England: Ruins, Cathedrals and a Medieval Hotel

A thousand years ago, laborers in England–men with strong backs and no education–built magnificent abbeys, monasteries and churches. On an earlier trip, I saw Lindisfarne…

Whitby Abbey…

and Rievaulx Abbey…

For centuries the monasteries thrived and amassed great wealth. But by the mid-1500s, enlightened thinking in England and across Europe was causing people to question the monastic life and the supremacy of the Catholic church. In 1534, King Henry VIII–desperate for a son–made the official break with Rome and created the Church of England with himself as its head. Two years later, desperate for money, he began the dissolution of the monasteries. He appropriated the properties and the treasures  for the crown. The valuable lead roofs were removed, hastening the process of ruin.

On this recent trip, we spent more time in cathedrals than ruins–grand structures that also suffered from Henry’s actions, as well as those of Cromwell and, much later, German bombs.

One of our first stops was Salisbury Cathedral in Wiltshire. Construction began in 1197 and it was consecrated in 1258. Like most ancient towns, Salisbury grew up around its church. You can see part of the old gate tower in the background. And look, it’s raining.

Here’s what you see after entering the Cathedral Close. If you ever read Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett, then you know about the hardships the cathedral builders endured. It’s often said that Salisbury was the model for the structure in Follett’s novel.

Cedars of Lebanon in the cloister.

I can’t do justice to the interior, so check here to see inside.

We also visited Exeter Cathedral but the pictures here are much better than any we took. When you look at these photos, remember this–it’s easy to get caught up in the grandeur and sheer size of these buildings. But they’re filled with tiny details that showcase the skill and, sometimes humor of the craftsmen who built them. One such item is the Green Man–a face surrounded by leaves. Here’s the one in Salisbury.

As is befitting a medieval town, we stayed in medieval hotel. The Red Lion Inn first welcomed guests more than 800 years ago. Many of it’s first paying customers were craftsmen working on the cathedral which is just a short walk away.

We definitely have to go back in summer when everything is green.

So I promise this is the last history lesson. The next post is all about the beer.

England: Part the Second (updated)

I used to work with a woman who cut out pictures of castles from magazines and taped them up all around her cubicle. One day when we were talking I asked her about them. She replied that she had always wanted to see a real castle. “That’s easy enough” I told her. “Europe’s full of castles–you can see bunches in one trip.” She just sighed and said that no, she’d never go to Europe. She said that her husband only wanted to go to the beach on vacation so that’s what they did.

It’s been years since I saw her, I don’t even remember her name. But I hope she figured out how to see a real castle.

As far as castles go, Tintagel leaves a lot to the imagination. But if your imagination has been honed by T.H. White;  Alfred, Lord Tennyson; Lerner and Lowe; Mary Stewart and even Monty Python, then you know that Tintagel is a place of awe and wonderment as the birthplace of King Arthur.

Truro was our base in Cornwall. It is what we in America would call the county seat. It’s full of 15th century buildings, but our church here in Franklin is older than its massive cathedral. We had planned to rent a car for two days to explore, but the fact that Husband’s driver’s license was left at home nixed that plan. Unfortunately, this caused  him undue stress that I was unaware of at the time. But the good people at our Truro hotel came to the rescue with Henry’s Taxi.

Henry picked us up an off we went to Tintagel.

The southwestern coast of England is a raw place in January. The out-of-place palm trees are buffeted by high winds and freezing temperatures. The roads through Cornwall are narrow, twisty and unforgiving. Truth be known, I was glad we had a native driving us.

I will say that Tintagel could do with a little lesson in signage. We drove around the tiny village which had no signs pointing to its most famous landmark. We made our way to the Camelot Hotel and inquired.

Every girl who has ever read a historical novel by Victoria Holt or Phillipa Gregory (and they may very well be the same person) will recognize this locale–the castle overlooking the wild and windy coast. Finding Arthur’s birthplace was simple, according to the woman who greeted me. I just needed to take the path towards the sea.

I can say without a doubt that this was the strongest wind I’ve ever encountered. And some of the most beautiful scenery ever.

After a few breathtaking moments, it became clear that we had traveled down the wrong path. The actual castle ruins were across the way from our perch nearer the sea. But in this case, it was a happy mistake. We would not have had nearly as good a vantage point of the scant remains if we had been near them. See that wall just over my shoulder? That’s all that remains of Tintagel Castle.

And see that opening in the shoreline? That’s Merlin’s cave. There’s a lot of magic right there.

 

So now I’ve been full circle (though backwards as Merlin lived his life) when it comes to Arthur. I’ve seen where he was born, and in 2006 I saw where he was buried in Glastonbury.

The marker reads as follows: “SITE OF KING ARTHUR’S TOMB./ IN THE YEAR 1191 THE BODIES OF/ KING ARTHUR AND HIS QUEEN WERE/ SAID TO HAVE BEEN FOUND ON THE/ SOUTH SIDE OF THE LADY CHAPEL./ ON 19TH APRIL 1278 THEIR REMAINS WERE/ REMOVED IN THE PRESENCE OF/ KING EDWARD I AND QUEEN ELEANOR/ TO A BLACK MARBLE TOMB ON THIS SITE./ THIS TOMB SURVIVED UNTIL THE/ DISSOLUTION OF THE ABBEY IN 1539.” .

But there’s one more place from Tintagel I want you to see.

This is the Tintagel church. It was built between 1080 and 1150.

This ancient holy place is open to anyone who ventures in. If it were in the United States, it would be cordoned off with a red velvet rope and you’d be charge $10 to enter. As it were, the doors were open and all comers were on the honor system–leave a pound if you took a guide book. Which I did.

England: Part the First

We landed in London at 6:15 a.m.

At 6:45 a.m. I threw up in the sink in the American Airlines arrivals lounge.

Welcome to England.

From there, the plan was to catch a bus to Reading where we would board a train to Salisbury, our first destination.

My bus dismount included my feet flying out from under me. I bounced down four steps on my rear end, resulting in epic butt bruises.

Nothing seriously hurt but my pride.

Twenty four hours later, Husband lost his credit card.

Twenty four hours after that, he realized that his driver’s license was back in Franklin meaning that our prepaid rental car would stay parked in the Hertz parking lot. Our loss, however, was Henry the Cab Driver’s gain.

Those are the little “oh shit” moments that make travel interesting.

Pictures and more tales to follow.

Je Regrette

The first time I went to Paris, it was only for two or three days, the tail-end of a business trip for Husband. I had been to England and Scotland, but this was my first visit to France and I was beyond excited. It was around 1997 and I remember patiently hunting for the perfect hotel, using my oh-so-slow dial-up internet connection.

I didn’t know a lot about the city, but I did my homework and found a perfect hotel–charming, great location and it didn’t break the bank. After riding the world’s smallest elevator to our room to drop off the bags, we went exploring. I knew the hotel was close to Notre Dame, but I didn’t realize that it was literally a two minute walk down one side street, across the broad avenue and then over the bridge onto the Ile de la Citie.

For me, Notre Dame was love at first sight. Even with the hordes of tourists and school children, even with the beggars and street vendors, it is a place that exudes holiness and grace and peace. To walk inside is to be awe-struck by the thought of all who have walked before you for the last eight centuries.

I’ve been back to Paris a half-dozen times since then, and the first thing I always do is walk down the side street, across the avenue and over the bridge to Notre Dame.

On one trip a few years ago I was with family making (for the most part) their first trip to Paris. I put them on a sight-seeing bus and took my knitting bag to Notre Dame. There is a garden to the back of the cathedral complete with park benches and perfect views of the famous flying buttresses.

As I sat there knitting, I noticed an attractive young couple on the next bench, also enjoying the view. All of a sudden, my peaceful reverie was broken by the young woman’s scream. It was a deathly sounding keen of pure misery and disbelief. It was a sound I’d never heard before.

She screamed over and over again–she had obviously received a devastating phone call. Her companion wrapped her in his arms and she continued to scream. He tried to comfort her in a language I didn’t understand.

People all around the garden were noticing and moving away. I didn’t know what to do.

I was so close that I was afraid they’d notice if I left and think that I wasn’t aware of their despair. I considered trying to help, but I was paralyzed.

I considered searching out a priest or nun. After all, this was the mother church and it was surely full of priests. I kept hoping one would walk by, but no one did.

In the end, I did nothing. I sat, with my eyes cast down, saying a prayer for her–hoping she would find the strength to manage.

I am sorry, though, that I didn’t do more.

Je regrette.

King Arthur and Me

I think my earliest memory of King Arthur was seeing “The Sword and the Stone” when I was in elementary school. The tale of Arthur and Merlin was a light-hearted introduction into the Athurian legend. As I got older, books followed–The Once and Future King, The Crystal Cave, The Idylls of the King. The movie Camelot was a biggie as well.

Suffice it to say, I adore King Arthur.

A few years ago I traveled to southern England and visited some spots that were key locations in the tales of King Arthur.

This is the Tor of Glastonbury. The Tor was probably once an island, hence its identification with the mysterious Island of Avalon, a place between the worlds, where tradition says that Arthur came to be healed of his wounds and to await his recall in a time of great need. This is the most likely reason for the legend of his grave being found in the abbey ruins below the hill at Glastonbury Abby.

This is reputed to be his grave:

Any how, I’m going back to England next year and one of the places we’re visiting is Tintagel, birthplace of Arthur.

We’re doing trains and backpacks and buses and pubs for 10 days in Devon and Cornwall.

Could anything be better?

Center Hill Getaway

Went off with the girlfriends this weekend for our annual lake trip. There was eating, drinking, canoeing and football watching.

And this sunrise outside my window Saturday.

This is the Highland Rim of the Cumberland Mountains on the western edge of the Appalachians. It’s a land of twisty back roads, dry counties and strong accents. If you know where to look, you might even find some moonshine.

Kindle Romance

I ordered myself a new toy today–a birthday present from Husband.

It’s something I didn’t realize I wanted until recently.

Yep. I got a Kindle.

Every time we travel I debate over how many books to take. I’m a fast reader and if I’m going somewhere where the Barnes and Noble is more likely to be Gibert Jeune then I need to plan ahead. But books are heavy and even if I leave them behind, they’ve still taken up a lot of room.

So now I can carry hundreds of books in this 1/3″ wide, 8.7 ounce toy.

Of course, I also ordered the nifty leather case with the built-in LCD light.

Now all I need is a trip.

This House (in case you were wondering what to get me for my birthday which is right around the corner)

We spent Labor Day weekend with family south of here. They live in what has to be one of the prettiest neighborhoods in the U.S. The narrow streets twist up and over hills and are shaded by the virtual canopy of trees overhead. The yards are manicured and everything is tidy. But this isn’t a cookie cutter neighborhood of mcmansions, where everything matches, including the limited imaginations of the residents.

It’s settled and there’s a huge variety of houses.

I call this one “Ode to Tara.”

Here’s a nod to modernism.

You’ll even find a few ’50s ranches.

But there’s one house here that always catches my eye. I just think it’s prettiest house ever. This is a house where there’s never junk mail scattered across the kitchen counter. Clothes iron themselves and weeds never dare show themselves in the flower beds. Spiders don’t lounge around in sinks, cats don’t drag in halves of bunnies and beds make themselves.

The wine is always perfectly chilled and the coffee is always piping hot. (You can click on the  photo if you want to see it bigger.)

It’s hard to tell from this, but there’s a peachy color on the wall that sort of glows in the late afternoon.

Anyhow, my birthday is in a couple of weeks.

I Forgot To Tell Y’all About This

The first morning we were in California I was trying to figure out the fancy little coffee maker.

Like all coffee makers, it involves water and, well, coffee. They just go in different compartments than I’m used to. After I finally get it all screwed together in the right order and on the stove, I start looking around.

I saw this little black flashlight on top of the fridge. I pick it and turn it on. Only instead of light coming out there’s a misty spray. A few seconds later I was coughing up a lung, my nose was running and my eyes were watering.

I had pepper sprayed myself.

Brilliant.

Can It Really Be this Cold in July?

The Russian River flows  southward from the mountains of Mendocino County in Northern California. Once in Sonoma County, it turns west and meanders its way to the Pacific Ocean. It is 110 miles long and traverses some of the most spectacular scenery in the United States.

In the last 100 years the river has nurtured the vineyards Sonoma County is known for. But for centuries before the grapes came to California, its valley was home to the world’s most magnificent trees–the redwood.

We spent last week in the area and Northern California is a strange and foreign land where sweaters are worn in July and fennel grows wild on the side of the road.

The beaches we’re most familiar with are the white sands and blue water of the Gulf–a far cry from the cold, rocky shores of the Pacific. The next two pictures are from Shell Beach.

Seals are not a common sight in Franklin either. This is at Jenner, where the Russian River meets the Pacific Ocean.

Later that day we drove down to Point Reyes which holds the distinction of being the foggiest place in the U.S. It is also right on top of the San Andreas fault which runs between these blue poles. When the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 occurred, a fence very near here moved 16 feet.

But nothing about this area is as iconic as the trees. We were in a cabin on the Russian River and these trees were on the property.

Redwoods spread by sending out shoots. This is a fairy ring–a circle of trees that have grown up around a mother tree.

One day we went to Armstrong Woods–a huge forest of redwoods. Remember the where the Ewoks lived in Star Wars? This is where they were filmed.

Of course, no visit to Sonoma County is complete without at least one winery visit. We had plenty to choose from.

And if you’ve ever been on a vineyard tour, you know that this is the best part:

It’s easy  to see even now the allure that California had on visitors decades ago. With its huge trees, rocky shores and climate that changes from mile to mile, it is completely foreign to our Southern-bred selves. It is a wonderful place that I hope to visit again and again.