as we wandered around made me realize how easy it can be to take a place—even a magnificent place—for granted, and I promised myself that I would, before I leave, take a long, long look before I get on the plane and come back home.

Our big adventure in Canterbury was a 10-mile round trip walk/hike to Stodmarsh to have lunch at our favorite country pub, the Red Lion. I’d been there a couple of weeks earlier with Elise, but when Beth got here, we agreed that we had to go because it was a usual stop in 2007 and on subsequent trips to Canterbury.  So, around 11 a.m., we started off.  I had class that afternoon at 5, so we knew we had a pretty big window, but we took along the phone number of a taxi company, just in case we got lost, as we are wont to do.

The first part of the trek was simple.  All we needed to do was followed the paved path from Canterbury to Fordwich.  There, we were to pick up the trail at the end of Spring Street and follow it in the direction of Stodmarsh.  As I mentioned in an earlier dispatch, public pathways have precedence over land ownership, so even though it feels strange and invasive to be traipsing across someone’s newly planted field, it’s perfectly legal.  We found Spring Street and started up a grassy slope into a pasture.  It seemed to me that we were on the wrong side of treacherous Moat Lane, but Beth consulted the map, and it did seem we had avoided that narrow strip of certain-death-by-auto and were on course.  Very soon, however, the path took a sharp left and brought us to Moat Lane.  We were, in fact, on the wrong side and had to get onto the shoulderless roadway and hurry back into Fordwich, avoiding the inevitable traffic, where we discovered that there were two Spring Streets.  Having located the correct one, we were off again. 

Our map was a good one, pages copied from an ordnance survey map that divides the county into one-inch squares, each representing ¼ mile, so we felt confident that we could get to where we were going.  According to the map, we would meander for a mile or so and then reach Stodmarsh Road and take it the final mile-and-a-half into the village.  Even though getting back onto Stodmarsh Road conjured up memories of near-misses and startled faces seen through windshields, it was our only option, so on we went.  At first, we were on low ground, next to the Great Stour River, and it was a little spongy, so when we came to a divergence of paths, even though it was not on our wonderful map, we took to the high, dry ground.  This was not a mistake, per se, but it did bring us to Stodmarsh Road about a half-mile sooner and along a horse trail, which meant that it had been dug up by hooves and was a little slippery in places when we had to climb slopes.  Fortunately, it was heavily wooded, so we grabbed saplings and pulled ourselves along.  As it turned out, we ended up following the fence line of the stable where I had taken my lesson in October, so it’s very likely that the horses who used the trail were from there.

Once we were on Stodmarsh Road, our walk was surprisingly serene.  There were hardly any cars on the road, which was a blessing and a bit of a mystery, given my past experiences.  I finally concluded that at least part of the low traffic flow was due to the fact that we were beyond Moat Lane and beyond the road to Littlebourne.  I have not proof that that’s why, but it’s as good a hypothesis as any.  Whatever the reason, we were, for the most part, unbothered by cars and enjoyed the sunny day.  Along the way, we came upon a roadside stand—one that Beth remembered better than I did—where the farmer had left produce on a table and trusted that anyone who wanted apples or parsnips or beets or whatever else he had to sell would take what they wanted and leave the money.  On the day of our walk, he had two kinds of apples—Cox and Russets—so we took a bag of each (in retrospect, we should have picked them up on the way home; it would have meant a mile-and-a-half without lugging 15 extra pounds), put them into my backpack and walked on to Stodmarsh and the Red Lion.

As I wrote about a couple of dispatches ago, the Red Lion now has new management, and despite the fact that the current owner is not as gregarious or tipsy as Mr. Wigham, she is still a gracious host, and we had a wonderful lunch next to a toasty fire.  In hindsight, given the hike that followed, it was probably not a good idea to have ale with the meal, even the half-pint we ordered, because it makes one a bit logy and not on one’s game.  With that in mind…

The walk back to Canterbury, like the walk to Stodmarsh, was uneventful at the outset, an amble along a paved road, but once we cut into the countryside—this time at the place we wanted: Higham Farm—things got a little more interesting.  Rather than following trails traveled by horses, we now hit trails mauled by tractors, and rather than chewed up turf, we now ran into wide ruts more than a foot deep and filled with muddy water.  Nimble as gazelles, we leapt from one side of the path to the other…actually, we kind of slogged along, hoping not to lose our balance and end up covered in muck, and this time we did end up on the low trail along the river, a mistake in judgement, perhaps, but a scenic path nonetheless.  We ended up back in Fordwich, muddied but unbowed, found the path back to Canterbury and stumbled home.   

Thanksgiving, British-Style

In 2007, the International Office and American Studies Department hosted the Americans on Thanksgiving to a feast they hoped would remind us of home.  It did…and it didn’t.  The turkey, mashed potatoes and vegetables were all familiar, but the stuffing was not the moist, bready goo we were used to plopping on our plates somewhere between the cranberries and the dinner roll but was, instead, a hard, little golfball-sized nugget that tasted of sage but was not otherwise familiar in any way.  And the pumpkin pie was more like a pumpkin mousse, but given the fact that there was no canned pumpkin in the whole country at the time, the effort was a noble one. 

So, it was with some anticipation and a little trepidation that we prepared for this year’s meal.  Our niece, Emily, who is studying at Royal Holloway University just outside of London, and Stuart Morgan, our British surrogate son, were both able to join us, which made the event more memorable.  We arrived at the banquet room in St. Augustine House, which had been decorated with all things Thanksgiving—turkeys, pumpkins, horns-o-plenty—and was bustling with not only American students but a whole host of international students, all who were intrigued by our Thanksgiving.  There were students from Japan and China, Romania, Italy, Slovakia, France, and other countries I can’t recall, and all of them seemed genuinely curious and excited.  Before we got to eat, the three of us who were mentoring student groups—Julia from New York, Rich from Missouri, and me from Illinois—were all called upon to say a few words.  We had decided ahead of time to divide up the thank yous and then add a few words of our own.  Of the three of us, Rich addressed the whole notion of our unique holiday best.  He explained that this holiday was about gratitude.  It wasn’t about getting gifts, of commemorating a war or a religious event; it was simply about being grateful for the things that we have, the things that are important in our lives and, at the same time, remembering and caring for those not so fortunate.

Once the three of us had had our say, there was a rush for the buffet line.  Rather than risk being trampled, our table hung back and waited until the crowd thinned a bit.  There was still plenty of food left by the time we had our plates loaded up and sat down to see how this year’s offering compared with the last one.  This time, at the request of the students, there was a green bean casserole in addition to the usual fare—another decidedly non-British dish.  Like the 2007 meal, the turkey, mashed potatoes (which were extraordinary, but “mash” is a common side dish, so they’ve had lots of practice), and the mixed vegetables were very good, but when we got to the three elements most likely to send a British chef into a state of panic—stuffing, pumpkin pie and the casserole—it was clear that there was still room for improvement.  The stuffing, again, resembled in size and weight a Titleist Pro V1, and required an extra gulp of water to swallow.  The pumpkin pie had the right basic density this time—not puffy or fluffy—but the color was a bit greenish and the spices were not quite right; one of the students said she tasted curry, but I’m not sure.  The crust was fine.  As for the newest dish, the green bean casserole, a problem with product availability submarined the chef’s best intentions.  The product that can’t be had in Great Britain, as far as I know, is condensed soup and, as all green bean casserole fans know, you have to use condensed soup.  And rather than use the cans of crunchy fried onions, they fried their own.  The result was not something you’ll see on any cooking shows, but I’m grateful and honored that they tried.  All in all, the meal was great and the whole evening, I think, helped the students who, judging by the tears, were clearly missing their families, find a new one here.

A Bus Ride to…Canterbury

As the old saying goes, “When life gives you lemons, make applesauce,” and so it was that on the following day, Friday, we had one of our all-too-familiar deviations from the plan that wind up not being what we want to do but sufficing just the same.  In St. Charles, there is a wonderful Indian/Nepalese restaurant run by a wonderful man named Jack.  When Beth went there with some friends before she came to visit me, Jack told her that he had family in England and that a good number of them ran restaurants.  He gave Beth a card with the name of a place in Hythe, which is not far from Canterbury, and told her to ask for his uncle, who was the owner.  So, that was the plan: go for lunch at the Everest Inn in Hythe.   Both Emily and Stuart were still in town, so we invited them to join us, and the four of us went to the bus station to catch the 10:15 bus to Hythe.  Sitting upstairs on a double-decker bus, especially at the very front, is an adventure.  Roads, as you know by now, are narrow and not really designed for cars, let alone buses, so we regularly scraped hedgerows, were slapped by branches hanging out over the roadway, and frequently came nose-to-nose with a motorist in a much smaller vehicle.  It was a pleasant ride, but as time went on and we had passed one, two, three roundabout turn-offs to Hythe, we began to wonder if the driver knew what he was doing.  We pulled into Folkestone, which is on the coast to the east of Hythe, and then headed back north in the direction of Canterbury.  As villages came and went—Etchinghill, Lyminge, Elham, Stelling Minnis, Bridge—we came to the conclusion,--corroborated by Stuart, the only native among us—that buses do not travel on as regular a schedule as the trains and that we had taken the wrong one.  We were disappointed that we didn’t get to meet Jack’s uncle and have a good curry, but we used the day, instead, to enjoy Canterbury, do a little Christmas shopping, have a pint at the Parrot.  See? Applesauce.

What, Exactly, Is a Panto and Why Would You Go To See One?

On Beth’s last night in Canterbury, we went to the Marlowe Theatre to see a “panto,” which is short for “pantomime,” but should not be confused with mime.  No, this is a kind of British musical comedy designed for families and traditionally staged around Christmas.  Here’s a quick Wikipedia description: “Modern pantomime includes songs, slapstick comedy and dancing, employs gender-crossing actors, and combines topical humour with a story loosely based on a well-known fairy tale.  It is a participatory form of theatre, in which the audience is expected to sing along with certain parts of the music and shout out phrases to the performers.”  Got that? 

What we saw was Jack and the Beanstalk, and it included everything listed above, along with the actors being pelted at one point with green rubber balls thrown by nearly everyone in the audience.  As is also the custom, the cast included two celebrity actors—Samantha Womack, from the television soap opera, EastEnders, and Phil Gallagher, who plays Mr. Maker on the children’s network, CBeebies.  They were main characters, but not the leads and certainly not the equal of the crowd-pleasing, scene-chewing, cross-dressing mother of Jack, played by Ben Roddy.  The man-in-woman’s clothing role is the choice role in a panto, and Roddy enjoyed every second of it.  Whether he was swinging on a wrecking ball ala Miley Cyrus or cajoling a man in the audience with the improbable name of Milord to kiss an injured part of his body, Roddy was the clear fan favorite.  And the fans, lest I forget, were mainly kids and mainly kids in scouting uniforms, quick studies in what to shout at the villain and when to cheer for the hero.  They were especially enthusiastic when it came to hurling the green balls at the stage, probably due in part to the ice cream, soft drinks and other treats they consumed at intermission.  I imagine there was a lot of bouncing off the walls when these sugar-charged cherubs got home.

The panto at Marlowe is in its 19^th year, and there are some jokes that are just as old.  A running gag about the “Marlowe Ghost Bench” wove its way through the show until, finally, near the end, the bench appeared, and three actors sang “Ghostbusters” several times while being whisked away one at a time by zombies.  It made no sense while we were watching it, and as I write this, it makes even less sense, but it was the hit of the evening, and people left the theatre still singing, “If there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who ya gonna call?” Should we ever be in Canterbury around the holidays, I doubt that we would take in another panto, but it was a weirdly enjoyable night, and we were both glad we went.

Winding Up My Time in England: Walking, Baking Bread, Visiting Eel Pie Island, More Walking, Saying Goodbye

Beth’s departure meant my days here are coming to a close, and I decided even before she left that I needed to make the most of my remaining time.  With that in mind, after I saw her off at Heathrow, I took the Tube to Gloucester Road and from there walked through Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, past Buckingham Palace and on into St. James’s Park, which is my favorite in London.  There’s a great long lake there with several varieties of waterfowl—including swans and pelicans—along with tourist-savvy squirrels and pigeons and crows.  I had a pocketful of cookies, and I had great fun snapping off chunks and tossing them to the crows, who, unlike there more docile, dim-witted counterparts, the pigeons, would leap up and catch them in their beaks.  It was a little like a rugby match as they tagged along beside me, trying to out-duel one another.  I figured I had become the King of the Crows and that they would swarm around me for the rest of my time in London, but as soon as the cookies were gone, so were they, and I made my solitary way to the Horse Guard Museum/Gift Shop to pick up a few final souvenirs.

When I retired, I told Beth I was going to learn how to make bread.  I don’t know why, but that activity appealed to me as a useful way to spend my time, but I never did anything about it.  But here, in Canterbury, I was convinced by Lisa Casey, who is a student from Missouri, that I should join her in a series of private bread-baking classes.  At home, Lisa and her husband own a restaurant, so her interest in these classes was focused on her picking up additional skills that she could use in conjunction with their business.  For me, fun was the focus, but after the Illinois legislature decided to “reform” the pension system and cut retirement benefits, I decided maybe I need a marketable skill so I don’t end up as a WalMart greeter or cart wrangler at the local supermarket. 

The classes are taught by Vicky Feldman, who has worked in Germany and England as a professional baker and teacher of baking and nutrition, and who will have her own television show on BBC4 next year.  Needless to say, Lisa and I were in good hands, and she put us to work right away learning the basics.  It was such an intense lesson that the four hours were up before I knew it, and I had two great loaves of bread to take home, bread that I had made.  Vicky’s focus is using hard grains, especially different kinds of wheat that have more nutritional value than most of the flour used in the bread we buy in supermarkets.  Spelt and Kammut are her favorites, and we worked almost exclusively with those two as we made bread and seeded rolls, baguettes and pizza crusts.  The last day, this past Tuesday, was spent learning how to make croissants—not the flaky, butter-rich kind that we’re used to buying, but healthy croissants—and a holiday cake, an apricot crowne.  Both took a little more dexterity than I thought I could muster, but they turned out all right, though they tasted better than they looked.  I’m now looking forward to putting some handmade breadstuffs on our Christmas Eve table and hope that I don’t forgotten everything that I learned.

Last May, Beth and I met our Arizona friends, Amy Lerman and Mike Mader, in London for a week of sightseeing and general hooliganism.  One of the things that we wanted to do but did not was make a trip to Eel Pie Island to visit artists’ studios and, perhaps, buy some original works.  A few weeks ago, I got an email from Mike letting me know that the artists were having their annual Christmas open house.  This time, accompanied by Julia and Laurie, I made it to the place and had a great time.  Eel Pie Island is in the Thames and is connected to the city of Twickenham by a footbridge, though as recently as the late 1950s, the only way to the island was by ferry.  In the 60s, the big draw was not the studios but music.  Among other acts that performed at the Eel Pie Hotel were the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, The Who, Pink Floyd, The Yardbirds, and Black Sabbath, among others.

On Saturday, there were 18 studios open to the public, which made for a nice afternoon of walking and looking.  The island is also home to a working boatyard, so, in between studios, we passed through and around machinery and hoists and other ship-repairing paraphernalia.  I don’t think that all of the artists actually work on the island; it seemed that several merely rented or shared studio space for this kind of event.  There was a good variety of work for sale, everything from caricatures and pottery to paintings and jewelry, and I ended up buying a print, a piece of raku pottery and a thumb-sized ceramic hedgehog.  I probably could have purchased more, but at this time of my stay, with departure just a short time away, I was thinking about packing and about making sure I don’t exceed the 50-pound limit in my suitcase. 

This final week in Canterbury, my to-do list includes Christmas shopping, visiting places in the city, going to evensong at the cathedral and heading out into the countryside for a ramble.  Sunday was a gorgeous day—high around 50—and I spent most of it walking public pathways through woods and around fields, jumping streams, avoiding muddy patches and trying not to lose my way.  On Tuesday I took a walk in a different direction, but I couldn’t stay out as long or go as far as I wanted because I had a class that afternoon.  Friday morning I’ll take a long last hike along that path. 

It’s been a great three months here, much different from my experience six years, but no less remarkable.  I’ve made great new friends, renewed old acquaintances, and fallen in love again with this city, its cathedral, its people and the surrounding landscape.  I also spent much more time in London than I did in 2007 and now count it as one of my favorite places.  As was the case during my last visit, being part of the students’ lives has been a pleasure.  There were more instances of homesickness and culture shock this time around, but they pulled through and, I hope, will cherish this trip as much as I will.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to do this again, to come to a foreign place and settle in for a while.  I know that I’ll continue to travel and see as much of the world as I can, but I’m so very grateful that I’ve had not one, but two, chances to live in a new place and be a part of it.  In a few days, I’ll be in Illinois again, but I know that all I’ll have to do is close my eyes and I’ll be right back on high street, jostled by the crowd, tripping over cobblestones, listening to some busker singing and playing above the screeching of seagulls, looking up at the cathedral’s bell tower, and feeling perfectly content, perfectly at home.

Dispatch No. 21: In Which Elise and I Take in London from the Ridiculous to the Sublime, and I Visit A World War II Airplane Museum

I’m very lucky to have the daughter I have. (I’m also very lucky to have the wife, the son, the daughter-in-law and the granddaughter I have, but this isn’t about them just now.)  Last November, when I found out that I would be coming back to Canterbury, Elise said she was going to come for a visit.  I was happy that she wanted to make the trip, but she was still in school at the time, would be graduating in the spring and would probably just be starting a new job when I left.  But when Elise sets her mind to something, it happens.  She was, indeed, new in her job at a veterinary hospital in Downers Grove where she’s a vet tech (a registered nurse for animals), but she managed to arrange her work schedule so that she could have a week off, saved her money, made her flight arrangements and took off from O’Hare.

As I noted in my last dispatch, Elise’s wifi wasn’t working well, so I didn’t hear from her after she landed in Dublin and was waiting for a connecting flight.  Because she had no idea where I was living, and I had no idea when her train was arriving—or if she had even made it to the train station in London—I spent a couple of hours pacing and checking my phone.  When I finally let my anxiety get the better of me, I took off for Canterbury West, not certain if I’d have to wait there or what I would do.  I just knew I couldn’t wait around any longer.  I had texted Elise a Plan B—meet at Starbucks on High Street—but I wasn’t even sure she’d gotten that message.  At any rate, when I got to Station Road West, there she was in her bright pink coat dragging her purple suitcase.  I didn’t give her a hug—I did later, though—but took the handle of her suitcase and hurried back toward my flat, listening as she filled me in on her trip over.  I think parents have moments when they realize that their children aren’t children anymore, and this was one of those for me.  I sometimes forget that Elise is 27, gainfully employed in the career of her choosing, and completely capable of navigating her way through the world.  She’s no longer a cute, shy little girl; now she’s a confident, pretty, smart and funny adult and a joy to be around.

Before Elise left Illinois, she and I had tossed around some ideas for what we might do after the weekend field trip and decided that we’d go up to London for a couple of days.  The morning we left, we took another walk around the city and went into the cathedral, her first time inside.  When she and Andrew visited in 2007, Elise was still plagued by a fear of being in buildings with high ceilings—altocelarophobia—but unlike me and my fear of heights, she has overcome hers and was able to enter and appreciate the cathedral. (I would like to add here that each member of our family has his/her own irrational fear.  Beth hates bridges, Andrew can’t wear turtleneck sweaters, Katerina is afraid of sharks and alligators—which wouldn’t be a phobia if she didn’t live in the Midwest—and Harper is freaked out by bugs.)

Having left enough unseen for Elise to need a return trip to Canterbury at some time in her life, we took the train into London, the Tube to our hotel, and then the Tube again to Westerminster Abbey where, in the rain, we walked among thousands of small wooden crosses decorated with poppies and the names of soldiers who had lost their lives in battle.  This Field of Remembrance, assembled each year by the Royal British Legion Poppy Appeal, has been a part of Remembrance Day in London since 1928.  There are 380 plots, each honoring the men and women whose service was so vital to the country.  I cannot even guess how many crosses there are on that piece of ground just outside of the abbey, but if 750,000 British soldiers died in the First World War alone, it has to be more than a million.  Needless to say, it’s a humbling and moving experience just to stop and look at the names and the photos.  At least one person, a young man, cried as he knelt next to a plot, and I’m sure he was not alone.  I’ve put some pictures on Facebook of this commemoration. (On a side note, the poppies that Brits sport on lapels in the weeks leading up to Remembrance Day are a reminder of World War I and more particularly of the fields of Flanders where so many soldiers lost their lives.  After the fighting had stopped, the only thing that grew on those battle-scarred fields were poppies, acres of red petals. While we have poppies in connection with our Veterans’ Day at home, the commemoration here is more visible and widespread.)

The drizzle continued for a while after Elise and I left Westminster and went to White Hall and watched the changing of the horse guards.  While I was trying to take pictures, I unknowingly stepped in the way of a woman—an American—who chastised me.  She also chewed out a young woman for doing what I had done, complaining that it was her first time seeing this ceremony, and we were ruining the experience.  I wanted to tell her it was my first time seeing it, too, but then I realized how pointless it would have been to engage in that kind of exchange—I did suggest she step in front of me to take her pictures; she declined—so we left her muttering and crossed over the road to St. James’s Park, maybe my favorite park in the city.  I was wishing I’d brought some bread along because the squirrels will take it out of your hand.  One might even climb up your pant leg, if you don’t mind that sort of thing.  We were followed by the bushy-tailed beggars, but they gave up on us when we didn’t come through and went to find someone else silly enough to be out walking in the rain.  Our path took us through the park to Buckingham Palace and then around to another park that we both thought was Hyde Park, which would have meant our hotel was very close.  It wasn’t Hyde Park, however, so we took the Tube back to Gloucester Road, had dinner at a pub and then called it a day.

When we planned our trip to London, one of the things Elise wanted to do was go to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.  We both figured it would probably be pretty cheesy and definitely a tourist trap, but it still sounded like a great idea, so the next morning, off we went.  After a quick breakfast at an odd little serve-yourself diner across the street from the wax museum, we went in and rode the elevator up to the exhibition hall.  I have to admit that I really like this kind of place because I grew up near an amusement park and spent many summers immersed in an ersatz world meant to beguile visitors into spending money doing something they’d never dream of doing—trying to ring a bell or shoot an air rifle to win a stuffed bear, eat funnel cakes or saltwater taffy—if it weren’t in that particular setting.  That’s what made the wax museum such a hoot.  At first, both Elise and I were a little hesitant to have our pictures taken standing next to one of the mannequins, but once we saw everyone else doing it and acting goofier with each pose, we decided to do the same.  Elise was a little uncomfortable in her first photo, standing next to Johnny Depp, but by the time we got to Michael Jackson and a cricket player neither of us recognized, she was as oblivious to the other people around her as I was when I put my arm around Princess Diana, stood next to John Wayne and Justine Bieber, and corrected Albert Einstein’s formula with Stephen Hawking nearby. We spent more time there than I think we thought we would but not as much as I presume the two women from Russia were going to spend; I don’t think there was one figure who didn’t end up with one and then the other of them up close and personal.

Having gone from that artificial world back into reality, we decided to take in one more of London’s weird-ish places, Camden Town.  But to get there, we walked through the beautiful Regent’s Park and then along Regent’s Canal to Camden Lock Market, which is an enclosed marketplace where you can buy nearly anything you can imagine, from souvenirs to clothes to CDs and DVDs, hats, cheese, vegetables, jewelry, on and on.  After Elise found some scarves to take home, we left the market and went out onto the high street.  Camden Town was home to the late Amy Winehouse, and it’s easy to see her in that place once you walk along crowded sidewalks beneath building facades that are 3-D renderings of dragons and shoes and charging horses, and where, like the market, you can be overwhelmed by the variety and quantity of things to buy.   There’s a bit of a surreal feel to it, a bombarding of the senses, but when we stopped in at a pub on a side street for lunch, it seemed like regular old England again

From Camden, we took the Tube to London Bridge Station and wandered through the Borough Market, which, like Camden Lock Market, is enclosed, but this one specializes in food.  Because it was a Tuesday, there weren’t many open stalls, so we just walked on to the London Eye, the 400+ foot high ferris wheel on the east side of the Thames.  The last time Elise was in London, she and Andrew and I rode it at dusk, which was great because we watched as the lights came on all across the city.  This time, she would get to see the place in daylight and see more of it.  London has the same population as New York City, but it’s spread over twice the area.  It’s a low city, in terms of building heights, a fact that becomes evident once you’re at the top of the Eye.  This was my third time on the wheel, and even though I’m not fond of heights, I’m not as bothered as I am in other high places, probably because the car moves so slowly—a ride is one 30-minute revolution—and you are way up there before you know it.  I was glad to see, however, that at least one other person—a young woman whose husband/boyfriend was gallivanting all around the glass bubble shooting pictures—kept one hand on a bar or a railing and looked a little uneasy, especially when the car swayed a bit in the wind, something neither Elise nor I remembered from our last ride.  Once we were back on the ground, we realized we had been unaware of the windiness of the day, a condition accentuated once we were up in the air.

Elise had to catch a very early flight home the next day, so we stayed at a hotel near Gatwick Airport.  It was a nice, quiet way to end her visit, just talking about horses and work and whatever else came up.  As I said at the beginning, I’m lucky to have the daughter I have, and I was more than a little sad saying goodbye at the airport but grateful that we’d had a chance to spend time together, just the two of us.

The only other highlight of the week was a trip with Rich to Duxford to see the Imperial War Museum at the airfield, perfect for a couple of former WWII model airplane builders (only Monogram or Revell kits, of course).  When one of the university lecturers mentioned the place, home to both British and American flyers, both Rich and I were excited about seeing the full-sized versions of those little plastic replicas that hung from our respective bedroom ceilings until they had a firecracker taped to their fuselage and were thrown off the garage roof so that they would explode in mid-air.  At least mine were thrown off the roof; Rich may have launched his in some other fashion.  And we were not disappointed.  When we got to the place, we were amazed at its overall size and the size of the different buildings—mostly old hangars—that housed the various airplanes and other war machines.  In addition to getting to see Spitfires and Hurricane, Lancaster and B-17 bombers, Messerschmidts and Mustangs, we also saw more contemporary aircraft including the Blackbird spy plane, a B-52 bomber, and an SST.  We stayed a good three hours, going from building to building, and were amazed not only at the array, but also at the engineering that went into putting all of those planes into those spaces.  Some, like the models of childhood, were hung from the ceiling and others were parked in a kind of massive jigsaw on the floor.  In the two biggest buildings—the AirSpace and the American War Museum—there were easily 30 planes in each.  It was a great day and one of those places neither Rich nor I probably would have even known about had it not come up in a conversation.

Next on the schedule of big things is Thanksgiving.  The university’s International Studies Department has made it a tradition to host the American students—along with any family members who are here, British students and faculty—to a full meal with turkey and stuffing, pumpkin pie, cranberries, etc.  In 2007, the pumpkin pie, which is not a staple in England, was more like a pumpkin mousse, and the stuffing was rolled into balls and baked.  We’ll see how much they’ve honed their skills on Thursday.  Beth will be here, too, so I’ll have a chance to revisit old haunts with her.  I may even drive so we get to see everything I’m sure we’ll want to see.  After she leaves, it will be less than two weeks before I head home, too, so I think I’ve got two more dispatches in me before I’m spending my time getting loose ends tied up and bags packed. 

Thanks for reading.

Dispatch No. 20: In Which I Am Followed by The Sobbing Man; Elise Comes for a Visit, and I Avoid Having to Risk My Life and the Lives of Others on the Motorway

The rain was torrential, a typical November storm, with gusts of wind that stopped me in my tracks as I leaned into it and pushed on.  Next to me, Dennis Lynch was keeping pace, hood up, head down.  We were making our way across Canterbury from my flat to the train station where Dennis had to catch an early train into London to attend a conference.  The day before had been gray but dry.  Dennis had arrived in the morning and we spent most of his visit walking around Canterbury, stopping in at the cathedral and at the grave of Joseph Conrad, and catching up.

There was not catching up on our walk to the station.  Any words were whipped away by the wind—at least until we reach the High Street and were protected a bit by the buildings.  Because it was so early and the rain so intense, there were very few people out except for the public service workers picking up litter or engaging in other chores to get the city ready for the day.  We weren’t very far up the street when I heard a kind of bellowing noise behind me.  It sounded like someone coughing deeply and rhythmically.  After a few sharp, prolonged barks, the bellowing transformed into a sobbing, low but loud and echoing off the buildings and cobblestone street.  I turned to see who was in such distress, but the person behind me, a young man in a track suit who seemed oblivious to both the weather and the wailing, wasn’t the one, and the hood of my jacket and the bill of my cap kept me from seeing past him.  I asked Dennis if he saw anyone—he, too, had heard the sad, disturbing sound—but he couldn’t see any better than I could.  We kept going, all the while listening to the man’s mournful moaning, casting back glances but not able to catch a glimpse of him.

This went on for a couple of blocks when Dennis said, with a bit of urgency, “I think he’s gaining on us.”  Despite the fact that there were a few others on the street and we were probably in no danger, it was an alarming idea, and we headed out into the middle of the road where it was easier to walk and picked up our pace.  Though the distance between us and the haunted man—surely something powerful had him in its grip!—stayed the same, he gave no sign of letting up or turning off onto a side street.  And so, we continued on along the street and through the West Gate.  Once a bit past the gate, we stopped.  It was silent.

“Is he gone?” I asked.  Just then, the sobbing started up again, loud and reverberating and this time clearly disembodied: there was no one in sight at all.

“Go! Go!” I said, and we took off faster than before, reaching the train station in plenty of time for Dennis to catch his ride into the city.  Whoever had been following us was now gone, and the rain was letting up.  After discussing the strange incident and wondering about the poor man whose misery wracked him so powerfully, it was time for Dennis to board and for me to make my way back to my flat along the same route we had just come.  I took my unopened umbrella—useless in the windy torrent but perhaps useful as a weapon—from my pocket and started back. 

To my great relief—but unsatisfied curiosity—the sobbing man was gone.  I encountered no one who seemed stricken or unwell, and I arrived home sopping but safe and locked the door behind me.

Ironically, that afternoon, I delivered a lecture to the American Literature class on Edgar Allan Poe (thus the few stylistic flourishes here: poor imitation) and began my talk with this story.  I don’t know if they believed me or not, but I assure you it happened.  Just ask Dennis…if you can find him.  He’s not been heard of since he left Canterbury!  (That’s not true; I’m still in Poe mode.  He’s fine.  I think.)

Dennis was the second of three visitors who stayed with me the past couple of weeks.  Kate Lander was the first.  It was a pleasure to talk with her about movies and music and see what a fine young adult she has become.  When I dropped her off at the train station and watched her get on for her trip back to London, I recalled that I had been at her baptism and, as usually happens when that kind of memory hits, couldn’t believe that so many years had passed. 

On Thursday, another fine young adult—daughter Elise—arrived for a week-long stay.  When she and her brother, Andrew, visited Beth in 2007, almost everything the two of them wanted to do or see was closed for the winter, so I was determined that that didn’t happen again.  Despite some panic on my part because Elise couldn’t connect with wireless and couldn’t let me know when she’d be arriving in Canterbury (and didn’t know where I was living), we did stumble on to each other outside the train station—a bit like my luck in Rochester when Beth was coming in, and I had no idea how we were going to meet up.  As has become my routine with guests, I dragged Elise around town, finally letting her go to bed after 8 p.m.

This time, Elise’s visit corresponded with a school field trip to Oxford, Bath, and Stonehenge, and I was excited that she’d get to see something she hadn’t seen the last time she was here, but a month or so earlier, when I asked if she could go along, I was told that there probably wouldn’t be enough room on the bus, that tickets had already been purchased, and that she wasn’t covered by insurance.  I wasn’t going to let Elise miss seeing these sites—and I did have a job to do as mentor and needed to be with the students—so I decided I would rent a car and follow the buses.  I had driven to that part of the country before—to Stonehenge, at least—so I had an idea where we would be going, but in the intervening years, traffic in England has gotten much worse, and I dreaded the idea of navigating along the motorways, not to mention the narrower roads and congested city streets I would encounter.  The thought of what I had to do did make for some restless nights, but it was the only option I had.

So, on Friday when Elise got up, the two of us, along with one of my students, Renee, who was in need of something to do that day, picked up the rental car and headed out into the countryside so that I could get re-acquainted with driving in England.  There was some screaming (I apologized; I was pretty loud) when a bus came around a bend and we had to back up to a pull-in and wait for it to pass, and a little swearing (again: apology) when I went round the round-abouts less than expertly.  We did make it to Stodmarsh, though, without serious incident and stopped at the Red Lion for a midday meal.  Whenever we have been in or around Canterbury, we’ve made a point of eating at this pub because the food is always outstanding, and the owner, who is “in his cups” as they say, by lunchtime, is hilariously gregarious and welcoming.  We beat the rain by a few minutes and sat next to a window watching the clouds while we waited for our server.  When she came to the table, I asked about the owner and was told that Mr. Wigham had decided to retire and that she and her son had just taken over the pub the week before.  I’m happy to say that the change in ownership hasn’t done anything to lessen the quality of the food, and the new owners are as pleasant as Mr. Wigham, if a bit less tipsy.

By the time we finished eating, the rain had stopped, and the sun started to show through the clouds, so we drove in the direction of the coast.  When we got to St. Margaret’s at Cliffe, I took a wrong turn and headed us in the direction of Dover rather than the clifftop walking paths I was looking for.  When we could see Dover Castle up ahead, I knew we needed to go back into the village and start over.  Thanks to a helpful resident, we got to the place I remembered and got out to walk along the famous white chalk cliffs.  Even though they are not as high at St. Margaret’s at Cliffe as they are at Dover, the ocean is still a long way down, and after venturing close enough to look over once, I gave in to my fear of heights (and of falling off a cliff) and enjoyed the view from a safer distance.  Elise, however, stayed on the path that ran close to the edge, which caused me some consternation.  She wasn’t dangerously close, but I had to look away and hope I didn’t hear a distant splash.  Only later, after we were told that there had been a “landfall” a few weeks earlier, resulting in a huge chunk of the cliff sliding into the English Channel, did I feel vindicated for my anxiety.

That night, knowing my skill behind the wheel would be tested even more the next day, I had trouble staying asleep.  I kept telling myself that I needed to be well-rested and if I was going to take on the English highway system, but I didn’t have much success.  The coffee I had in the morning and the adrenaline rushing through my body had me alert but more than a bit edgy.  We met our passenger, Laurie, who teaches at Cazenovia College and is doing research this term in Canterbury, and headed out to meet the buses.  With the exception of one near-miss in a round-about, we made it, and I pulled up behind the buses.  I talked with the drivers and with the tour guides to make sure I knew where to park in Oxford, our first destination, and they immediately began to try to talk me out of driving.  I assured them that I would be fine and, besides, insurance and a lack of space left me no choice.  Five minutes later, they had checked with their company to make sure that we would be covered by their insurance and then came back again, insisting that I park the car and that the three of us get on the bus.  A few students had, at the last minute, decided not to go along, so there were seats and tickets for us.  Happily, I tucked the car into a space behind the college library, hoping it wouldn’t be discovered by any ticket-happy campus police, joined the rest of the group, and we were off.

I was sitting with Elise at the front of the bus, and I cannot emphasize enough how glad I was—and still am—that I did not have to drive.  Traffic was thick, it was raining, and there were all sorts of weather-related accidents and delays.  Had I tried to follow the two buses on their self-determined detours, I’d still be on the road somewhere.  It was certainly to our advantage that Dave, our driver, and Janet, our guide, were so familiar with the roads, but their conversation and ultimate decisions were beyond my comprehension.  Here is a recreated transcript of dialogue, perhaps not remembered verbatim but close enough:

Janet (studying her smart phone): Dave, there’s a lorry tipped over on the M-25 just past Junction 11 that’s got all four lanes of traffic stopped.  Perhaps we’d better take a different way.

Dave:  Right. We could go up around St. Hampton’s-on-Cleavage, over near Greater Bottomington, pick up the A4041, take that on to the M-11. 

Janet: That should work, unless there’s engineering work on the M-11. They’ve been putting in a new central reservation all along it since last summer.  Might still be dodgy.

Dave:  Right.  How about we take the A4041 to A4042? That’ll put us just near Midgelytown. We could go on through Far Wallop to the M-17.  Take a bit longer, maybe.

Janet: Yes, yes, that will do nicely.  Do watch the road, Dave.  You’re steering a bit wonky.

Adding to the difficulty of the journey was the fact that there was a graduation ceremony at Oxford University that afternoon and had I managed to get to the city, I’d have had no place to park my car.  Instead, I was able to stay with the group and wander, stop in at a museum and a bookstore and, in general, enjoy the day in this historic city.  A number of literary figures, most notably C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Lewis Carroll, are associated with Oxford, but the tour Janet conducted centered more on J.K. Rowling’s creation, Harry Potter, and his affiliation with the place. Having not read the books and having seen only a couple of the movies, I didn’t get the references, but most of the students were nodding and taking pictures each time Janet noted a particular building or setting.  My favorite part of the afternoon was seeing all of the new graduates in their robes and their parents gathering for photos to commemorate the occasion.

After a night at the local Holiday Inn Express, we left the next morning for the city of Bath, site of an ancient Roman settlement called and, as its name suggests, a Roman bath.  Named “Aquae Sulis” by the Romans, the hot spring that fed the stone pools the Roman built was probably sacred to the Britons who lived there centuries earlier.  The city—and the baths—have a rich history, too much to go into here, but in the 18^th century, a great number of buildings, all constructed from the same gold-colored stone, were erected, giving the place a typical Georgian uniformity that was never duplicated anywhere else in Great Britain. Most famous of the building was the Royal Crescent, a semi-circle of connected houses that stands on a hill looking down on the city.  There is also a circus (which means “circle”) of similar houses a few blocks away that is equally impressive but does not have the same open view. 

It was Remembrance Sunday in Bath, so before we went down into the city and on toward the river where the baths are, we joined the local citizenry and military veterans in a two-minute silence to honor those who died in the First World War.  Great Britain is a country very much defined by the two World Wars, but it is the first one that is seen as the most defining time in recent history.  In that conflict, three-quarters of a million young men never returned, and many of those who did were maimed, limbless, or crippled.  As proud as the British are of having withstood the Nazi attacks in the second war, they remember the first with much more reverence and solemnity.

When we had made our way through the busy center of the city and arrived at the Roman Baths, the group scattered, some spending more time in the museum with an audio tour, while others—including Elise and I—moved through a bit more quickly and went out to see more of the city.  With its unique architecture and narrow winding alleys, the city looks like it has been transplanted from Italy (or so I’m told, having never been there myself…but I’ve seen photographs).  This notion was reinforced when, as we climbed our way out of the city, we looked back and could see the seven hills on which it was built (like Rome) and the way in which the afternoon light caught the golden stone of the buildings.

From Bath, we traveled both in miles and in time to Stonehenge, that strange circle of stones on Salisbury Plain.  As familiar as the image of this place is and as prevalent as it is in popular culture (remember the Microsoft screen saver?), this is a place that needs to be seen to be fully appreciated.  It’s not just the stones that need to be seen, it’s the surrounding landscape as well.  In addition to the iconic structure, there are also more than 350 burial mounds that dot this huge expanse, further emphasizing its importance to the people who lived in that spot thousands of years earlier.  Unfortunately, there is a major motorway that passes close to the site, but a project that is nearing completion will see the visitors’ center moved about two miles from the stones and an access road that currently leads from the motorway to the current visitors’ center will be buried; visitors will be shuttled from the new place across the plain in a way that will make clear the significance of the entire area.

We left Stonehenge just as the sun was starting to go down and made most of the four-hour journey back to Canterbury in the dark, again prompting my gratitude at having made the trip as a passenger and not a driver.  When we got back and I saw that the car was where I had left it, ticket-less and free of damage, any lingering anxiety was gone, and I slept well that night, knowing that Elise and I were going to have a couple of days of sight-seeing, just the two of us, before she headed back home.

I’ve gone on at great length already, so I think I’ll stop here for a bit and give any of you still reading a chance to rub your eyes and stretch a bit.  In a day or two, I’ll post another dispatch, one that covers the time Elise and I spent in London and a trip Rich and I took to the Imperial War Museum at Duxford Airfield.

Thanks for reading.     

p.s. I was profoundly saddened to learn that a friend, Fred Wiegand, passed away on November 2, in Ontario, Oregon, after a long battle with cancer.  Fred and I had been members of YMCA Indian Guides and Cub Scouts when we were younger and had some notable adventures when we got into high school.  As is so often the case with hometown friends, I had not seen Fred in more than 35 years, though he did call me out of the blue one night ten years or so ago, and I talked with him again by phone during our 40-year class reunion.  What I will remember best about Fred was his cheerful haplessness.  Whether it was tipping his dad’s van over on an icy road or hitting a submerged log that broke the propeller on his dad’s pontoon boat, Fred took it all in stride and found the humor in the situation—until his dad found out about it, anyway.  Though I was not lucky enough to be part of Fred’s world beyond our high school years, I know that he had a good life and that he was well-loved by friends and family who knew him, as I did, as a man of tremendous charity and a good, good heart.

Dispatch No. 19: In Which I Meet Up with Beth and Friends In Ireland and Am Undone by Food and Drink; Have My Travel Plans Thwarted by St. Jude, and Anticipate the Arrival of Many Guests

It’s November, and I’m now past the halfway point in my stay here in Canterbury and am about to play host to friends and family pretty much the whole month, which will be great, not only for the company but also because I get to play tour guide.  My first guest, Kate Lander, the daughter of friends Anne and Dick Lander, arrived this morning for a short trip; friend and former teaching colleague Dennis Lynch comes for an equally short stay on Monday; daughter Elise gets here on Thursday for a week’s vacation, and Beth will be here from November 22-December 2.  After that, it’s only 12 days until I get on a plane and head back home.  The time has gone quickly so far, but I know that having guests and lots to do when they’re here will speed up the pace even more.  I left Kate on the High Street to do some shopping while I came back to the flat to finish this entry.  I hadn’t planned to be writing for another few days because I thought I’d be traveling and would get back on schedule next week, but the biggest storm to hit Great Britain since 1987—or, at the very least, in the last six years, depending upon the source—brought me back to Canterbury three days early.

My trip started out just fine.  I got on the train early Thursday morning, took it into London and then on to Gatwick Airport where I boarded my flight to Dublin and arrived in Ireland 15 minutes ahead of schedule.  My bus had wi fi, so Beth and I were able to keep in touch while I made the two-hour trip to Carlow, and she was there to meet me when we pulled in.  After checking in at the Red Setter Inn and getting changed for dinner, we made the short walk to Carlow College and were welcomed by Fr. Kevin O’Neill.  Since 2007, when Beth and her colleague, Lisa March, traveled to Carlow to establish a study abroad program, Fr. Kevin has been a most gracious host and friend.  When Beth spent a semester there in 2009, he made sure that she was immersed in the Irish culture—she even got to attend a hurling championship (a game with sticks and a ball, not what you’re probably thinking) in Dublin—and has hosted us whenever we’re in the country. 

As is his custom, Fr. Kevin invited us into his sitting room and offered to open, as he is wont to do, a bottle of excellent whiskey.  This time, it was a bottle of small batch whiskey distilled in Carlow.  Beth is not a whiskey aficionado, but I am a bit, so I accepted a generous pour and then another.  By the time we were ready to go to the restaurant Fr. Kevin had picked out—one of his favorites, The Lord Baganel, in the historic village of Leighlinbridge—I was glad I wasn’t driving.  It wasn’t until we got back later that evening that I realized he, too, had had a couple of whiskeys.  If the drink affected his handling the rain-slick, narrow and winding road in the dark, I didn’t notice.  Fr. Kevin and the Lord Baganel owner, James, are friends and share a love of art, so when James came to our table, the two of them waxed rhapsodic about a favorite artist whose work was going to be on display at the VISUAL, Carlow’s beautiful arts centre, which is on the college campus. 

When it came time to order, Fr. Kevin asked James if he had anything in the kitchen that wasn’t on the menu.  James said he had some fresh black sole, and our decision was made.  However, before we even got to the sole, which may have been the best fish I’ve ever eaten once I figured how to get rid of the bones, we first had a Dungeness crab salad, bread, and wine.  We had more wine when the fish came out sharing a plate with a heap of mashed potatoes (it’s not uncommon to have a meal in Ireland that features three kinds of potatoes) and green beans.  We followed that up with dessert—a berry terrine with vanilla ice cream—and then headed back out into the rain and back to Carlow.

Earlier that day, when she was on campus meeting with the people who take care of American students when they’re studying in Carlow, Beth made plans with Eric Derr, who “shepherds” the Illinois students at Carlow while he’s finishing up his doctoral dissertation, to meet at Teach (pronounced chock; it’s a  Gaelic word) Dolman to listen to some traditional Irish music—a session—featuring local musicians.  Eric is a fellow Iowan and former resident of Burlington, where we lived for three years a long time ago.  His dissertation is a two-volume cataloguing of all the Roman Catholic bishops in Ireland, which means he’s spent the past three years poring over historical documents in libraries and cathedrals and parish churches all over the country.  His project for the weekend we were there was to start checking his footnotes for accuracy.  He took some time away, however, and met us for a pint of Guinness and some music.  We got to Teach at 11 p.m., a time I’m usually strolling through dreamland, and we hung around until sometime after 1 a.m. 

Feeling a bit fuzzy-headed when the alarm went off at 8 a.m. the next morning, Beth and I went down for a full Irish breakfast—two fried eggs, sausage, bacon, two kinds of “pudding” (a sort of grain-heavy sausage, the black variety made with blood), and a stewed tomato—some soda bread, juice and coffee.  We had decided to eat heavy in the morning and then skip lunch, knowing we had dinner plans at a great tapas place, Café Mimosa, with some friends that night.  Beth had more meetings, so she went off to the campus while I sat in the Red Setter’s front room and read.  I always get on a Graham Greene kick when I come over here, and I was reading The Stamboul Train, which Greene called “an entertainment” rather than a novel, and it centers on a trip on the Orient Express from France to Istanbul.  I knew the book was written in the 1930s, but I was still surprised at how racist and classist and sexist it was, much more so—or perhaps much more noticeably—than other books of his I’ve read.  As always, it was wonderfully written, but the author’s insensitivity was a bit off-putting.  I guess it’s best to think of his work as representing a particular time and place and read it with that context in mind.

So that’s what I was doing when Beth came back, and we headed to Coleman’s Bike Shop to look for a used bicycle that could be left at the college for the American faculty who come there with study abroad students—and for Eric, who fills in whenever there is not a faculty person able to come for semester.  We were told ahead of time that Mr. Coleman’s son had recently taken his own life and that Mr. Coleman, who was normally quite outgoing, was still struggling with the loss and might not be his usual self.  With this knowledge, we walked into the store, which has a garage door entrance, and met Mr. Coleman.  He was subdued but very friendly.  Beth asked him if he had any used bicycles, and he said no.  Now, to set the scene a little…imagine a garage, now imagine a garage filled with bicycles of all types and conditions and ages (one dated back to the 1950s), imagine that these bicycles are in a kind of upright jumble, hooked together like a great puzzle and surrounded by—nay, half-buried in—a heap of random handlebars, tools and cables, pedals and seats, chains, and who knows what else (I’ve posted a couple of photos of the shop on Facebook) and not a one of them was for sale.  Because Beth wanted to get a bicycle and because she wanted to support local Carlow businesses, she put a hold on a nice, relatively inexpensive new bicycle and said we would be back later in the day after she’d checked to see if there was money in her budget at school for the purchase.  (We did go back and Beth made arrangements for the bike to be picked up and taken to the college.  When we were there the second time, I asked if I could take pictures because, as I honestly told Mr. Coleman, it was nice to see someone else whose workspace—in my case, basement work bench—shared a similar kind of organization.  His daughter, who was there in the afternoon, said that they’d had another, larger shop elsewhere in Carlow, and it was even more of a disaster area.  And yet, when he needed a tape measure to check the height of the bike Beth picked out, he stuck his hand into the pile and pulled it right out. )

While she was on campus in the morning, before our bike shopping, Beth had run into Eric again and made plans to have lunch with us and with Sister Mary, every American student’s favorite Irish person, at a local restaurant.  So, rather than skip a meal, we had big bowls of excellent seafood chowder, more soda bread, and a Coke made with real sugar, not the high fructose sugar variety from home.  (There’s a reason I’m cataloguing my eating.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.)  After lunch, Beth had another meeting, I read some more and then we went out for a walk, ducking into doorways when the rain became, as Mr. Coleman had put it, “a lashing rain.”  Then we met Padraigin Caesar, who had worked with the study abroad program when Beth was there in 2009, in the arts centre café for coffee and got caught up on families.  Padraigin, who is also a harpist and singer, came to Illinois in 2011 to meet with college study abroad personnel, and she stayed with us in between campus visits.  She wasn’t feeling particularly well, so when she got home, she went to the doctor and discovered she was pregnant with her second child, Harry.  (I was thinking Patrick would have been better name choice, but I had no vote).  She and her husband, Declan, daughter Heidi and son Harry might come to visit Canterbury when Beth is here later in the month, so I may have more guests to host.

At eight that night, we went to the Mimosa, where we met up with Eric and Noel and Kate Cavanaugh.  Noel is a lecturer at Carlow College and a great, hilarious storyteller in the true Irish tradition.  Kate is equally funny, so we spent about three hours laughing and nibbling a variety of tapas dishes (everything from chocolate chili beef to calamari to a goat cheese-apple thing to a cheese plate to lots of other things I don’t remember), washing them down with a Cornish ale appropriately called Proper Job, which it did on me, along with an after-dinner liqueur and then ending the night, after a dash through the aforementioned lashing rain, to a noisy place called Carpe Diem, where whiskey was had.  That night when we fell into bed, it was only 12:30 a.m., an early evening.

On Saturday, following a subdued breakfast of toast and coffee, we took the bus to Dublin and met up with Pam and John at the Townhouse Inn, just north of the River Liffey.  Beth took a gamble on booking it—memories of the Kelly Hotel in Dublin still haunt us—but it turned out to be a great place with a great staff.  We set out for some sightseeing, south over the river to Grafton Street, which is pedestrianized (one of my new favorite words) and the home to a host of buskers, including a band called Keywest, which was really very good.  We had lunch at Bruxelles, a pub noted for its connection with the film, The Commitments, where I had salmon cakes and the obligatory pint of Guinness.  We spent part of the afternoon at the national museum, which has an exhibit of bog people—folks who ended up, usually violently, at the bottom of a peat bog, where they were preserved—parts of them, at least—and discovered centuries later.  It sounds a little grisly, but it is a fascinating exhibit, even right after lunch!  Mid-afternoon, we had a snack—hot chocolate and a scone for me—before heading back to the hotel for a bit of down time before we went out again for dinner and, perhaps, some music. 

It’s at this point that I’d like you to look back through the previous paragraphs and start to catalogue for yourselves all that I had eaten and drunk those three days.  Keep in mind that I had been living a pretty Spartan lifestyle in Canterbury—except for clotted cream, which is a sin—and eating like a first century monk—except for clotted cream, which is a sin. 

After our down time, I began to wonder if I was done for.  I lay on the bed and tried to muster my strength for another go at Dublin nightlife, but my body was telling me otherwise.  We did go out for dinner at a pub--where else—and had a roast beef sandwich and more Guinness—and then back to the hotel for another bit of down time.  This time, I was down.  My stomach, my head, even my feet, were telling me it was time to say uncle.  For three and a half days, I’d been eating and drinking myself stupid, and I had nothing left.  Surprisingly, perhaps because she’d avoided the whiskey, Beth still had enough energy to join John—Pam, like me, had thrown in the towel—for stops at a couple of nearby pubs for music, though she wanted me to report that she had only sparkling water at the second place.  I, in the meantime, had fallen into a deep, deep sleep that was not even interrupted by the bar patrons who used the alley behind our hotel as a smoking lounge.  When morning came, I felt much better and was ready for our last day in Ireland, but I must admit that I wish I’d had the wherewithal to go out for the music.  There’s nothing quite like a session in a local pub, with musicians popping in and out, playing guitars or fiddles or squeezeboxes, bagpipes, bodhrans (hand-held drums) or penny whistles.  The music is so much a part of their lives, of the country’s culture, that anyone who can play an instrument knows the tunes and can sit in, and those of us who can't, can sit and enjoy.

Sunday, our last day in Ireland, started with my getting a cell phone weather alert and a second message announcing the the cancellation of my ferry to Wales.  A massive storm was bearing down on Great Britain, and, as a result, the ship I was going to take across the Irish Sea, a smallish ferry by ocean-going standards, was not going to sail on Monday, but they were putting me on their larger boat. This news completely destroyed my plans for the week.  I needed to get that smaller, speedier ferry because it was the only one that allowed me to catch a train to St. Ives, Cornwall, and arrive the same day.  The next train south was a 17-hour ordeal that would get me there on Tuesday, essentially cutting my already short trip a day shorter.  With that in mind, I emailed Grahame Wheelband, owner of 11 Sea View Terrace, the bed and breakfast where I’d been looking forward to staying, and informed him I wouldn’t be able to make it.  I have to admit that the thing I’m saddest about when it comes to missing out on St. Ives and Cornwall is the chance to meet Grahame.  In the space of a few days and a few emails, I got the impression that Grahame is someone I’d like to get to know, someone whose warmth and personality were evident, even though we’d never met.  I plan to get to St. Ives one day, and I look forward to meeting Grahame when I do.

So, with my plans altered dramatically, Beth and I checked to make sure that her trip home on Monday was still on schedule.  Because the storm’s track started south of Ireland and moved diagonally across Great Britain, the flight that she and Pam and John were on would not be affected.  Knowing what the next day was going to bring, we set out for a day of sightseeing.  Our first stop was the Garden of Remembrance, which features a stunning sculpture dedicated to the many people who stood up to fight during the 700 years of British rule of the island (see Facebook).  You can’t look at this piece of art and not feel the pain and the pride of the Irish who finally were able to achieve freedom in the early 20^th century.  From there we went to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, an ancient illuminated copy of the Gospels.  Both Pam and I noted errors in the displays accompanying the exhibit (The Book of Psalms is not a gospel; John was not a witness to the crucifixion), but it is quite an experience looking at a text that was hand-written and hand-illustrated more than 1000 years ago.

As impressive as the Book of Kells and other ancient texts are, my favorite part of the trip to Trinity, as it was the last time we visited, was the Long Room, the old and wonderful library.  With stacks of leather-bound books that tower overhead and busts of everyone from Socrates to Swift, this is a bibliophile’s version of heaven.  (Again, I’ve posted some pictures on Facebook).  At one point, while I was sitting down and looking at all of the tomes arranged around me, a young boy in his school uniform stopped in front of me and asked, “Is this seat taken?”  Even though Beth had been there a minute earlier before getting up to take a photo, I invited him to sit.  He looked exhausted.  I asked him if he was on a school trip, and he said that he was and that he was in Dublin to play rugby.  Before I had a chance to ask him anything else, I had little rugby players all around me, all wiped out after having played five games in three days and all willing to talk.  I think that those few minutes might have been my favorite time in Dublin, maybe in my trip as a whole.  It was such fun to listen to them talk about their games, to have them show me the souvenirs they’d bought for their families and for themselves that I could have sat there for hours.  But along came their coach who hustled them into the gift shop for a final spending spree before they headed back to London and their boarding school.

That evening, having fully recovered from the debauchery of the three days previous, we took part in the Dublin Literary Pub Crawl, an entertaining two hours of drama and lecture and pub culture directed by professional actors.  In 2011, I answered enough questions correctly that I won a t-shirt, so I stayed mum this time around, paying attention, instead, to the skill of the pair of actors who showed us around.  A favorite moment on the tour came when one of the actors was talking about Brendan Behan, a brilliant writer and notorious drunk whose drinking killed him at a young age.  Behan was in Toronto on a lecture tour when a journalist asked him why he was there.  Behan said, and I paraphrase here, “I saw a sign that said ‘Drink Canada Dry,’ so I thought I’d give it a shot.” We stopped in at four pubs that evening, ending at Davey Byrne’s, a pub labeled as a “moral pub” by James Joyce because Byrne did not drink. 

Early the next morning, I caught a cab to the ferry port and boarded the Ulysses, the largest passenger ferry in Europe.  It’s named after Joyce’s novel (I don’t know why, exactly) and is quite impressive.  It’s nearly as long as two football fields, has 11 decks, including several for cars and trucks, and speeds along at 20-21 knots (about 24 mph).  Because of the storm, which had been named St. Jude, swells on the sea were at 4.5 feet, but there was never any sense of choppiness the entire 3+ hour trip.  Still, I had taken seasickness medicine just before we left, so I may not be the best judge of the trip's roughness; I was fine, a little dopey from the pills, but fine. We arrived at Holyhead, Wales, at the appointed hour, but because of the storm, I had to wait for nearly two hours before I could get on a train to London.  During that time, I checked the timetables and realized I would have a six-hour layover in London before I could get a train to London, so I booked a ride on a National Express bus, which would get me back to Canterbury four hours before the train would get me there. 

The train ride from Holyhead to London took me through very dramatic Welsh countryside.  Rather than the rolling hills of Kent, we passed through fields of gorse studded with craggy rocks (I’m not sure if it was gorse or not; I just like the word), along coastline, beneath and through mountains.  This was my first time in Wales, and I’d like to go back.  Whether Beth and I make the trip in November depends on the weather.  It won’t be much fun trying to hike around in a rain storm and strong winds, which can happen as winter approaches. 

I learned something on the train ride, too.  I have a BritRail pass, which allows me to ride any train anywhere in Great Britain, so I got on at Holyhead, found a seat in a car away from two families with rambunctious children, turned on my iPod and settled in.  A couple of stops later, I was tapped on the shoulder by a young man who said I was in his seat.  It was at this point that I noticed lighted signs next to each pair of seats, some marked Reserved, others marked Available.  I apologized and said I didn’t have a reserved seat, so he pointed me in the direction of an open, unreserved seat, and the rest of the trip went smoothly.  Four hours later, I was back in London and on the Tube headed for Victoria Station and my bus.

Victoria Station is not difficult to navigate.  In fact, there are lines painted on the floor that take you right to where you want to be…or so I thought.  I got on the blue line marked “Bus Depot” and started walking.  I knew that the bus station was not in the train terminal, but when I got to the end of the blue line and found myself outside in the rain on the sidewalk, I had no idea what to do next.  I saw buses moving in all directions, but there was no sign indicating where the station was.  I walked around a corner: nothing.  I went back inside and asked a guy selling cell phones where the station was, and he pointed me back toward the train side of the place.  I went that way but, doubting his knowledge, asked a young woman in a perfume shop where to catch a bus.  She sent me back the way I had just come.  I went outside and started walking, figuring I would find it sooner or later—hopefully sooner because I was running out of time.  I came across a travel agency that was still open, and I asked someone in there where I needed to be, and he waved in the general direction of the train station.  I finally found a place where buses were lined up but didn’t see anything remotely like a station.  I went into another travel agency in the adjoining building and was finally given specific and correct directions.  When I got to the door at the end of the corridor I’d been told to follow, there it was: Victoria Bus Station, clearly marked with a huge lighted sign and people dragging suitcases in through the entrance.  To this day, I don’t know where this is in relation to the train station.  Maybe I can go back in the daytime, and at a time when it’s not raining, and figure it out.  All I cared about at that moment, though, was getting to my bus and getting back to Canterbury, which I did without further incident.

I’m not sure if I’ll have time to write and post next week, but I’ll try.  In addition to guests arriving, I also have my term lecturing to the students in the American Literature class—I’m talking about Edgar Allan Poe—and then we have an overnight field trip to Bath, Oxford and Stonehenge.  Because Elise is not a student in the program, she can’t go on the school coach, so I’m renting a car and driving us to the various spots.  I did most of this particular drive when we were here before, so I’m not worried about getting lost, and I’m not even that worried about driving on the left side of the road.  But, that said, I’m still a bit worried I might do something I shouldn’t.  If I do, I’ll tell you all about it next time.

I'm off to meet Kate at the cathedral for a tour inside. 

Thanks for reading. 

 

p.s. There wasn't much evidence of the power of the St. Jude storm here in Canterbury, other than the River Stour was flowing much faster and deeper than normal, and there were a few limbs down.  In other parts of the country, though, things were much worse, especially in places where the 80-100 mph winds ripped trees up and toppled them on to cars and houses.