The weather here today is perfect. The sun was high and warm by the time I woke up this morning, so I went for a walk.
I pulled on my hiking boots and picked a direction on the map. The other day (per Zach's suggestion) I walked North along the coast, skirting the old golf course and ending at the Firth of Tay. I decided to walk away from the coast this time and chose a road that angled its way out of town towards the southwest. I walked through town, past the cathedral ruins, and was out into farm land sooner than I had anticipated. The hills were fat and soft, like a sleeping animal. The scattered farms looked prosperous and the meadows climbed high up the rolling hillsides, giving the valleys an alpine air. I was the only person on the road except for a few sheep, and it stayed that way for over an hour. I crested a ridge overlooking an expanse of hazy foothills and saw a sign for the nearby town of Prior Muir and decided to check it out.
I walked past the Prior Muir Inn -- white stucco, blue shutters, no sign of life -- and wandered up a hill, past a white Anglican church and pleasant, dozing houses. At the crest of the hill stood a broad commons, with an obelisk and flagpole, and beside it an old cemetery. A series of pale green and brown hills rolled away to the horizon, like the swells of the sea. Below me the church bell tolled the hour, but otherwise there was not a sound. This was as perfect a spot as I had ever seen.
I had a look at the obelisk. COMMEMORATING PRIOR MUIR SOLDIERS, it said, and had names carved in it, good Scottish names like Rowan MacCrary, Stewart MacDonnald, and Horace MacHaggis. There were almost fifty names in all, too high a number surely for such a small village in Fife. But then the cemetery beside the commons also looked far too big for the size of the village. It covered the hillside and the dozens of ornate monuments suggested that this had once been a place of wealth.
I went through the gate and walked slowly around. One particularly beautiful stone caught my eye, an octagonal marble column surmounted by a granite sphere. The column logged the copious deaths of MacCleods and their near relatives for the last two hundred years. A small square on the back said:
Douglas H. died July 24 1852 AE. 4 Y's 1 M'o
Joshua F. died July 31 1852 AE. 1 YR 11 M's.
Children of J. & C. MacCleod.
What could it have been, I wondered, that carried off these two little brothers just a week apart? A fever? It seemed unlikely in July. An accident in which one died and the other lingered? Two unrelated events? I pictured the parents crouched at Joshua F's bedside, watching his life ebb, praying to God not to take him as well, and having their hopes crushed. Isn't life crappy? Everywhere I looked there was disappointment and heartbreak recorded in the stones: "Joseph, son of Ephraim and Sarah MacDonald, died March 18 1846, aged 18 Yrs," etc. So many were so young. I became infected with an inexpressible melancholy as I wandered along among these hundreds of stilled souls, the emptied lives, the row upon row of ended dreams. Such a sad place! I stood there in the mild September sunshine, feeling so sorry for all these luckless people and their lost lives, reflecting bleakly on mortality and on my own dear, cherished family so far away in America, and I thought, 'Well, screw this,' and walked back down the hill to St. Andrews.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Quick Photo Call
The countryside. Oh, Tess!
The room. I made my bed for y'all!
Out and about in St. Andrews with Meghan and Alice... at Golf Place, a pub by the 18th Green
day trip to Dundee with Meghan!
Some FAQ's, just like a proper website
I've been getting loads of emails asking me basic things like 'what does your room look like?' and 'is the food really so bad?' ... so the structure of this post is inspired by every bad college admissions website I've ever looked at. I'm sorry for dwelling on things like brothels and naphenge in previous posts. Here are the TRUTHS -- the nittygritty -- about my life here on the north sea:
WHAT IS YOUR ROOM LIKE?
Well ok. I'll lay it out for you. I'm living in the ugliest building on campus... probably for miles around. I live in the basement and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the front door from my room. My room came equipped with:
1 army cot (wooden. possible termite infestation)
1 desk chair (squeaky)
1 desk (drawer-less)
1 overhead light (takes three minutes to warm up to dull buzz)
2 windows (drapes possibly stolen from Motel 6 outside of Reno, Nevada)
1 small heater (cuts on for two hours a day)
1 wardrobe (again, drawer-less)
4 walls (cinder block and crazy-pills white)
1 mirror (makes one appear at least ten pounds heavier)
1 sink (has one faucet for liquid nitrogen water and one for boiling, molten lava. Oh, and don't drink the water. You will die.)
... but I love it! There is a sweet cleaning lady named Val who is VERY Scottish and comes in to clean every morning. She vaccuumes the rooms two days a week and empties the trash three days a week. She cleans the shower and the bathroom every day and generally bustles around acting like our mother and asking us if we want any extra trash bags. It's pretty amazing. I've never been so clean in my life. I feel like I will let Val down if I don't pick up, and most of you know how I am about approval...
I am in a block of eight other girls. The challenge of living in Andrew Melville has inspired a sort of 'unite or fall' mentality in the hall and so we've spent many hours drinking tea and pouring over fashion magazines together. Everyone is lovely and lively and we've had the best time going on day trips and pub crawls and helping each other out with the challenges of matriculating at The World's Most Confusing School. I was sick this past week, and I can't count the number of times that someone popped into my room to check on me or bring me tea or cake and ask if I needed anything.
I've recently finished decorating my room. I've always been a "nester" and even though I wasn't really able to bring a lot with me, I've come up with some cool stuff to fill the walls and keep my aesthetics under control. St. Andrews is crawling with fabulous second-hand book stores, so I picked up several old art books (for 1 or 2 pounds a piece!) filled with fabulous old color plates and etchings. I took them home and ripped them apart, cutting at random, and made a massive (probably 4' by 9') collage on the big wall over my bed. Gaugin, Goya, Matisse, Pissaro, Whistler, Sisley... it's a very controlled visual overload and I love it.
WHAT IS THE FOOD LIKE?
Meat and potatoes. That is all. One day they gave us colliflower in velveeta cheese as an entree to mix it up. We were not amused.
It's pretty awful in hall, but it's hard to complain too much because
a) it's free
b) the exchange rate is atrocious
c) everyone who works in the caf is really, really friendly
d) complaining is for losers
I've always had a secret soft spot for institutional food (salisbury steak anyone!?!?), so I can pack away my fair share of boiled potatoes and fish sticks. Mmm, mmm, good.
The food in town is amazing if you can afford it. I have several favorite places already, but my especial favorite is a little sandwich shop called Cherrie's. It's a hole in the wall on south street, but they make the best turkey-brie-cranberry melt I've ever had. Their menu is always changing and they've got loads of crazy combinations. I went in the other day and had a southern fried chicken baguette with sweet chili and bleu cheese! It was, of course, delicious, and if you come visit me we will definitely have a stop at Cherrie's.
WHAT CLASSES ARE YOU TAKING? DO YOU LIKE THEM SO FAR? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR PROFESSORS?
I am taking two classes this semester for a total of 50 "units," which roughly translates to 16 academic credit hours at UNC. After some serious juggling and modifications to my schedule, I've ended up with:
EN4003, The Novels of Jane Austen in Context
and
AH3001, The History and Theory of European Art, Architecture and Design 1800-1906
The Scottish furniture class I was all set up to take got cancelled and I was, of course, devastated, but there's always next semester!
My English class is absolutely amazing. No bones about it. We filed into the seminar room on Monday morning and took seats around a huge U-shaped desk. Our professor, a timid looking lady with the sort of hair you might find on someone who stuck their finger in a light socket, bustled in a few moments later laden with papers, a tripod, and a projection screen. She greeted us and proceeded to set up the equipment, all the while trilling on and on about how excited she was about the class and how she was ever so embarassed -- "I beg your PAHdon, I beg your PAHdon" -- about how unprepared she was. Once everything was set up she popped in a tape and hit play. I was a little surprised to see that she was, in fact, showing a clip from the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.
She showed us the famous 'wet shirt' scene (you know, the one where Colin Firth dives into the pond at Pemberly and then trots across the lawn in a transparent shirt and bumps into Elizabeth), and I was interested to see how she would tie this in to her introduction. I will admit that I am severely jaded by past attempts from English professors at showing something 'hip' to keep a class of mostly non-English majors engaged. I've watched so many movie versions of books I feel like I could technically have a minor in film studies by now... so my dismay at seeing this approach emulated by a professor when I had crossed the ocean to escape it was boundless.
My fears were quickly assuaged, however, when she flipped the movie off and launched into perhaps the most cogent and multi-faceted lecture I have ever heard. The Davis Adaptation (as this version is called amongst the critics), she explained, was mostly concerned with incorporating contemporary Austen criticism into the plot, even if it meant deviating from the original text. In the wet shirt scene, for example, Davis is exploring concepts of gender studies and the conflict of desire and self-expression. She then handed out excerpts of writings by Edmund Burke and Thomas Paine, outlining the two different political camps that were active during the time Austen was writing P&P. I'll wrap it up (because, well, this is getting kind of boring) and say that she ended up bringing in the French Revolution, contemporary painting, the popularity of silhouettes, and the "science" of judging character based on looks. I was enthralled, and as soon as lecture let out I rushed home over the cobblestones to call my mom and rave about my new academic mecca.
My art history class is equally informative, although slightly more foreboding. The professor is Australian and I have a harder time understanding her than I do the Scottish. She has very short hair and wears dark-framed glasses and sensible shoes. My class is filled with the type of people you see in the background of paparazzi photos of Prince William. I'm pretty sure one of them was carrying a Birkin bag as a school bag. The stakes, as they say, have been raised.
I'm excited about the curriculum for the course. I never managed to get a really solid foundation in, say, Impressionism at UNC. I can tell you anything you want to know about Medieval, Byzantine, Early-Christian, and Eastern art, but I can't tell you a whole lot about Degas. I took a whole course on the history of the illuminated manuscript, but I know next to nothing about neo-classicism. SO, I think I will benefit alot from the course, even if it means having to take yet another dreaded SLIDE EXAM (nooooooo!!!!!).
ARE THE RUMOURS TRUE? ARE YOU PLAYING ON THE SOCCER TEAM?
Yes, it's true. Big Tall Goalie is back. I was pretty good two years and fifteen pounds ago... so I think it's going to be a bit of an uphill battle to get my reflexes and conditioning back. It's a great group of girls, and I'll get to see a bit of the UK on our away matches so I'm pretty pumped. We train two days a week and play matches on Wednesdays. Next week we are leaving town at 4 am to play Aberdeen! Danger!
WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT NIGHT?
Well for the last two nights I have been bed-ridden by a mysterious rogue virus, but before that I was doing a variety of things about town with the girls in my block. The bar scene is pretty lively, especially now at the start of term, so we've done our fair share of pub crawling and having ridiculous conversations with guys from the nearby RAF base. The opening ball is next weekend, so I'm pulling out the formal and tripping my way to the lawn of St. Salvators for a grand old time.
DO YOU HAVE TO WEAR THE RED CAPE ALL THE TIME?
Don't I wish! I'm loving that thing. Patrick pointed out it was very Handmaid's Tale-esque, which I hadn't thought of before, so now I love it even more! People generally wear them for debates, chapel, as tour guides, to get in to museums free, and for other formal events... but not around town and to class. I see them around town pretty much every day, but only on a handful of people.
WHAT IS THE WEATHER LIKE?
I almost didn't bring sunglasses, and boy am I glad I did! It has been gloriously sunny almost every day since I've been here. The clouds rolling in off the sea look like the big, puffy kind you always see in nautical paintings. You can see for miles. It's pretty sweet.
WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?
December 18th- January 9th.
DO YOU LOVE IT?
Sure do.
... Send me any more FAQ's you might have. I'm kinda loving this format.
I'm off to read! love.
WHAT IS YOUR ROOM LIKE?
Well ok. I'll lay it out for you. I'm living in the ugliest building on campus... probably for miles around. I live in the basement and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the front door from my room. My room came equipped with:
1 army cot (wooden. possible termite infestation)
1 desk chair (squeaky)
1 desk (drawer-less)
1 overhead light (takes three minutes to warm up to dull buzz)
2 windows (drapes possibly stolen from Motel 6 outside of Reno, Nevada)
1 small heater (cuts on for two hours a day)
1 wardrobe (again, drawer-less)
4 walls (cinder block and crazy-pills white)
1 mirror (makes one appear at least ten pounds heavier)
1 sink (has one faucet for liquid nitrogen water and one for boiling, molten lava. Oh, and don't drink the water. You will die.)
... but I love it! There is a sweet cleaning lady named Val who is VERY Scottish and comes in to clean every morning. She vaccuumes the rooms two days a week and empties the trash three days a week. She cleans the shower and the bathroom every day and generally bustles around acting like our mother and asking us if we want any extra trash bags. It's pretty amazing. I've never been so clean in my life. I feel like I will let Val down if I don't pick up, and most of you know how I am about approval...
I am in a block of eight other girls. The challenge of living in Andrew Melville has inspired a sort of 'unite or fall' mentality in the hall and so we've spent many hours drinking tea and pouring over fashion magazines together. Everyone is lovely and lively and we've had the best time going on day trips and pub crawls and helping each other out with the challenges of matriculating at The World's Most Confusing School. I was sick this past week, and I can't count the number of times that someone popped into my room to check on me or bring me tea or cake and ask if I needed anything.
I've recently finished decorating my room. I've always been a "nester" and even though I wasn't really able to bring a lot with me, I've come up with some cool stuff to fill the walls and keep my aesthetics under control. St. Andrews is crawling with fabulous second-hand book stores, so I picked up several old art books (for 1 or 2 pounds a piece!) filled with fabulous old color plates and etchings. I took them home and ripped them apart, cutting at random, and made a massive (probably 4' by 9') collage on the big wall over my bed. Gaugin, Goya, Matisse, Pissaro, Whistler, Sisley... it's a very controlled visual overload and I love it.
WHAT IS THE FOOD LIKE?
Meat and potatoes. That is all. One day they gave us colliflower in velveeta cheese as an entree to mix it up. We were not amused.
It's pretty awful in hall, but it's hard to complain too much because
a) it's free
b) the exchange rate is atrocious
c) everyone who works in the caf is really, really friendly
d) complaining is for losers
I've always had a secret soft spot for institutional food (salisbury steak anyone!?!?), so I can pack away my fair share of boiled potatoes and fish sticks. Mmm, mmm, good.
The food in town is amazing if you can afford it. I have several favorite places already, but my especial favorite is a little sandwich shop called Cherrie's. It's a hole in the wall on south street, but they make the best turkey-brie-cranberry melt I've ever had. Their menu is always changing and they've got loads of crazy combinations. I went in the other day and had a southern fried chicken baguette with sweet chili and bleu cheese! It was, of course, delicious, and if you come visit me we will definitely have a stop at Cherrie's.
WHAT CLASSES ARE YOU TAKING? DO YOU LIKE THEM SO FAR? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR PROFESSORS?
I am taking two classes this semester for a total of 50 "units," which roughly translates to 16 academic credit hours at UNC. After some serious juggling and modifications to my schedule, I've ended up with:
EN4003, The Novels of Jane Austen in Context
and
AH3001, The History and Theory of European Art, Architecture and Design 1800-1906
The Scottish furniture class I was all set up to take got cancelled and I was, of course, devastated, but there's always next semester!
My English class is absolutely amazing. No bones about it. We filed into the seminar room on Monday morning and took seats around a huge U-shaped desk. Our professor, a timid looking lady with the sort of hair you might find on someone who stuck their finger in a light socket, bustled in a few moments later laden with papers, a tripod, and a projection screen. She greeted us and proceeded to set up the equipment, all the while trilling on and on about how excited she was about the class and how she was ever so embarassed -- "I beg your PAHdon, I beg your PAHdon" -- about how unprepared she was. Once everything was set up she popped in a tape and hit play. I was a little surprised to see that she was, in fact, showing a clip from the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.
She showed us the famous 'wet shirt' scene (you know, the one where Colin Firth dives into the pond at Pemberly and then trots across the lawn in a transparent shirt and bumps into Elizabeth), and I was interested to see how she would tie this in to her introduction. I will admit that I am severely jaded by past attempts from English professors at showing something 'hip' to keep a class of mostly non-English majors engaged. I've watched so many movie versions of books I feel like I could technically have a minor in film studies by now... so my dismay at seeing this approach emulated by a professor when I had crossed the ocean to escape it was boundless.
My fears were quickly assuaged, however, when she flipped the movie off and launched into perhaps the most cogent and multi-faceted lecture I have ever heard. The Davis Adaptation (as this version is called amongst the critics), she explained, was mostly concerned with incorporating contemporary Austen criticism into the plot, even if it meant deviating from the original text. In the wet shirt scene, for example, Davis is exploring concepts of gender studies and the conflict of desire and self-expression. She then handed out excerpts of writings by Edmund Burke and Thomas Paine, outlining the two different political camps that were active during the time Austen was writing P&P. I'll wrap it up (because, well, this is getting kind of boring) and say that she ended up bringing in the French Revolution, contemporary painting, the popularity of silhouettes, and the "science" of judging character based on looks. I was enthralled, and as soon as lecture let out I rushed home over the cobblestones to call my mom and rave about my new academic mecca.
My art history class is equally informative, although slightly more foreboding. The professor is Australian and I have a harder time understanding her than I do the Scottish. She has very short hair and wears dark-framed glasses and sensible shoes. My class is filled with the type of people you see in the background of paparazzi photos of Prince William. I'm pretty sure one of them was carrying a Birkin bag as a school bag. The stakes, as they say, have been raised.
I'm excited about the curriculum for the course. I never managed to get a really solid foundation in, say, Impressionism at UNC. I can tell you anything you want to know about Medieval, Byzantine, Early-Christian, and Eastern art, but I can't tell you a whole lot about Degas. I took a whole course on the history of the illuminated manuscript, but I know next to nothing about neo-classicism. SO, I think I will benefit alot from the course, even if it means having to take yet another dreaded SLIDE EXAM (nooooooo!!!!!).
ARE THE RUMOURS TRUE? ARE YOU PLAYING ON THE SOCCER TEAM?
Yes, it's true. Big Tall Goalie is back. I was pretty good two years and fifteen pounds ago... so I think it's going to be a bit of an uphill battle to get my reflexes and conditioning back. It's a great group of girls, and I'll get to see a bit of the UK on our away matches so I'm pretty pumped. We train two days a week and play matches on Wednesdays. Next week we are leaving town at 4 am to play Aberdeen! Danger!
WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT NIGHT?
Well for the last two nights I have been bed-ridden by a mysterious rogue virus, but before that I was doing a variety of things about town with the girls in my block. The bar scene is pretty lively, especially now at the start of term, so we've done our fair share of pub crawling and having ridiculous conversations with guys from the nearby RAF base. The opening ball is next weekend, so I'm pulling out the formal and tripping my way to the lawn of St. Salvators for a grand old time.
DO YOU HAVE TO WEAR THE RED CAPE ALL THE TIME?
Don't I wish! I'm loving that thing. Patrick pointed out it was very Handmaid's Tale-esque, which I hadn't thought of before, so now I love it even more! People generally wear them for debates, chapel, as tour guides, to get in to museums free, and for other formal events... but not around town and to class. I see them around town pretty much every day, but only on a handful of people.
WHAT IS THE WEATHER LIKE?
I almost didn't bring sunglasses, and boy am I glad I did! It has been gloriously sunny almost every day since I've been here. The clouds rolling in off the sea look like the big, puffy kind you always see in nautical paintings. You can see for miles. It's pretty sweet.
WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?
December 18th- January 9th.
DO YOU LOVE IT?
Sure do.
... Send me any more FAQ's you might have. I'm kinda loving this format.
I'm off to read! love.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Gown and all; I'm a St. Andrews girl!
Here it is... the fabled red gown. Worn by undergradutes since 1672, it is thought that the compulsory wearing of gowns was implemented to prevent students from frequenting bars and brothels, as their gowns would have made them instantly recognizable as students. Depending on what year they are students wear their gowns in various ways; I have mine off my shoulders because I'm a fourth year. It is unlucky to fasten the hooks of the gown or to wash it. Oh, and did I mention that I am on the quidditch team and my defense against the dark arts teacher is totally bumming me out? 
This past week I was in the midst of several thousand people engaged in seven days (dubiously called Freshers' Week) of the most violent, ridiciulous partying I have ever experienced. There is a certain edge to orientation week when the drinking age is 18 and the freshers get to meet in bars instead of furtively drinking from plastic cups behind dumpsters. It was basically CTOPS with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. I had fun... but mostly just felt old.
Dodging vomit aside, I had a pretty amazing week at St. Andrews. I registered for classes, joined the women's soccer team, and took a day trip to Dundee with my neighbor, Meghan. I went to a flat party, survived a pub crawl, and ate late-night kebabs on the main street. I discovered some beautiful footpaths, bought old art books from St. A's oldest book shop, and ate world famous fish and chips by the harbour in Anstruther.
Classes started yesterday; suffice it to say I am pretty much loving life? Here are some sweet photos from my first week:
Just trolling for prospects outside the Math Building! No big deal...
The art history building looks a little like a castle and is built on a cliff overlooking the North Sea. Not bad at all!
This past week I was in the midst of several thousand people engaged in seven days (dubiously called Freshers' Week) of the most violent, ridiciulous partying I have ever experienced. There is a certain edge to orientation week when the drinking age is 18 and the freshers get to meet in bars instead of furtively drinking from plastic cups behind dumpsters. It was basically CTOPS with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. I had fun... but mostly just felt old.
Dodging vomit aside, I had a pretty amazing week at St. Andrews. I registered for classes, joined the women's soccer team, and took a day trip to Dundee with my neighbor, Meghan. I went to a flat party, survived a pub crawl, and ate late-night kebabs on the main street. I discovered some beautiful footpaths, bought old art books from St. A's oldest book shop, and ate world famous fish and chips by the harbour in Anstruther.
Classes started yesterday; suffice it to say I am pretty much loving life? Here are some sweet photos from my first week:
Just trolling for prospects outside the Math Building! No big deal...
The art history building looks a little like a castle and is built on a cliff overlooking the North Sea. Not bad at all!
Me and Meghan outside our building, Andrew Melville Hall. I'm not going to lie to you, it's probably the ugliest building for miles. Some people call it Andrew Smellville, but I would rather not go there. My room is the window furthest to the right and on the bottom. Yep, basement style. Hey, at least I have single...
My new running path goes right along the old golf course. Beware of the slice!
Me, Meghan and Erica (Gwen, our fourth, is taking the photo) on a girls' night out
Of course, love and missing you.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Crossing the Scottish border...
... should be exciting. Whenever I cross a boundary line I get a little tingle of excitement thinking about all those blank pages in the back of my passport waiting for stamps, but this time was the exception. I got a little tingle... only it was definitely a tingle of apprehension. Well I guess it was that and the fact that I really had to pee. We had been driving for almost three hours without stopping.
We started out that morning with a leisurely drive through the Lake District. This little detour on our way to Scotland was mostly an homage to my late grandmother Josephine, who spent years travelling abroad in the grand style but somehow never made it to the Lake District. Her last trip overseas was with my family to the Virgin Islands and when she got home she quietly announced that it would be her last trip abroad. My father asked her if there was anywhere else she wanted to go and she replied "I always wanted to see the Lake Country." So, of course, we went to see the lakes just for her.
The Lakes are gorgeous. Ike and I stopped along the way to throw rocks into the water and think deep thoughts. It was very peaceful. We turned Northeast and headed towards Scotland by about 10:30 in the morning. I was excited about the evening ahead; we were staying the night in a castle!
We crossed the Scottish border around noon and drove straight to Stirling for lunch. There was still the matter of figuring out exactly where Ethie Castle (our home for the night) was located. I was under the vague impression that it was somewhere around Pitlochry, the Victorian resort town I visited last summer and fell madly in love with, in Perthshire. We drove around Stirling looking for a car park and/or a Thomas Cook and were extrememly fortunate to find both within reasonable walking distance. We wandered through a pedestrian area of Stirling in what must be the shopping district because I saw another Topshop and a huge, underground shopping center called The Thistles. (Fun fact: though commonly admired as the national flower of Scotland, the thistle is in fact just a prickly weed. The actual flower of Scotland is the bluebell and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)
After a quick lunch of takeaway pasties -- ham and cheese-filled dough pockets -- and a short tour of Stirling's finest purveyor of soccer equipment, we popped into the tourist information center to use their internet. I did a quick google search for our castle and was amazed to discover that it was in fact located about sixty miles East of Pitlochry on the Eastern coast. So, we rearranged our itinerary a bit and headed back to the car.
We received an effusive welcome from the proprietess of the Castle and her lively pack of Jack Russell terriers. Everything was all so quintessentially British and lovely; there was an umbrella stand in the hallway next to which sat two pairs of muddy wellington boots. I dropped my bag in our guest room (all done up in Laura Ashley of course) and set off down the road for a walk.
I walked away from the castle past a field full of highland cows (called Hairy Coos) and turned left into the woods. I stepped high through the tall grass that was growing along an ancient stone wall and slowly crashed my way into a clearing. My efforts were rewarded with a tiny, perfect pond, complete with an old loch system and broken-down waterwheel. The trees grew close to the water and their limbs brushed the surface of the pond along the edge. It was the most beautiful little glen I have ever seen.
I must have been overwhelmed with beauty because nothing can explain the violent fall I took as soon as I turned around to head back. Not only did I step in a hole... I sunk thigh deep in the softest topsoil on earth. It was like sinking into a pothole filled with freshly baked brownies. I threw my arms out in shock, grabbing for something to break my fall, and took firm hold of a mysterious green and pink plant. Luckily its branches saved me from certain death, but it stung the hell out of me in the process. So, let's be honest. I grew up in the mountains of western north carolina. I was shut out of the house from 8 in the morning until about 6 every night, so I've seen my fair share of wild shrubbery and poisonous things-that-will-kill-you. I've been stung, cut, whipped, needled, and punctured by any number of bizzare vegetation, but there was nothing that could have prepared me for the mortal pain I experienced at the hands of this strange plant. My skin bubbled up immediately and I limped back to the castle with visions of my first days at St. Andrews being totally ruined because I had giant melon-sized boils dangling from the ends of my arms ("Run away from the boil girl!"). I was pleased to discover that all it took was a twenty minute shower and a little crabtree and evelyn to clear the bubbling right up. So, if anyone reading this can identify what the hell I grabbed onto, I would be most interested to find out.
Scrubbed up and utterly famished, Ike and I got directions into the village for dinner at a place called The Chance. If you're anything like Anne Battram and you think in puns I imagine this would be a great place to have dinner. A dinner conversation might go something like this:
"Oh, I think I'll have the lamb."
"Are you sure you want to chance it?"
(Ba-dah-dum!)
The village was completely dark and desterted except for the bright, inviting windows of The Chance and a lone boy kicking a dark-colored object (which may or may not have been a human head) at an alley wall. It was definitely "bring out your dead!" country, and unlike any other town I've visited in Scotland in terms of drear and foreboding.
Despite its forbidding surroundings, The Chance was a singularly top-notch place to have dinner. Every table was full (perhaps explaining why the boy had no one to play with), and my meal (meat and potatoes becoming a theme) was excellent. There was a huge table of maybe sixteen women eating together so it was very, very loud inside. I had strawberries and cream with shortbread for dessert and life was looking pretty sweet. It was almost possible to forget my nervousness about arriving at St. Andrews the next day.
We slept soundly that night at Ethie Castle. I can say with confidence that it was the quietest place I have ever passed a night, and I bet you could chalk that up to the four-foot thick walls and/or the drawbridge. It's easy to see why people were so busy building castles back then; they definitely provide an unparalleled sense of security.
We got up early for breakfast in the 14th century banquet hall. There was already a merry little fire built in the Buick-sized fireplace and two place settings were arranged next to it at the massive oak dining table. The aforementioned pack of dogs joined us at our feet, and I ate my bacon and pretended I owned the place. It was every child's ultimate fantasy realized. We planned on being in St. Andrews when the dorms opened at 10, so with an equally effusive goodbye from the lady and her dogs we hit the road and drove South to St. Andrews.
We started out that morning with a leisurely drive through the Lake District. This little detour on our way to Scotland was mostly an homage to my late grandmother Josephine, who spent years travelling abroad in the grand style but somehow never made it to the Lake District. Her last trip overseas was with my family to the Virgin Islands and when she got home she quietly announced that it would be her last trip abroad. My father asked her if there was anywhere else she wanted to go and she replied "I always wanted to see the Lake Country." So, of course, we went to see the lakes just for her.
The Lakes are gorgeous. Ike and I stopped along the way to throw rocks into the water and think deep thoughts. It was very peaceful. We turned Northeast and headed towards Scotland by about 10:30 in the morning. I was excited about the evening ahead; we were staying the night in a castle!
We crossed the Scottish border around noon and drove straight to Stirling for lunch. There was still the matter of figuring out exactly where Ethie Castle (our home for the night) was located. I was under the vague impression that it was somewhere around Pitlochry, the Victorian resort town I visited last summer and fell madly in love with, in Perthshire. We drove around Stirling looking for a car park and/or a Thomas Cook and were extrememly fortunate to find both within reasonable walking distance. We wandered through a pedestrian area of Stirling in what must be the shopping district because I saw another Topshop and a huge, underground shopping center called The Thistles. (Fun fact: though commonly admired as the national flower of Scotland, the thistle is in fact just a prickly weed. The actual flower of Scotland is the bluebell and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)
After a quick lunch of takeaway pasties -- ham and cheese-filled dough pockets -- and a short tour of Stirling's finest purveyor of soccer equipment, we popped into the tourist information center to use their internet. I did a quick google search for our castle and was amazed to discover that it was in fact located about sixty miles East of Pitlochry on the Eastern coast. So, we rearranged our itinerary a bit and headed back to the car.
After a couple hours of driving I realized we still didn't know *exactly* where we were going, and with the North Sea fast approaching I was more than happy to whip out my BRAND NEW RAZOR PHONE WITH ITUNES to call ahead and get directions. The woman who answered the phone sounded like she had just carried a torch through a musty dungeon, so I was properly enchanted and excited about what was waiting for us down the road. She proceeded to give me a set of the most bizzare directions I have ever heard, and had she said 'next you'll have to swim the moat' I wouldn't have been surprised. We made it to Ethie Castle without incident (and without a moat swim) just as the sun was setting. The land on the Eastern coast is flat and mostly made up of farmland and might as well be Iowa, so it's hard to get lost because you can see your destination (especially if it's a castle with a giant turret) from five miles away.
We received an effusive welcome from the proprietess of the Castle and her lively pack of Jack Russell terriers. Everything was all so quintessentially British and lovely; there was an umbrella stand in the hallway next to which sat two pairs of muddy wellington boots. I dropped my bag in our guest room (all done up in Laura Ashley of course) and set off down the road for a walk.
I walked away from the castle past a field full of highland cows (called Hairy Coos) and turned left into the woods. I stepped high through the tall grass that was growing along an ancient stone wall and slowly crashed my way into a clearing. My efforts were rewarded with a tiny, perfect pond, complete with an old loch system and broken-down waterwheel. The trees grew close to the water and their limbs brushed the surface of the pond along the edge. It was the most beautiful little glen I have ever seen.
I must have been overwhelmed with beauty because nothing can explain the violent fall I took as soon as I turned around to head back. Not only did I step in a hole... I sunk thigh deep in the softest topsoil on earth. It was like sinking into a pothole filled with freshly baked brownies. I threw my arms out in shock, grabbing for something to break my fall, and took firm hold of a mysterious green and pink plant. Luckily its branches saved me from certain death, but it stung the hell out of me in the process. So, let's be honest. I grew up in the mountains of western north carolina. I was shut out of the house from 8 in the morning until about 6 every night, so I've seen my fair share of wild shrubbery and poisonous things-that-will-kill-you. I've been stung, cut, whipped, needled, and punctured by any number of bizzare vegetation, but there was nothing that could have prepared me for the mortal pain I experienced at the hands of this strange plant. My skin bubbled up immediately and I limped back to the castle with visions of my first days at St. Andrews being totally ruined because I had giant melon-sized boils dangling from the ends of my arms ("Run away from the boil girl!"). I was pleased to discover that all it took was a twenty minute shower and a little crabtree and evelyn to clear the bubbling right up. So, if anyone reading this can identify what the hell I grabbed onto, I would be most interested to find out.
Scrubbed up and utterly famished, Ike and I got directions into the village for dinner at a place called The Chance. If you're anything like Anne Battram and you think in puns I imagine this would be a great place to have dinner. A dinner conversation might go something like this:
"Oh, I think I'll have the lamb."
"Are you sure you want to chance it?"
(Ba-dah-dum!)
The village was completely dark and desterted except for the bright, inviting windows of The Chance and a lone boy kicking a dark-colored object (which may or may not have been a human head) at an alley wall. It was definitely "bring out your dead!" country, and unlike any other town I've visited in Scotland in terms of drear and foreboding.
Despite its forbidding surroundings, The Chance was a singularly top-notch place to have dinner. Every table was full (perhaps explaining why the boy had no one to play with), and my meal (meat and potatoes becoming a theme) was excellent. There was a huge table of maybe sixteen women eating together so it was very, very loud inside. I had strawberries and cream with shortbread for dessert and life was looking pretty sweet. It was almost possible to forget my nervousness about arriving at St. Andrews the next day.
We slept soundly that night at Ethie Castle. I can say with confidence that it was the quietest place I have ever passed a night, and I bet you could chalk that up to the four-foot thick walls and/or the drawbridge. It's easy to see why people were so busy building castles back then; they definitely provide an unparalleled sense of security.
We got up early for breakfast in the 14th century banquet hall. There was already a merry little fire built in the Buick-sized fireplace and two place settings were arranged next to it at the massive oak dining table. The aforementioned pack of dogs joined us at our feet, and I ate my bacon and pretended I owned the place. It was every child's ultimate fantasy realized. We planned on being in St. Andrews when the dorms opened at 10, so with an equally effusive goodbye from the lady and her dogs we hit the road and drove South to St. Andrews.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Let's start at the beginning...
I said goodbye to my mountain home early on Tuesday, September 12th, loaded my suitcases (packed to bursting) into the back of my dad's car and drove to Atlanta to catch our late night flight to London. I slept on the plane for once and arrived refreshed and positively overwhelmed at Gatwick on the morning of the 13th.
Ike and I rented the world's smallest car and soon found ourselves sharing the front seat with three enormous suitcases. We had a funny moment when we both went to get in the car and realized the steering wheel was on the right side, followed by a brief moment of panic when Ike set off on the right side of the road (shifting with his left hand, no less) and we veered dangerously towards an oncoming bus. After sorting out our side of the road we stopped at a little place called Pease Pottage for full English breakfast and tea. We pulled our maps out at the table and plotted our route for the next three days. I wanted to see everything; Ike just wanted to know why the exchange rate was 2.10 USD to every pound.
We agreed on driving west along 272 towards Bath and making a stop at Stonehenge along the way. 272 is a lovely two-lane road that winds its way through southwest England, dotted with small villages of dubious names: Fiddleswitch, Lickey End, Piddle Brook, Piddlehinton, and my personal favorite, Bishops Itchington. In fact, there is a lane in St. Andrews called Butts Wynd (pronounced WIND), but more on that later...
We pulled the car over several times to admire such comely little towns as Petworth and Devington, and even got out to take a few tourist-y pictures along the way. Still under the impression that England was the size of Maine, we doddered our way across the south thinking we would have plenty of time in the next three days to do whatever struck our fancy at any given moment, paying little regard to our destination or how long it took to get there. We stopped for a leisurely lunch at a roadside pub called The Seven Bells and I had probably the most amazing and improbable salad of my life. I'm pretty sure it was topped with pickled egg and apples.
We made it to Stonehenge at around four in the afternoon. I love this sensation you get right when you see something (usually from afar) that you have seen in photos your whole life. Stonehenge was that way. After cresting a small hill, the countryside spreads itself out in front of you and smack in the middle is this massive circle of stones -- made even more massive by the total windswept desertedness of the rest of it -- and hoardes of tiny people clustered around it in a perfect circle. All I could think about was the last scene in Tess of the d'Urbervilles when Tess and Angel have been pursued across the countryside (THIS countryside!) for days and they finally make it to stonehenge only to get caught amid the stones while Tess is laid across a slab like a sacrificial offering. Forget the Druids, I was looking at the last stand of Tess!
Apparently in the last couple of years the board of governors at stonehenge (I assume it's something like that, it is England after all) decided they would rope it off, sending visitors around the site counter-clockwise at a distance of about thirty yards. Once a year, during the summer solstice, anyone claiming to be a Druid (or basically looking for a rockin party) is allowed inside the ropes for "worship," although this was shut down a few years ago when things got a little out of hand. Regardless of the ropes, stonehenge is still quite a sight. I would put it up there along with the Duomo, the Matterhorn (in Switzerland), and the Grand Canyon as far as being something that was much, much larger than you thought it would be. As far as a monument to human ingenuity it far surpasses the Eiffel tower. Just have a look at the lintel stones!
Ike and I did the circuit, and it is worth mentioning that the free audioguide is excellent and very informative, even if you have to walk around with this crazy shoe-horn stuck to your ear and then unknowingly be doing that in all your pictures.
Exhausted from our quarter mile stroll and the digestion of the worlds craziest salad, we silently agreed to copy the large group of Germans in front of us and flop down on the grass next to the path. Along with the audioguide, I suggest doing this if you are a fan of napping and/or the softest grass in England. After a ten minute power snooze and a mutual decision to rename the place Naphenge, we set off again towards Bath.
We had made reservations at a bed and breakfast called Apsley House before leaving the states, and I had dutifully mapquested the location and printed out directions before we left. Now, let me preface with this: I never lose things. Ever. And even if I do I can generally conjure up a vague idea of where they might be. Not the case with the mapquest directions. I have no memory of them after the time I hit print on my mom's computer. In fact, they could still be sitting in the paper tray and I would still be digging in my carryon cursing myself silently. It was a classic blunder, and one that I never hope to repeat. We spent the better part of two hours driving around Bath ("I remember typing in Newbridge Road, dad, I swear to god!") and asking various passerby if they had any ideas. The first two women we asked, one in a car and one walking the largest dog I've ever seen, pointed us in exactly the wrong direction while nodding emphatically and assuring us they knew exactly where it was. I finally broke down and walked in another hotel (called Ashley Villa; ensuite bathrooms and enclosed pool -- I don't know much else but the receptionist was VERY nice) and got directions and a map to where we were going. We made it to Apsley House by around 8 pm. A bed has never looked so good.
We wandered down to a pub called the Hop Pole for dinner. After nearly turning back because we thought we were lost, we discovered it was still a ways down the road after asking for more directions. This is the thing about the English. They like to walk. We must have walked three miles to get to this pub that was described by the proprietor as being "a short stroll" away from our hotel. If, however, you tell them that you are driving to Scotland, they look at you like you are suggesting space-flight and shake their heads in awe. Anyways, dinner at the Hop Pole was amazing and would also mark the first of many meals that consisted of meat and potatoes served in varying manners. We trudged back up the hill to our hotel and fell violently asleep at around 8:30.
Breakfast at the Apsley House was a pleasant affair. The house is grand, very grand, and the breakfast room overlooks Bath and the hills to the south. Toast was served in a small ceramic toast-server (?), and everything came on its own plate. Ike got his eggs poached, and it looks like the cracker barrel may be the only place where it is appropriate to order your eggs scrambled with cheese. We finished up and leftApsley House (although it looks like just one night is plenty of time to get emotionally attached to the owners' springer spaniel). We drove into the heart of Bath and parked with the idea of wandering around the city centre and checking out the roman baths.
We wandered up a beautiful pedestrian street towards the town centre, and it was about this time I spotted my first Topshop. If you don't know, Topshop is my favorite store on earth. It is very expensive with the exchange rate, and I really have no business going in there at all, but it is my aesthetic temple and I will travel many miles to make a pilgrimage. This was a small one, but they had two floors of the most fabulous and bizzare clothes you've ever seen. I get very overwhelmed if I've been away for a while, so I had a first pass of everything and walked on down the street to mull over the choices in my mind.
We ducked into a cellphone (MOBILE) store to see about getting a sweet phone for my year here. I realize practically everyone reading this knows about my phone in the states. Remember the duct tape? Bling bling? Well, you can all quit your laughing now because I got a sweet razor phone with ITUNES! They were out of pink so I got red. It's very shi-shi, and even now I like to pull it out and hold it up to my ear as I walk just to feel the thin lightness of it against my cheek. So, if you want to give me a call while I'm on the go, my mobile number is 07928778350. You'll need to add 011 (44) to the front of that and sell your firstborn to cover the cost of the call, but know that it will be worth it because I will be talking to you on my brand new razor phone. Red. With Itunes.
So, clutching my new phone inside my coat pocket, we went to see the Roman Baths. If you've ever seen my bookshelf you will know that I have a mild obsession with Bill Bryson's travel writing (he wrote A Walk in the Woods about the Appalachian Trail). So, I was DELIGHTED to see that the audioguide at the Roman Baths included special commentary by none other than Bill Bryson in a new program called "Bryson at the Baths." The whole place is wonderfully set up. The flow of the museum into the baths themselves is effortless and dramatic. You descend from street level through a series of exhibits, and it is possible to get the feeling that you are going back in time. My favorite bit was the small collection of precious stones that had been found in the drain; presumably popped out of people's ring settings while they bathed.
The thing I love most about most European historic sites is that they don't send you to the gift shop on your way out. Bath was no exception, and at the end you have the choice of stepping back out into the street or turning right and popping into the Pump Room for a quick bite. We chose the latter, and enjoyed a delicious lunch in the largest, most Edwardian dining room I've ever eaten in. There was a woman playing the piano and a man dressed up in knickers serving water from the spring that feeds the baths. It was all very exciting.
We walked back towards the car park, and I couldn't resist going back into Topshop for a second pass. With the hours of proper consideration I made my selections in about twenty minutes, and waited in line for almost 45 minutes under the disbelieving gaze of my father to check out. It was worth it! I got the perfect jeans, the perfect cardigan, and the perfect shoes (leapord-print ballet flats, y'all) to wear around St Andrews. (I know, I know. What kind of person tells people about their shopping? Well, there are a handful of you who will find that very interesting. In fact, a few of that handful will care more about topshop than anything else I write about here, and that is why we are friends)
So, by the time we got out of the car park and onto the carriageway it was almost 4 in the afternoon. We had reservations at another bed and breakfast in the mythic LAKE DISTRICT, and judging by the map it would take a good four hours to get there by superhighway. We shot on up the western coast of England on the M6. I waved at Wales as we passed and shut my eyes at every roundabout. Ike's quote of the day was "if I never see another roundabout in my life..." -- certainly a sentiment shared by all in the car. We basically didn't stop for four hours, and by the time we got to the southern part of the Lake District I couldn't feel my legs. I unfolded my legs and got out to ask directions in Bowness and was astonished when I sighed and could SEE MY BREATH. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was getting colder as we went north, and St Andrews was yet another four hours up the coast.
We made it without incident (except for the one time) to the Beechwood hotel in Windermere around 8:30. We strolled a much shorter distance to another equally agreeable pub for dinner and I had another excellent variation of meat and potatoes. If you are looking for a place to stay in Windermere, I can suggest the Beechwood based on the comfort of the beds alone. They are unsurpassed. I have never felt anything like it.
The next morning, the 15th of September, we were treated to more fabulous English breakfast. This one had mushrooms instead of beans and probably the best sausage I've had in my life. The rest of the people joining us in the dining room were older English couples, an observation that Ike made with a certain degree of satisfaction as he likes to stay where the locals stay based on advice from my grandfather. We asked the husband and wife who owned the hotel (and also cooked and served us breakfast) what the best and most scenic route through the Lake District would be. They were two of the most accommodating and wonderful people and we even got a "jolly good" from the wife, an expression I've been waiting to hear used by a real English person for probably my whole life. They pointed us on down the road, and we left for the next leg of our journey (culminating in Scotland!!) at around 9 in the morning.
Next post... to Scotland!
Ike and I rented the world's smallest car and soon found ourselves sharing the front seat with three enormous suitcases. We had a funny moment when we both went to get in the car and realized the steering wheel was on the right side, followed by a brief moment of panic when Ike set off on the right side of the road (shifting with his left hand, no less) and we veered dangerously towards an oncoming bus. After sorting out our side of the road we stopped at a little place called Pease Pottage for full English breakfast and tea. We pulled our maps out at the table and plotted our route for the next three days. I wanted to see everything; Ike just wanted to know why the exchange rate was 2.10 USD to every pound.
We agreed on driving west along 272 towards Bath and making a stop at Stonehenge along the way. 272 is a lovely two-lane road that winds its way through southwest England, dotted with small villages of dubious names: Fiddleswitch, Lickey End, Piddle Brook, Piddlehinton, and my personal favorite, Bishops Itchington. In fact, there is a lane in St. Andrews called Butts Wynd (pronounced WIND), but more on that later...
We pulled the car over several times to admire such comely little towns as Petworth and Devington, and even got out to take a few tourist-y pictures along the way. Still under the impression that England was the size of Maine, we doddered our way across the south thinking we would have plenty of time in the next three days to do whatever struck our fancy at any given moment, paying little regard to our destination or how long it took to get there. We stopped for a leisurely lunch at a roadside pub called The Seven Bells and I had probably the most amazing and improbable salad of my life. I'm pretty sure it was topped with pickled egg and apples.
We made it to Stonehenge at around four in the afternoon. I love this sensation you get right when you see something (usually from afar) that you have seen in photos your whole life. Stonehenge was that way. After cresting a small hill, the countryside spreads itself out in front of you and smack in the middle is this massive circle of stones -- made even more massive by the total windswept desertedness of the rest of it -- and hoardes of tiny people clustered around it in a perfect circle. All I could think about was the last scene in Tess of the d'Urbervilles when Tess and Angel have been pursued across the countryside (THIS countryside!) for days and they finally make it to stonehenge only to get caught amid the stones while Tess is laid across a slab like a sacrificial offering. Forget the Druids, I was looking at the last stand of Tess!
Apparently in the last couple of years the board of governors at stonehenge (I assume it's something like that, it is England after all) decided they would rope it off, sending visitors around the site counter-clockwise at a distance of about thirty yards. Once a year, during the summer solstice, anyone claiming to be a Druid (or basically looking for a rockin party) is allowed inside the ropes for "worship," although this was shut down a few years ago when things got a little out of hand. Regardless of the ropes, stonehenge is still quite a sight. I would put it up there along with the Duomo, the Matterhorn (in Switzerland), and the Grand Canyon as far as being something that was much, much larger than you thought it would be. As far as a monument to human ingenuity it far surpasses the Eiffel tower. Just have a look at the lintel stones!
Ike and I did the circuit, and it is worth mentioning that the free audioguide is excellent and very informative, even if you have to walk around with this crazy shoe-horn stuck to your ear and then unknowingly be doing that in all your pictures.
Exhausted from our quarter mile stroll and the digestion of the worlds craziest salad, we silently agreed to copy the large group of Germans in front of us and flop down on the grass next to the path. Along with the audioguide, I suggest doing this if you are a fan of napping and/or the softest grass in England. After a ten minute power snooze and a mutual decision to rename the place Naphenge, we set off again towards Bath.
We had made reservations at a bed and breakfast called Apsley House before leaving the states, and I had dutifully mapquested the location and printed out directions before we left. Now, let me preface with this: I never lose things. Ever. And even if I do I can generally conjure up a vague idea of where they might be. Not the case with the mapquest directions. I have no memory of them after the time I hit print on my mom's computer. In fact, they could still be sitting in the paper tray and I would still be digging in my carryon cursing myself silently. It was a classic blunder, and one that I never hope to repeat. We spent the better part of two hours driving around Bath ("I remember typing in Newbridge Road, dad, I swear to god!") and asking various passerby if they had any ideas. The first two women we asked, one in a car and one walking the largest dog I've ever seen, pointed us in exactly the wrong direction while nodding emphatically and assuring us they knew exactly where it was. I finally broke down and walked in another hotel (called Ashley Villa; ensuite bathrooms and enclosed pool -- I don't know much else but the receptionist was VERY nice) and got directions and a map to where we were going. We made it to Apsley House by around 8 pm. A bed has never looked so good.
We wandered down to a pub called the Hop Pole for dinner. After nearly turning back because we thought we were lost, we discovered it was still a ways down the road after asking for more directions. This is the thing about the English. They like to walk. We must have walked three miles to get to this pub that was described by the proprietor as being "a short stroll" away from our hotel. If, however, you tell them that you are driving to Scotland, they look at you like you are suggesting space-flight and shake their heads in awe. Anyways, dinner at the Hop Pole was amazing and would also mark the first of many meals that consisted of meat and potatoes served in varying manners. We trudged back up the hill to our hotel and fell violently asleep at around 8:30.
Breakfast at the Apsley House was a pleasant affair. The house is grand, very grand, and the breakfast room overlooks Bath and the hills to the south. Toast was served in a small ceramic toast-server (?), and everything came on its own plate. Ike got his eggs poached, and it looks like the cracker barrel may be the only place where it is appropriate to order your eggs scrambled with cheese. We finished up and leftApsley House (although it looks like just one night is plenty of time to get emotionally attached to the owners' springer spaniel). We drove into the heart of Bath and parked with the idea of wandering around the city centre and checking out the roman baths.
We wandered up a beautiful pedestrian street towards the town centre, and it was about this time I spotted my first Topshop. If you don't know, Topshop is my favorite store on earth. It is very expensive with the exchange rate, and I really have no business going in there at all, but it is my aesthetic temple and I will travel many miles to make a pilgrimage. This was a small one, but they had two floors of the most fabulous and bizzare clothes you've ever seen. I get very overwhelmed if I've been away for a while, so I had a first pass of everything and walked on down the street to mull over the choices in my mind.
We ducked into a cellphone (MOBILE) store to see about getting a sweet phone for my year here. I realize practically everyone reading this knows about my phone in the states. Remember the duct tape? Bling bling? Well, you can all quit your laughing now because I got a sweet razor phone with ITUNES! They were out of pink so I got red. It's very shi-shi, and even now I like to pull it out and hold it up to my ear as I walk just to feel the thin lightness of it against my cheek. So, if you want to give me a call while I'm on the go, my mobile number is 07928778350. You'll need to add 011 (44) to the front of that and sell your firstborn to cover the cost of the call, but know that it will be worth it because I will be talking to you on my brand new razor phone. Red. With Itunes.
So, clutching my new phone inside my coat pocket, we went to see the Roman Baths. If you've ever seen my bookshelf you will know that I have a mild obsession with Bill Bryson's travel writing (he wrote A Walk in the Woods about the Appalachian Trail). So, I was DELIGHTED to see that the audioguide at the Roman Baths included special commentary by none other than Bill Bryson in a new program called "Bryson at the Baths." The whole place is wonderfully set up. The flow of the museum into the baths themselves is effortless and dramatic. You descend from street level through a series of exhibits, and it is possible to get the feeling that you are going back in time. My favorite bit was the small collection of precious stones that had been found in the drain; presumably popped out of people's ring settings while they bathed.
The thing I love most about most European historic sites is that they don't send you to the gift shop on your way out. Bath was no exception, and at the end you have the choice of stepping back out into the street or turning right and popping into the Pump Room for a quick bite. We chose the latter, and enjoyed a delicious lunch in the largest, most Edwardian dining room I've ever eaten in. There was a woman playing the piano and a man dressed up in knickers serving water from the spring that feeds the baths. It was all very exciting.
We walked back towards the car park, and I couldn't resist going back into Topshop for a second pass. With the hours of proper consideration I made my selections in about twenty minutes, and waited in line for almost 45 minutes under the disbelieving gaze of my father to check out. It was worth it! I got the perfect jeans, the perfect cardigan, and the perfect shoes (leapord-print ballet flats, y'all) to wear around St Andrews. (I know, I know. What kind of person tells people about their shopping? Well, there are a handful of you who will find that very interesting. In fact, a few of that handful will care more about topshop than anything else I write about here, and that is why we are friends)
So, by the time we got out of the car park and onto the carriageway it was almost 4 in the afternoon. We had reservations at another bed and breakfast in the mythic LAKE DISTRICT, and judging by the map it would take a good four hours to get there by superhighway. We shot on up the western coast of England on the M6. I waved at Wales as we passed and shut my eyes at every roundabout. Ike's quote of the day was "if I never see another roundabout in my life..." -- certainly a sentiment shared by all in the car. We basically didn't stop for four hours, and by the time we got to the southern part of the Lake District I couldn't feel my legs. I unfolded my legs and got out to ask directions in Bowness and was astonished when I sighed and could SEE MY BREATH. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was getting colder as we went north, and St Andrews was yet another four hours up the coast.
We made it without incident (except for the one time) to the Beechwood hotel in Windermere around 8:30. We strolled a much shorter distance to another equally agreeable pub for dinner and I had another excellent variation of meat and potatoes. If you are looking for a place to stay in Windermere, I can suggest the Beechwood based on the comfort of the beds alone. They are unsurpassed. I have never felt anything like it.
The next morning, the 15th of September, we were treated to more fabulous English breakfast. This one had mushrooms instead of beans and probably the best sausage I've had in my life. The rest of the people joining us in the dining room were older English couples, an observation that Ike made with a certain degree of satisfaction as he likes to stay where the locals stay based on advice from my grandfather. We asked the husband and wife who owned the hotel (and also cooked and served us breakfast) what the best and most scenic route through the Lake District would be. They were two of the most accommodating and wonderful people and we even got a "jolly good" from the wife, an expression I've been waiting to hear used by a real English person for probably my whole life. They pointed us on down the road, and we left for the next leg of our journey (culminating in Scotland!!) at around 9 in the morning.
Next post... to Scotland!
Monday, September 18, 2006
Welcome to Bonnie Scotland -- Slainte Mhath!
What a week it's been! It occured to me that I left the States exactly a week ago; odd how much a life can change in seven days. I'm finally settled in at St Andrews and just in time for the rain!
I know it's been about eight days of radio silence. I'm so sorry! I finally got my application for internet access approved by the powers at be; and after some serious finagling I managed to get my rusty UNC laptop to cooperate with the network.
Much, much more to come, but until then TAKE CARE and SLAINTE MHATH!
I know it's been about eight days of radio silence. I'm so sorry! I finally got my application for internet access approved by the powers at be; and after some serious finagling I managed to get my rusty UNC laptop to cooperate with the network.
Much, much more to come, but until then TAKE CARE and SLAINTE MHATH!
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