A post in pictures: Gorgeous Bath

Pulteney Bridge in Bath, UK - one of the grandest bridges in the world

I was watching Persuasion the other day while folding laundry, and as Anne and the Admiral strolled through Bath, I suddenly recognized a fine old landmark.

"Hey, I've been next to that tree," I thought. "I took its picture!"

Then, suddenly, I was back in beautiful Bath with my good friend Holly, posing for a picture on Pulteney Bridge over the River Avon, delighting again in the graceful curve of the Royal Crescent, relishing the incredible buns in the oldest house there, Sally Lunn's Historic Eating House, getting chills of excitement as I walked above ancient water systems at the Roman Baths, and shopping near the gorgeous Bath Abbey constructed of that most famous limestone, Bath stone.

Holly and I visited Bath in April 2015, enjoying fine weather the entire time in a town where one of our favorite authors, Jane Austen, set two of her novels and where Austen herself lived for about five years.

I remember my brother saying. "All women are like, 'Ooooooh, Bath!', and men are like, 'Phflut, Bath.'"

What does my brother know? After all, does not Bath have the Jane Austen Centre? - a lovely place in which I wrote a love letter to my man with an old fashioned quill and blotter? (He didn't even appreciate the thought and effort; my note wasn't amorous enough!)

My nose looks enormous in the picture, but I don't even mind. I'm in Bath!

Is it not a charming place where my friend and I enjoyed a scrumptious tea at The Regency Tea Room (upstairs at the Jane Austen Centre) before posing elegantly with Mr Darcy?

How about the Roman Baths, constructed in 70 A.D. and smelling of and draining history?

(Though I wasn't tempted to plunge into that water as the Romans routinely did, I thrilled to walk across ancient stones upon which they trod, to view rooms, drains and ancient artifacts that they utilized, and to learn of the temple they once erected there to the goddess Sulis Minerva.

I must say, however, that the mineral water, such as Jane Austen and her friends would have enjoyed in the Pump Room, tasted terrible.)

Is Bath not the only place to boast the gorgeous Royal Crescent, completed in 1775 and designed by John Wood the Younger to give the growing Georgian middle class elegant town living in terraced houses?

And that fine old establishment that serves the most heavenly buns, Sally Lunn's?

Indeed, I defy my big brother. Bath is one of most beautiful places in the world with some of the lovliest architecture, and I - lucky girl! - got to experience it firsthand

As I strolled along the Royal Crescent two Aprils ago, intoxicated by its romance and history, I imagined taking my handsome husband to the luxury hotel that now occupies numbers 15 and 16 on a romantic vacation someday.

It would be just like a Jane Austen novel.

Maybe a little more amorous.

A Post in Pictures: the cliffs of Britain and a river in Idaho

When I traveled to England with my friend Holly in April 2015, one of the last excursions we took was to the White Cliffs of Dover. There we hiked from a near sea level visitor's center and gift shop up the cliff trail past many sheep to a bright little tea room in a charming old lighthouse. On the way to and from that lighthouse my knee-high boots picked up a thick layer of the white dust from the cliffs and rested in it for some time, too, as we chatted with friendly Britons and watched some wild ponies in a hollow. Months after we returned home, I pulled out those boots to wear again as the fall weather grew cooler in Arizona and, lo and behold, the dust of Britain was still on them.

My shoes knew where I had been, and they carried crystalline memories. I almost didn't brush off those boots, but I figured I'd just be tracking Dover everywhere.

Recently, new suede Puma tennis shoes of mine picked up memories as my family and I hiked and climbed a little way along the Payette River in Idaho.

We went to Idaho to see family and saw more family in that state than my children even knew we had - the appearance of some of those dear relatives completely unexpected. 

Then, on a day when we didn't have much planned and I was begging my husband to be serendipitous, we drove up past Black Canyon Dam, searching for a place to experience some Idaho country. We pulled off the road at a spot where we practically slid down a slope of dry pine needles to river rocks, and there my kids and I scrambled all over the place, watching the intermittent white water and listening to its rhythm. On a huge sloped boulder, I laid down on my belly in the sunshine, slowly sliding down toward the white sand at its base, that same light sand that is now embedded in my shoes.

I may not brush off these shoes. Sometimes you have to go home again to realize it's home. I lived in Idaho for most of my teenage years - camping, fishing, spending holidays and ordinary days with relatives - but I don't believe I really appreciated it til I brought my own little family back with me.

With these dusty sneakers, I can carry home with me wherever I go.

And I believe my tall brown boots still have a bit of Dover on them, too.

A Creek Runs Through It

A creek is my favorite body of water. It has a sense of adventure, but unlike a river, it doesn't wander anywhere too far, too dangerous, or too unfamiliar. It is not massive and impersonal like a lake nor small and muddy like a pond. Though it lacks the awesome majesty of the ocean, it has its own sacred rhythm beneath trees and bluffs.

I had a wonderful childhood, and a creek ran through it. I loved that creek at least as well as I loved the woods behind my childhood home.

But now my own family lives in a huge, sprawling city in the desert with a big, arid backyard.

Every so often I ask my husband if we can take our children to play in a creek.

Matthew needs warning. He appreciates nature, but he doesn't feel the need to visit its wilder places too often, and he certainly does not appreciate the condition of the roads that lead there. So weeks in advance I told him I wanted to visit Clear Creek and hike West Clear Creek Trail.

However, on the Thursday before we were to go hiking I had a truly horrendous day with the kids (and they with me, to be fair). Due to exposure to apocalyptic levels of whining, squabbling, shrieking and nagging that day, my adventure and nature-seeking spirit was quelled. I told my man I no longer felt like going; the best thing I could hope for was to sleep in on that Saturday for a very long time, my head buried in his shoulder.

But when we awoke very late the next morning, the adventuress in me had reemerged. I researched anew the directions to the creek and - ever so nonchalantly - acted like plans for the hike had never wavered. My forbearing husband didn't even object when we set out at noon in the 100+ heat.

We had a pleasant drive north until we abandoned normal byways and took a forest road less traveled. As our poor minivan pitched and heaved on the rocky, gutted, narrow dirt track, I was reminded again, as my hands squeezed the armrests, that my sense of adventure only goes so far. I felt an immense gratitude for my stalwart partner in life's escapades, for he drives far more fearlessly and calmly than I do under duress!

Frustration, thwarted plans and occasional feelings of being hopelessly lost or misdirected must accompany any adventure, I think, and we had our share.

Apparently, signs on roads or paths are undesirable in nature.

The forest road seemed to go on for much longer than was implied in the directions. We turned off at a likely and quite pretty spot only to find we were not at the trail head yet. When we finally found the hiking trail, parked and set out in relief, we soon discovered that it was not as "clear" as we would have liked.

There were many footpaths that deserted the trail to head toward the nearest pool of water. They looked like they could have been part of the trail that was supposed to cross the creek several times, but they dead-ended at precisely where there seemed to be a small crowd of people sharing a large swimming hole and perching on coolers. When we asked the patrons of such spots about West Clear Creek trail, we were met with confused faces.

And so we backtracked and took the high, dry ground (marked by pink ribbons) that seemed to eschew the water, and upon the advice of a young man with a backpack and a puppy who seemed to have some wilderness sense, we followed it until it befriended that stream once more and we came to a wide, pristine hole beneath some red rocks. Another family of four was there, enjoying the less frequented places.

It was at this swimming hole that I shed frustration and felt joy while watching my children revel in the water, enjoying nature giddily. They splashed around and fought the current and scrambled up slippery rocks and waded through deep narrow places in the stream, laughing, and I was right behind them, reliving my childhood and drinking from the fountain of youth in the only and best way.

Wading in the creek was an exhilarating experience for me. The water was not the expected frigidity that I had always encountered in the creek of my childhood or in many streams since. Perhaps it was the desert sun and its dry, crackling heat playing on the surface, for though the water was decidedly chilly against my legs, it was invigoratingly so.

We left the kind family who shared space and conversation so generously with us, and I urged my family farther along the trail. We saw a little grotto and crossed the stream once more before coming to a secluded spot with a tiny waterfall. Here our kids tested their strength against the current where it ran no more than a foot deep and two feet wide but surged with concentrated power. This was my husband's favorite spot.

There we also lost the trail, and, anyhow, Gabriella and the other kids were anxious to return to the magical swimming hole. Matthew was anxious to head home, but I whispered to the kids as we kicked up red clay from the path onto our wet shoes and legs that I hoped we would have more time to swim and play.

The large red rock that jutted out into the water over the swimming hole was a perfect place from which to launch yourself into the deep water below. At least, this was what the dad of the other family told me, as they were leaving, when I mentioned it was hot on the trail. He didn't seem the fearful type with his shoulder length black hair, square face and broad upper body, so I doubt he would have understood my hesitation to make such a leap. Berto and Ana? They jumped off that huge red rock repeatedly.

And this is what I did:

My little guy waits for Mama to take the plunge

I sat and looked and looked again. I couldn't quite get past thinking of exactly what would happen if I pushed off that rock into the water.

That's always my issue. I think too much.

Matthew told me to do it; we needed to go! And all the while he waited for the photo op of me overcoming my fear. Berto and Ana went from the rock to the water with words of encouragement for me, my own coaching and cheering squad. So many times, I inched forward, swallowing thoughts and hesitation, only to fall back on my heels. I watched my children be fearless but couldn't seem to catch the brave bug as they dove past me.

Have you ever said a prayer to the Holy Spirit for something you know is silly? Well, I prayed for courage to jump off that rock, because somehow it meant a great deal to me to be brave at this creek in this small way and to have the memory of it.

Matthew had put back on his socks and shoes and gathered up our stuff. His phone was tucked away in his pocket without the moment with his wife he'd waited semi-patiently for, and the kids were moving away from me.

Standing resolutely, Matthew announced,  "Alright, let's go!"

And I jumped without knowing I had made the decision. I hit the cool water and struggled up in the dark, green shadows, sputtering when I reached air.

I felt as happy as I have felt in some time.

"I did it!" I cried, elated, as I did a victory lap in that beautiful, deep water.

And Berto and Ana congratulated me exuberantly.

*******

Only later did I see the carnage on my side of our poor van. Long, wicked scratches ran along the whole length of it, scratches obtained by passing within inches of other vehicles on an uneven, exceptionally narrow forest dirt road bordered by brush.

Adventure always costs a little something, I guess. But my darling Matthew didn't complain.

Know Thyself

I don't know myself at all. Not one bit. Could somebody introduce us? I'm so elusive, so capricious.

This is a cruel discovery to be made in the middle of my life. I wish I had known it from the beginning. Not sure what I would have done with that knowledge....can be so indecisive.

It took all my precious children abandoning the home front for school and bigger adventures to wake me up in order to recognize the stranger in the mirror.

How do I not know myself? Let me count the ways.

1. I thought I wanted an immaculate house.

HA!

Turns out, no. No, I don't. Not nearly bad enough, anyway. I have more time now to pursue and maintain a well-organized and spotless home, but cleaning a house isn't fulfilling in the least. It doesn't bring joy, and, trust me, it never stays that way.

Don't get me wrong. I work hard around here. I do most of the menial jobs including taking out trash, but as my son Berto told me not long ago, "Get a life, Mom." He meant it kindly, but he most certainly did not mean that I should clean more. He was encouraging me to pursue other things entirely, because it already seems to my kids that all I do is clean, clear out and straighten up.

2. I thought I wanted peace and quiet.

Somebody rescue me....from ME!

Turns out that peace and quiet are unsuitable companions if one has a rebellious, disgruntled mind well-endowed with imagination. Peace has left the building. Quiet is a vicious, gnawing rat.

3. I thought I wanted to write a lot more.

Guess what? Shhhhhh. Come closer. Writing is work, too. And it requires you to wear your happy, industrious pants. Well, I blame peace and quiet for stealing my happy pants, so I was too petulant to write much. I barely wrote more this year at all when I think of all the opportunities I should have had if not for my bad temper.

Writing - writing anything as well as I can - gives me a high not unlike a mother feels after giving birth naturally. If I could have just pushed through, ordered my bad moods out of the way, I would have felt much better most of the time.

Will and I need to have a talk about teamwork.

But, hey, I'm writing now.

4. I thought all I wanted to do was stay home.

I have always been a homebody. I remember my sister Vinca visiting me just after I had my oldest daughter Ana. We only had one vehicle then, and if I didn't walk someplace pushing babies in a double stroller, home was sweet. Vinca asked me how I could stand it, but I had never minded.

Even while growing up, my older siblings were out working in the woods with my parents rolling grapevine wreaths, and I was home cleaning. Of course, home back then was on 98 acres of green, rolling land with woods and a creek, so it was greatly prized and smelled like honeysuckle and rich earth.

Home now is a great little place in the city with a fair backyard in which my family plays baseball and soccer games on weekends, but it is not enough anymore when my husband and children are away so much.

I am craving adventure for myself or at least new friends and more exercise. I feel left behind in a special cocoon I have made, and I want to struggle out of it. That means I have to abandon the fear that I will be spending too much money, time, or pleasure on myself. I have to convince myself that I am worth it.

But am I? Yes? Shesh, I sound like such a baby, already so blessed! Perhaps I'll just go and watch It's A Wonderful Life again.

5. I thought I wanted to pluck my eyebrows and dye my hair.

Okay, this one is trivial, but it shows I don't know my own mind even where it comes to my appearance.

I began to "shape" the eyebrows  when I was thirty-five. Now, I'm approaching thirty-seven, and I don't want to anymore. My eyebrows are somewhat unruly, artfully imperfect, but I have decided that each hair is precious. And anyhow, I hate false eyelashes and fake nails, have never yet dyed my hair - though I was tempted not long ago to abandon my lovely chestnut color to go blonde - so why train naturally errant brows?

**************************

My children have just two weeks left of school, and now that I have finally realized how aloof I am, I have so little time to try and forge an acquaintance with me. Perhaps I should make a bucket list of sorts: 10 team-building activities Hillary wants to do with herself before her children get out of school. There's still time for adventure surely.

Next year, believe me, I am going to have a game plan. I'm not going to enter into blind solitude again. I'm going to learn to flamenco dance or take guitar lessons so I can play in local coffee shops. I'm going to get involved with some creative group of people, find my fellow crazies.

And I am - I truly am - going to write a lot more. This I know for sure about myself: it would do my heart good.

Wupatki and the Grand Canyon

I feel badly for my city kids sometimes....often, actually.

During the Tennessee summers of my childhood, I swam in a creek down our dirt lane, explored acres of woods, picked wildflowers, ran through buzzing fields with dogs, picked plump blackberries in Mr. Spann's field while his cows stared, and laid on top of hay bales with my siblings, slowly toasting in the heat while the smell of fresh, green things permeated my hair.

Ah, the life! En mi corazon...I am a country girl. (That's part grammatically-incorrect Spanish/part English, but that's how I think it in my head.)

Don't feel too sorry for my kids, though. They've seen nice city parks and crop islands in the suburbs. They get together with friends far more often than I ever did. We have taken memorable family trips to California, New Mexico, Idaho, Virginia and Hawaii. They have splashed in the Pacific Ocean, surveyed the Sandia Mountains, waded in the Payette River, seen the battlefield of Gettysburg and, incredibly, have shared the sand with sea turtles on a North Shore beach thanks to their Uncle Steve.

You can't take them with you.

But Nature is not their habitat. The concrete jungle with its token, manipulated plants is. And we do not have a cabin "up North". We cannot ship our kids to a relative's farm in the country for a few weeks every year. We have no - I repeat - zero camping equipment. Yet this summer with nary a family trip on the horizon, we had to do something for our city kids who do not know what they are habitually missing.

For days I searched the web with bloodshot eyes, scouring locations and cabins and National Parks' websites, looking for a deal at the ideal spot, and then it hit me as I laid in bed one night: the Grand Canyon.

Only one hitch. My husband has a traveling philosophy: been there, done that. If you have ever been there and done that then you are exempt from ever having to see or do it again. We have a collection of magnets on our fridge, a proud list of our "have beens". We had been to the Grand Canyon with my sister Vinca's family nine years ago, but Berto and Ana were too young to remember, and Ella and Daniel were not born yet. Native Arizonans all, they had not truly been there and done that. Plus, we forgot the magnet. My husband kindly agreed to go for the kids' sake.

And for mine.

Because not too far from the Canyon is another place, one that has been on my list of "to see" for years: Wupatki National Monument. Not only is it fun to say, but it has remnants of several Native American pueblos. I requested we go, and Matthew obliged.

I then exclaimed, "I forgot this yearning I have deep inside of me to see Native American ruins!"

To which statement Berto retorted while rolling his eyes, "Mama, not even Native Americans go see Native American ruins!"

On Matthew's suggestion we invited dear friends, some of my favorite people in the world, to join us. We packed a picnic lunch bursting with fresh fruit that always tastes glorious after a hot hike, and we caravaned north to see Sunset Crater and Wupatki before our family ventured on to the Canyon the next day.

Cool breezes, persistent smell of pine, tall fire-red and yellow wildflowers and gray volcanic rock welcomed us as we began our first hike at Sunset Crater, a volcano that erupted 900 years ago. Per my habit, I hugged a pine and got army ants on my arms. Ah, nature's varied gifts!

I've never liked gray as a color, but Mother Nature wears it well.

The Native Americans viewed that ancient volcanic eruption as a cleansing, renewal. "Now that," I said to my friend Geraldine, "is optimism!"

Wupatki is on the same scenic loop as Sunset Crater, and scenic is an understatement. The high desert is gorgeous, its many and subtle shades of green in stark contrast with the red earth and sandstone. It will knock you out.

Wukoki Pueblo

Geraldine and I were in awe, but I was pulled back down to earth by the need to tell my kids to stay off the walls and not risk their lives on tiny ledges.

We drove on to Wupatki Pueblo, the largest with a community gathering space, a ball court and numerous rooms.

Wupatki

I found a lavender flower growing in a room there.

Berto found preserved tarantulas in the visitor's center. I've always hoped to see one in the wild.

But the greatest thing I discovered was the blow hole near the enormous ball court. It had a grate bolted over it, but it blew cool air up into your face and hair from very deep underground. The Native Americans believed it was the breath of the Great Spirit. To me it was the true scent of Mother Nature without the perfume of vegetation. It was dank, but I loved it. It reminded me of deep, lonely caverns.

After exploring Wupatki we went on to the box canyon ruins and Lomaki Pueblo. When Adolfo, Geraldine's husband, suggested we could all live in these dwellings by a gorge, they taking one ruin and we another, I agreed. It's nice to dream about existing in such a lovely, lonely landscape, completely dependent on our own will to survive and vulnerable to the whims of Mother Nature.

Box Canyon Ruins

Box Canyon

Lomaki Pueblo in the distance

But such a life doesn't exist here anymore. It's a national monument, preserved for us and future generations, and thank God for that.

And thank God for my darling husband who is always willing to take a hike among Native American ruins just to please his wife.

As for the Grand Canyon? It is what it is, an incomprehensibly huge and beautiful hole in the ground crowded with people. You wish you could free fall and then rise up from its depths on beating wings like an eagle, going off to explore secluded, mysterious places. We walked away from the crowds on the paved path, venturing to stand near the edge several times, clasping Ella and Daniel's hands as we peered across this great divide. Berto, Ana and I did a little rock climbing there, descending onto a big finger ledge. While we scrambled up boulders, an enormous orange butterfly alighted first on Ana and then on me. People pay to go to butterfly wonderlands for just such an experience, and we found it amid the surreal scenery of the Grand Canyon.

Truly, amazing things happen when you get out in nature.

Lady Jane of Devizes

She was a small, older woman in simple clothes. She had short, grey hair and unwavering eyes behind glasses. I startled her only momentarily when I yelled for her help on a deserted Devizes street after dark, and she invited my friend Holly and me in immediately, trying to prevent her two cats from getting out, one who wanted to storm our laps and one who observed us nervously from a good distance.

As we sat in her warm cottage, grateful for the help and rest, Jane told us of her travels to Kentucky, Canada and Italy and of how her amorous, temperamental cat was one she had rescued from an Italian street. Maybe that was why she wasn't put off by two strange American women who accosted her on her own neighborhood street. She was used to rescuing foreigners, and as Mark Twain said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness..."

When we explained how we couldn't figure out the lock box to our vacation rental, she graciously offered us her phone and lap top to contact the cottage owner. When at first we couldn't get a hold of her, Jane offered coffee with cream and sugar.

On the way to get the coffee, she paused, "Do you want wine instead?"

She knew we had had a frustrating night. What hospitality!

Finally, we found out what we had been doing wrong, and we thanked her repeatedly and continually asked what she wanted us to send her from Arizona as a thank you, but she wouldn't accept the offer.

Before we left, I said, "I don't know what we would have done without your help, Jane!"

Holly added, "Yeah, we would have been sleeping on the street!"

And Jane replied, "I have an extra room. I would have just put you up in there."

My friend Holly and I would later refer to her as Lady Jane, and we, who are so keen on English literature, could not think of a more auspicious name than Jane (except for maybe Anne, Elizabeth or Margaret).

I tell the humorous side of our ordeal here: Left to our own devices in Devizes.

Despite the fact that we were temporarily out of our wits, Lady Jane will always have a fond place in our memory, and it's about time we sent her something from Arizona, even if it's just a simple thank you.

England Anthology: Everywhere Home, and the Westminsters

Westminster Abbey

 

Wandering around the eclectic foodie's paradise of Borough Market (at which I consumed the most heavenly doughnut) in London with my friend Holly and brother Nate, I was impressed by a magnificent church across the street to my left. I asked the gentleman at the nearest stall, "What building is that over there?"

"A church."

"Yes, but what church?"

"I don't know."

I was saddened by his indifference to and ignorance of such a gorgeous edifice. What was in fact Southwark Cathedral deserved to be referred to by name. I walked over to it shortly afterward and gazed on it from just outside its gate, reading the welcome posted on the bulletin there. The Anglican cathedral was by the River Thames, and I could see an enormous ship docked in the distance. It begged for some artist to sketch it in charcoal.

The whole of England, from what I could tell in my short visit, was home to hundreds of magnificent churches, and each one had for me a powerful magnetic pull. I never grew weary of seeing or being in them. Each was home. Though I confess that I had the ungracious thought once or twice, This used to belong to Catholics, I was soon corrected: No, these all belong to Christ.

And that was why I loved them.

Visiting the Tower of London on Thursday, we had the good fortune to sit within St. Peter-ad-Vincula's Church and hear the history of some of the executed prisoners buried beneath its floors and how they were all given a Christian burial by Queen Victoria. The Yeoman Warder, who lives at the Tower, explained his own good fortune in having the use of that church for the baptism and weddings of his children. I did not take any pictures, because it was forbidden, but it had quite a beautiful organ in it, a simple altar, a raised tomb in its midst, and a tricky step just outside the door before one ascended the narrow stairs. It was less ornate than expected. The Norman St. John's Chapel within the White Tower, over 1000 years old, held greater attraction for me. Though simpler still, its stone glowed like solid sunshine; its rudimentary pews invited; and its bold arches inspired.

Holly, a true friend, accompanied me without complaint or protest to Mass at Westminster Cathedral on Sunday morning even though she isn't Catholic. Within that church far more intricate than any I had worshipped in, the feeling of being home was more complete, for Mass is the same wherever you go in the world. Every parish reads the same readings all over the world on any given Sunday. The Our Father is prayed by all. The "peace be with you" is always proffered to our fellow Christians. We always have communion. Even if half the Mass is in Latin or all in a foreign language, you feel that you are a part of an enormous, culturally rich, global family.



The Byzantine-inspired Westminster Cathedral

On the way in to Mass, a gentleman tried to forestall me.

 

"Stop!" he cried, waving a pamphlet, perhaps one that had a few points against Catholicism. "Just give me a moment to speak with you. Jesus saved me!"

 

I smiled, shook my head and walked on, but I wanted to reply, "Doesn't He save us all?"

 

After Mass as Holly and I wandered around the various chapels, she said, "I've never been in a church where so much was going on before."

 

The cathedral was lined with chapels to either side of the sanctuary: the Blessed Sacrament chapel to its left with its sign begging quiet for those praying, a chapel of St. George, one of St. Paul, another for Divine Mercy. There were also lines of people waiting to enter the ornate, traditional confessionals before the next Mass. An enormous baptismal font with a statue of John the Baptist near the front of the church greeted those who entered.

 

 

Holly loved the architecture. I, too admired the structural elements, lighting and colors. The crucifix reminded me of the San Damiano one before which St. Francis of Assisi prayed when he heard Christ tell him to rebuild his church. The altar was ethereal, and the architecture in general surprised me, for I was sure that such a relatively new church, built in the 1800s, would not compare to that other Westminster, much older. In fact, I had never heard of the Catholic Cathedral before my parish priest told me about it.

 

 

I may never know how the interiors of the two compare, for when Holly and I went to Westminster Abbey later that day, it was closed to tourists. I was more pleased than disappointed, despite not being able to see the names and tombs of the many famous English buried within. It was Sunday, and the Abbey belonged to those who worship, those for whom it was home.

 

 

 And we could at least take pictures.

 

Holly, always the artist, poses beautifully. Perfecto!

England Anthology: London, the Tower and Ravens

I went to England this month, and now I am back. I didn't tell you about it beforehand, my readers, because I didn't trust you not to blab it to the world! No, no...that's just my little joke. Most of you are family and friends. It's the five or six of you whom I don't know personally who worry me!

My luck in finally seeing a country whose literary masters I have read all of my life is still something I can't quite believe. I am so very grateful to my husband for agreeing to the expense of such a trip and for taking time off work to mind our babies. When I recall the hospitality and generosity of my brother Nate and his wife Natalie, who live just outside London, I am amazed, appreciative and a bit convicted when I compare my own hosting skills or lack thereof. And I am very glad that Holly, my good and artistic friend, journeyed with me - having the same appreciation for Austen, the Brontes, Gaskill, and Dickens - and that she compelled me to see more than I would have done without her.

Still, the day I arrived in England, I missed my family terribly. The miles between us were multiplied by my anxiety in not being able to contact them via phone at all. I had the ungrateful thought that such a trip, such a distance away from my husband and kids, was not worth it, could not compensate for the fear of such a wide separation.

And now? Now I miss England. I miss my brother and sister-in-law and their vivacious little girl, Nina, who will so quickly forget me and who has yet to meet my own children. Though I don't wish to be apart from my family again, my head is also full of enticing memories of London, Bath, Dover and a little town called Devizes (the latter of which I mispronounced the whole time I was there). It was natural that last Friday, on my first day home in sunny Arizona, it uncharacteristically rained in spurts and was overcast, and I and the weather shared the same mood as I imagined that I had brought a bit of jolly old England with me on grey skies.

Ironic then that we had not one bit of rain on our trip in the UK. Holly and I joked we took Arizona with us, for the skies were blue and mostly clear instead of the rain and persistent clouds we had expected.

And so it was warm on our second day in the UK, the day Holly and I went into London and discovered that what my brother said was undeniably true: you cannot visit London and not see the Tower of London. It is obligatory. If you skip it, well, then off with your foolish head. The atmosphere of that place, the weight of its history (almost too much to bear for us young Americans), and the macabre details of its public executions is well worth your time. The Yeoman Warders, or beefeaters, who give the tours are knowledgeable fellows and much more than charming, witty Englishmen stuffed into old-fashioned garb. They actually live at the tower and serve the government as well as tourists; in fact, they can only get the job at the Tower after honorably serving 22 years in Her Majesty's army. Plus, they will cordially let you take a picture with them, even if you look ridiiculous wearing your backpack purse in front of you to fend off the dreaded pickpockets you read about in Oliver Twist.

It was our humorous Beefeater/guide who told us of the ravens at the tower and the legend pertaining to them that says six ravens must always be present there and that if the ravens were ever to abandon the tower, England will fall. How very Edgar Allen Poe of them! The Yeoman Warder then asked us tourists, "Do you think we believe in such superstition?" Being a good American, I shook my head. But that was the wrong answer, for the Warder quipped that the tower doesn't just keep six ravens, but seven for good measure.

I do wish they had asked for popular opinion on the subject or at least my opinion, for I could have easily told them, based on my observations after just a few hours in London, what was the real threat to the future of England: skinny jeans.

Yes, skinny jeans and skinny trousers, for that matter - in particular those worn by younger-than-thirty, "fashionable" London men - seem to me a real threat to population growth. They are worn so close to the skin all the way down to the ankles that circulation must be badly constricted to the lower half of their bodies. The only thing that could possibly save their nether regions might be the atrocious fact that they are also worn so low on the hip that underwear inevitably peeks through, and their waists are free from the maniacal cinching influence. Perhaps these skinny, self-torturing garments are meant to make the men look metrosexual. Well, I suppose we should cut these modern Londoners some slack, for stylish men used to regularly wear wigs, high heels and stockings just a few hundred years ago.

But enough about frightening apparel. London itself more than made up for the fashion of some of its male denizens. How could one look at the Tower Bridge and not be ebullient?

Ah, the whole city was beautiful! Perhaps I had long ago been charmed by its descriptions in English novels and was primed to drink in its ambiance, but I liked it better than any city I have known thus far. Though its buildings tread upon each other in seemingly endless rows on many narrow, winding streets, I was so enamored by their architecture and the sense of history that wafted from them that I never minded their shadowed influence.

Thus, I had no time to reflect on the distance between my family and I, no time for anxious thoughts. I was an urban explorer at last!

Traitor's Gate at the Tower....does that include Americans?

History lies down these halls.

A beautiful Norman window



These guys really do not budge or blink - not even at annoying, camera-wielding tourists.

Please don't ask. This picture went wrong somewhere...