Newstead Abbey

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle:
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way

So, I had to squint a little to see the decay that Lord Byron spoke of when he wrote "On Leaving Newstead Abbey. The gardens are definitely NOT choked with thistle, but the house itself was depressing, even when dressed up by subsequent owners and now put on display for tourism purposes.

A few hundred years before the poet was born, King Henry VIII in his quest to turn England Protestant ( and get a divorce) took this abbey away from the Catholic monks and gave it to the first Lord Byron. The church itself was destroyed (too Papal!) but the facing wall was preserved as it was integral to the structure of the rest of the house. Kinda ironic, dontcha think?? The sight of the trees through what was once, surely, a beautiful stained glass window, was both melancholy and satisfying, leading me in many directions of thought about how mankind chooses to symbolize our worship of God.

Much of the Gothic architecture is evident in the spires and the pointed arches, and the huge stained glass window (now gone) that was made possible by the flying buttress wall supports, now also mostly gone. Since much of this would have been gone or deteriorating during poet Byron's time, I can see how this place would have been depressing in a Romantic way. However, my Romantic side would be saddened by the loss of religious fervor about the landscape and in its place, the decadent living of the many Lord Bryons. Byron could only see into the past as far as his own ancestors and the heroes of England were concerned. He vows that he will never disgrace the memory of his Fathers that so permeates Newstead; from what I know of poet Bryon's life, he pretty much lived up to his heritage!

The grounds and gardens of Newstead Abbey are now lovely and meticulously landscaped. Walking through these landscapes was so very different from what I've experienced so far in England. The moors of the Brontes was enlightening; it felt wild and free in an open, expansive, windy sense, and it made me want to be free of society and the mask of myself that I show others,
like Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Sherwood Forest felt merry and made me want to make merry with my friends and be my happy self rather than my tortured self.

Newstead Abbey's gardens were pretty but much too structured and requiring much work to keep flawless. I think it was too much for Byron to handle, emotionally as well as financially. Too much structure, too much molded, too much restriction. These proper English gardens were too easily overrun with thorns and thistles. I think Byron relished the ruin as it gave him much "scope for the imagination." (I hope my kindred spirits caught that reference) Even though he began renovations with a lot of good intentions, he could never restore the house and grounds to his satisfaction, in a way that would honor his Fathers and yet still allow him the freedom of decadence. I must admit, I cannot sympathize! There is very little of Byron's whining that I can stomach; however I can see how these sculptured and molded house and grounds could make his Romantic soul long for the Scotland of his youth with its wildness and roughness.

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains
Round their white summits though elements war
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains
I sigh for the valley of Dark Loch na Garr

Different dialects in English

As I continue my travels in England, Scotland, and Ireland, I am struck by the very different ways that "English" is spoken. It is even more apparent to me that I speak American, not English! I've made a conscious effort to listen to the language around me looking for differences and similarities in how people talk to each other and if it is different in how they talk to me, a foreigner. Since the cities I have been in have been very multi-cultural, I am often forced to ask directions or advice (even when I don't need it!) from random police officers, bus station workers, and museum staff in order to try to hear a native speaking. I have, on more than one occasion and without shame, eavesdropped on conversations in parks and restaurants to catch some local flavor in language. On more than one occasion I was disappointed in my eavesdropping and thought, "Darn! They are not speaking English!" only to discover after a few minutes that they were, indeed, speaking English, just not American, and it took my brain a few minutes to make the transition. It was a surreal experience, as if my Star Trek universal transmitter was malfunctioning for a moment and then kicked back in.

The biggest difference that I've found in England is how LOUD Americans are vs. the English. When a group of English young people are walking along in the shopping mall, they talk in their "inside voice" whereas in the US, if you are in a group in a public place, it seems everyone is using their "outside" voice! The difference in the noise level of the mall is amazing! However, a bus ride in Ireland with a group of teenagers on their way to a professional soccer game was loud, boisterous, and very physical with little regard for personal space.

This seems to be the norm in Ireland, at least in the city. Greetings were loud with back slaps and hand pumping, at least among the men; it was much less reserved than the English. The Irish are louder, more coarse, much more likely to sing along (loudly) to a traditional Irish tune in the pub.

In Ireland, the government-sponsored signs, like for streets and museums, by law is written in English and Irish. All school children in Ireland are required to learn the Irish language throughout their school years. It is an interesting facet of post-colonialism and I am glad to see a government-sponsored resurgence of the language, but our tour guide said that not very many Irish speak the language fluently, no matter how much they may claim to do so.

So, here is my personal lexicon/pronunciation of English, Scottish, and Irish forms of the American language.

A= American E=English S= Scottish I=Irish

Pint (as in pub) E = pyeent S=whiskey I=point

excuse me (as in,
oops, I bumped you!) E=Sorry! S=(smile) I= (dead silence)

tower E=tar S=tar'r I=terror

excuse me (as in,
Please let me pass) E= hullo, there! S=Sorry I= Sorry


If you want to sound English, put the word "then" at the end of most sentences, especially questions. "Are you staying in England long, then?" "Would you like that in a bag, then?" "Here's your sandwich, then." Use whilst in place of while, use fortnight instead of two weeks, and call people "love" instead of the southern American "honey".

If you want to sound Irish, say the time is half five instead of five thirty, sing in public with perfect strangers, and constantly make jokes about how poor your country has been since gaining independence from England.

If you want to sound Scottish, you'll just have to watch Braveheart a few more times; they've got it down pat! Oh, and make lots of reference to how courageous, invincible, and thrifty you are.

So as I make all this congeal into one lump in my brain, I find myself thinking in the accent of the country I'm in, so that when a statement comes out of my mouth to a local, it sounds in my head a little garbled. I am coming to a deeper realization of the power and logic behind a colonial power subverting a local language in order to subdue the people. Language, even a different accent of the same language, is so much a part of the identity of a culture. The people of England, Ireland, and Scotland seem to be able to hold on to their unique differences of English through the centuries, and it only makes me a little prouder to have my own unique American accent!

Sherwood Forest

So today it was off to Sherwood Forest. I've been reading the stories (Pyle's version is the best!!) in the weeks before I arrived but still I was not prepared. The oak trees here look like something out of Dr. Suess's dreams. Their twisty limbs, massive trunks, and widely spread branches give the illusion of ancient living beings. The largest of these trees are 800+ years old, and many are in the 300-500 year range. The power of these trees up close causes me see how the medieval mindset would believe in the Green Man.

I broke off from the group so I could experience the forest with as little human interaction as possible, hoping to run across the Merry Men, for I was hungry for a feast, of the soul if not the body. The trails leading off into the forest were very picturesque and reminded me of an old PBS painting show the girls and I used to watch. The artist would paint a lovely landscape and at the very end of the show would always add a "happy little road." I love these little roads because there is always a hint of something delightful just around the bend ahead.

Around one of these bends I came upon these ancient dead oaks and felt a sense of the sublime. They looked like monuments set there by God to remind mankind of his majesty, sovereignty, and his very name, "The Ancient of Days"

I was reminded of Job 12:12 "with the ancient is wisdom, and in lenght of days is understanding" and Psalm 22:28 "Remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set."

These old oaks are monuments to God and to the people who have gone here before me, stretching back almost a thousand years.

I've been unable to resist taking many pictures of flowers, and there were such a small variety of flowers in Sherwood that I was a little disappointed. The Robin Hood stories often talked (incessantly) about the Merry Men strolling along in forest where the birds are singing and the "hedgerows are green and flowers bedeck the meadows, daisies pied and yellow cuckoo buds and fair primroses all along the briary hedges..." Instead, there were few flowers with the exception of a striking field of purple foxglove.

I started looking lower to the ground, even though it was hard to get my eyes off those big oaks towering into the blue sky. I came across this gem and as I knelt to the ground to take the picture, the class discussions on Lord Bryon's poetry came to mind and I laughed out loud! Bryron was such a whiny brat, wasn't he? For a Romantic (with a capital "R") this picture would cause many a sigh. It may look like just a pretty little weed to you, but notice that it is growing out of a decayed stump of an ancient tree. Even though the flower is pretty, it is the bloom of a stinging nettle, for even beauty must hurt for it to be authentic. So from decay is coming forth beauty, but when beauty is plucked it will cause pain. sigh...how Byronic!

So I continued on this path as far as it would take me until I came to the dreaded man-made fence that surrounds the parkland of Sherwood Forest. I had been told t0 stay within the fence to avoid wandering into the military shooting range, a sort of juxtaposition of the Robin Hood tales that warned the Sheriff to stay out of the forest! I was saddened by the fence at first, and yet as I pondered on it, I realized that the fence posts were made of the wood of the forests. As i shot this Modern image, I saw the single bare tree standing sentinel next to the shorter, stripped down wooden fence post, and I realized that these stories of Robin Hood were only made possible because of fences. The forest law is still in effect today...don't pick the flowers, don't climb the trees, don't drive your car through the forest. The government is now the keeper of the forest and it is the common people who, instead of poaching the deerand removing it from the forest, destroy the forest by leaving the remains of their food and drink behind them. So, the fence is a good thing and as the trees continue to grow, they will overtake the fence and reintegrate the posts into nature.

After all this deep thinking, it was time to head back to the gift shop and museum to meet up with the group. Walking through the exhibits I saw that the focus was all about the child-like fun and wonder of the Robin Hood stories. While there was some interesting displays at grown-up level, underneath each one was a child's eye view of the stories. The exhibits reminded me very much of the forest/tree house in the Cincinnati Children's Museum. The gift shop was 90% devoted to toys, swords, costumes,and the inevitable Robin Hood erasers and rulers. The gift shop certainly knew who their target demographic was, as was proven when a group of high school students came through and almost bought out the place. I must admit, I couldn't resist either! I've never lost my sense of play...

Benander/Byron lecture quotes

Byronic things Professor Benander is known to have said during the Byron discussion in the conservatory this evening:

If Gothic was espresso, Romanticism was cappucino.

Decaying zuchinni, how Romantic!

Live fast and leave a beautiful corpse.

Overseas Surprises

Hostels...such a study in contrasts. I have been so pleasantly surprised by the youth hostels we have stayed in thus far. Two down and two to go!

The first hostel was in Haworth on our journey to the home of the Bronte sisters. It was such a contradiction to be staying in the house of a mill owner whilst (that's how they say "while" in England) making a pilgrimage to the home of those authors who wrote of the social evils of class exploitation and the evils of industrialization.




I expected hostels to be boring, dirty and crowded with low-life. Wow, that sentence would have put me in the class of the elites of the Brontes' time! Alas, the hostel was lovely inside and out. The entry way, the stairs, and the common room lounges and meeting rooms were elablorate, to say the least. During our time there, we had the place almost to ourselves, as a large group had just left and another wasn't coming for a few days; we even got to stay in the same room like a big slumber party.

In reality, we lived as if we were "to the manor born." Someone supplied us with clean, folded bedding, cleaned our room whilst we were on a walk, cooked a nice, hot breakfast for us in the morning, and then washed the dishes! And we only paid them a small fee for this. It was almost as if we were exploiting the working class. Comical to think of, in a way.




The next hostel was a similarly impressive building right up next to Edinburgh Castle.











I foolishly expected it to be similar to the previous hostel. After all, in the States, mid- priced hotels are all pretty similar (with some exceptions, of course!) However, my pre-trip expectations were much more accurate here. It was loud, I was in a room with perfect strangers, I had to sleep on the top bunk, and the bed was already made when I got there. Did that mean they hadn't really changed the sheets? The hostel was described by a member of our group as "gritty" and I couldn't agree more.






It was also very hostel-y inside, but I was surprised at the sheer silliness of the place! The rooms all had theme names. Some of my group stayed in a Snow White room, and the beds were named dwarf-style; Thelma's was Touchy-Feely. My room was the Latin Room, and the name of my top bunk was Gluteous Maximus. Appropriate, huh?


And now the big surprise; I didn't really care about any of this! I was too tired to care if some stranger had slept in the bed before me. The loudness cat-calls right under my window as a parade of women against breast cancer marched by dressed in breast-appropriate clothing did not keep me awake; I didn't bother to get down from the top bunk to watch. Sleeping in a roomful of strangers did not rattle me; I even invited the Finnish girl in the bottom bunk to dinner.

And the biggest surprise of all? I was not surprised that I did not care. I have always been a confident woman, but this trip at this stage in my life has allowed me to be independent and self-reliant in a way that even I have not experienced before. I felt perfectly at peace leaving the group of younger girls and branching out on my own in order to experience all the sites of Edinburgh that I were important to me. I have come to terms with this alone-ness and accepted Professor Benander encouragement: "Embrace the old lady-ness. It is freedom!"

Habits in Harlaxton, Haworth, and Home

Oh, how the mighty have fallen! I am no longer queen of all I survey, but I must conform myself to living an institutionalized life in a college dorm in England. No longer can I eat when my stomach growls (my preferred method) but I must eat when the clock and the cook says it is time. No more meals plopped on the couch with my family and a great movie but with a crowd in the dining hall.

One thing I cannot get used to is this English notion of two spigots in every sink. Now, I don't mean two handles, but two different exit points for hot and cold, spaced as far apart as the sink will allow.

So, you either wash your hands in scalding hot water or ice cold water, or you try the "back and forth really fast" method of mixing the water. At first I thought these faucets were only at Harlaxton, since it was so old, but in my travels I find they are everywhere: in the train stations, on the trains themselves, in the modern shopping centers. In my dorm room it is the most inconvenient. I had hopes of washing my hair in the sink as I do sometimes at home. I tried it yesterday just for fun (!). I filled up the sink by putting in the little rubber plug on a chain and mixing hot and cold to a nice temperature. Then I literally stuck my head down into the water and splashed it with my hands to the back of my head. It was comical and painful. How I take for granted those lovely faucets back home! I remember buying a new faucet for the bathroom at home and the agony of deciding between a one handle or a two handle. I have a new appreciation for the wide range of faucet choices we have in the states. I think if I moved here I would order a bathroom faucet from home!

Another thing that has struck me in this place is how important steps are in my new life here. I'm sure there's a symbolic metaphor somewhere in here for this stage in my life, but I leave it to you to find it. Suffice it to say, I think about steps often and find myself taking lots of pictures of them. The first set I encountered at Harlaxton was the five-flight, straight up, dark and dingy set with a cagey lift in the middle, that ended in the path to my dorm room.

It was a love/hate relationship. The exercise was great but it did nothing for my soul. I was soon scouting for an alternative.

Now I take the oak staircase as often as I can and always stop for the look up.

The intricate plaster work, the mirrors, the view of the painted ceiling and the natural sunlight does much more for my outlook. Looking up as you climb does that for a person.



The steps that greeted me at the youth hostel drew me up as well, with the beautiful 3 story high stained glass window at the landing. It seems I'm always drawn to the light...



The stone steps up the moors brought back the love/hate relationship in reverse. My soul was satified on the moors, but the exercise was almost too much for enjoyment (we hiked nine miles that day!)


So, I've discovered a love of steps in my life. Now I know why I have often contemplated how to improve the 1880s (now 1980s) staircase in my own home. feel a greater need to rescue it from pure functionality and return it to a thing of beauty. As on the moors, outlook with introspection is everything. Beauty along the way and something to look forward to at the top of the climb can make it all worthwhile. Again, I'm sure there's a life lesson in there somewhere, but I leave it to your own contemplation.

The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way. Psalm 37:23

Poetic Pace Car - Dr. Ruth Benander

If you can keep up you can really hear some great stuff! I was able to stay close enough for about an hour and heard some Emily Dickinson...

I never saw a moor
I never saw the sea
and yet I know how the heather looks
and what a wave must be
...and a little Blake as we gazed down into the valley at the mill buildings...

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my charriot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

and then I lost her. I could not keep up with Action Grrl
sigh

The Moors of England

We spent two half-days exploring Bronte Country (Haworth). The hike up through the town of Haworth was very quaint, but the tour guide quickly dispelled that myth with her graphic description of running sewage, crowded conditions, and unhealthy water supplies from the groundwater running through the small cemetery where 42,000 (!) bodies were buried and not decomposing very well. (No wonder the Brontes all died young)

In the parsonage at the very top, right at the edge of the moors,is where the Bronte family lived and died young while producing some of the most enduring British Literature classics of all times. As we toured the Bronte parsonage, now turned into a museum, I was struck by the very small size of the rooms. However, after seeing the tiny shoes and dresses of the Bronte sisters I see that they fit quite nicely in the doll-house of a parsonage. The family life as presented at the museum seemed to be all about writing and very little about the day-to-day existence of the family; no laundry, no chamber pot, even the kitchen where Emily made the family bread focused more on the German book propped up by the breadboard than the production of the family's meals. This is quite different from other "home life" museums that I have attended. The museum catered exclusively to the literary pilgrim, as it focused almost exclusively on the actual writings of the family and quite a lot on brother Branwell's paintings. The sister's lap writing desks were fascinating, especially Emily's, which still held a set of lick-n-stick stamps that were brain teaser puzzles.

The Brontes, as children, wrote very tiny books for their imaginary worlds. The books can only be read with a magnifying glass! As I walked among the heath and bracken on the moors, I could see how the Bronte children could see a tiny land with the heath as the forest. It was easy to imagine the fairies still in England and living on the moors and dales.

The gift shop again catered to the literary pilgrim with a few nods to bored children and teenagers. Many versions of the Bronte novels were evident along with biographies and historical treatises of the village of Haworth and the surrounding countryside. I was so pleased to find a nicely done graphic novel of Jane Eyre to use in my middle school classroom, but the graphic novel of Wuthering Heights was atrocious. It looked like an over-stylized Spider Man comic, with lots of sinewy muscles and boobs popping out everywhere in anime style. I passed. In the middle of the gift shop was a kiosk with typical toys (balls, crazy pens, puzzle books, stuffed animals, etc.) that was obviously placed there to keep kids busy while Mom perused the Bronte paraphernalia.

Up to the moors we hiked the next day, nine miles up and back from our youth hostel. I think 8.5 of those miles were straight up! How did those women hike this in little heels, dresses with petticoats, and only a wool shawl? I was tired and wet but still contemplative. The wind was relentless and yet not unwelcome. I could imagine Cathy and Heathcliff here as I stood on the cliff covered with heath (sometimes Emily Bronte just hammers home her symbolism, know what I mean?)The moors don't seem desolate from a Wuthering Heights perspective, but they seem above it all, in both a physical and a metaphorical sense. However, thinking of Jane Eyre roaming lost among the moors searching for peace and safety from the storms of love and life, the desolation side of the place is apparent. It is interesting to see the quite different feelings about the moors as written by the Bronte sisters. If it is possible, I would like to agree with both of them. My senses were invigorated by the moors and I got a touch of the sublime, but I would not like to be up here alone in the rain in the dark, overnight, with no home to welcome my return. I have a greater sense of Jane's despair on the moors.

I look forward to reading all the Bronte sisters' works again (some of Anne's for the first time) now that this place is in my soul.

Cultural/social interactions

(photo is a flower in the conservatory at Harlaxton)

I've been paying special attention to the everyday interactions of the English on our trips into the market town of Grantham. First of all, the shuttle/cab ride to and from Harlaxton is frightening! I can't shake the feeling that the car coming down the wrong(!) side of the road is going to hit us head-on, and I have never seen people drive so fast on such narrow roads. Seatbelts are a must and are a large part of the culture. We have been asked to put them on by every driver of every vehicle we've been in, including the big motor coach. (Does a Croswell bus in Cincy even have seatbelts?) It's been another adjustment to realize that here, pedestrians DO NOT have the right-of-way. Simply crossing the street has been quite an adventure.

I've also noticed that most people, including our drivers, are quite chatty IF YOU APPROACH THEM FIRST! I am so used to being greeted by clerks (sometimes forcefully) in stores in the U.S., but here no one speaks to me unless I speak to them first. They are always properly polite, but very few smiles. Everyone talks so softly that it is easy to hear us Americans coming from far away. I'm beginning to wince a little at my own loudness. In the States, it is almost a badge of honor for me to say, "I come from a loud family" and make no effort to change, but the longer I am here the more I catch myself sub-consciously trying to be quieter (volume-wise, not quantity wise!)

The English seem to be very aware of personal space and the rules of public spaces. I made the mistake of getting out of the wrong side of the shuttle bus (why can't I use that door?) and was later informed that the driver was "quite put out." After speaking to the very helpful lady clerk at the train station, I made the mistake of going the wrong direction in the queue to exit. There was only one man in line, but he very testily said (try this at home in an English accent), "You've got to go 'round that way, can't you see?" This was not said politely, but rather incredulously that I would even consider going against the flow. I'm going to make a conscious effort to abide by this as I make my way around the country. I'm trying hard not to be the arrogant American that expects others to conform to me and my ways.

My conclusion is that the English do not initiate conversations with strangers, are polite when spoken to without actually smiling, and are helpful as long as you follow the rules.

Not unlike myself...

The View from Here

This is what I wake up to every morning. The course is appropriately entitled "Literature in the Landscape" and I see inspiration in every landscape here, even from my 5th floor dorm. I think anyone who lived here could be a poet or an artist, even if it was just in her own heart.

The Village of Grantham

Not far from Harlaxton College is the village of Grantham. After lunch we all decided to take the shuttle into the village to buy supplies at the grocery store for late night snacking. Grantham is the childhood home of Sir Isaac Newton, whose statue stands proudly in the town square, right in front of the Grantham Museum. This side of town looks very much as I expected: old-world style buildings, lots of old mossy stone work, neat old churches, most buildings two stories, no higher. It was charming and very "English."

Do not be deceived, however. Directly across from the memorial to Sir Isaac is the Isaac Newton Shopping Center. I'm not sure how Sir Isaac would feel about this particular commercialized tribute to his name, but it made me laugh and made me a little sad at the same time. After all, what does shopping have to do with Newton? Was the shopping mall named this to capitalize on Newton's name or simply because it was across from the famous statue? In America we tend to name shopping malls in an "olde England" style, as if Eastgate Mall was the East gate into the walled city. I suppose I shouldn't judge, since the English have every right to decide how to honor their heroes. This, too, seems to be very "English."

One thing different about this mall, which was mostly very much like any American mall, was the proliferation of thrift shops. I was in heaven!! If you look closely you can see one under the shopping center sign. I found three of these shops in this mall, each one dedicated to a different charity: charitable veterenarians, dignified living for older people, and the association for the blind. Each shop was small, very well organized,tastefully arranged, and best of all, CHEAP!! I was impressed that here in England, thrift store shopping is not relegated to the abandoned shabby store front, and those shopping have a better sense of the charity it will benefit, rather than just how big a bargain they can find. While in one store buying this very cute scarf for £1, a lady walked up to the counter and gave a handful of change to the clerk for "the lovely animals."

How refreshing!

Merry Adventures

You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give

yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness

in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with

innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you.

From The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

In two days I embark on a journey to the land of Fancy. I have spent three years at UC "plodding among serious things" and am ready for a few Merry Adventures of my own. I've never been on an airplane (never!) and I've never been out of the United States, (well, the Canadian side of the Falls doesn't really count).

I've indulged myself the past few days with books that are not textbooks but real literature. I'd almost forgotten how much I missed that. It will be a real treat to actually visit the landscapes in the stories and surround myself with others who find "mirth and joyousness" in dusty old books.

I am looking forward to reading The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood aloud to my grandson Tyler on my return. He loaned me his small Bible for my trip (the only one that would fit in my tiny suitcase) so I owe him the treat of sharing "innocent laughter that can harm no one."

I am grateful most of all to almighty God who has blessed me with this small side trip in my lifelong journey.

You have made known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand. - Psalm 16:11