I failed to clarify my chosen title in the previous note. Pilgrimage is a term used in a wide variety of ways. Traditionally it was associated with religious treks of all kinds. Nowadays it can be applied to a long journey where the ending destination is a form of tribute to someone or something. In my previous posting, I went on a pilgrimage to find my family's homeland...thing and the fantastic palace of an adolescent obsession. Scotland, although originally planned as simply a fun educational experience turned into a very unexpected pilgrimage of all shapes and sorts. Birmingham... well, I had one thing in mind going to Birmingham. It was a pilgrimage of a decidedly self-indulgent nature disguised as something close to a learning experience. Yeah, like I'm going to take away anything more than a chocolate hangover from the Cadbury factory.
Scotland, February 24, 2010. It was cold. It was wet. We (my 29 or so classmates, my professor and I) had just made our way to a youth hostel from Waverley Train station. Waiting in the lobby for our room keys I felt like a package of frozen hamburger, left out on the counter to thaw. To be honest, I'm sure a package of hamburger looked better than I did. The wind had chaffed all exposed skin red and plastered our hair to our bodies. However, we were then indoors, out of the rain and the hostel (YHA Edinburgh) was like a hotel which made the bad weather seem less oppressive. After locking our bags safely away and taking a few minutes to sort ourselves out, we ventured back into the cold to Edinburgh castle.
For those of you lucky enough to have been to Edinburgh, you're aware that aside from the pea soup-like mists and freezing temperatures, it is a very beautiful city. I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I can understand if some people, preferring seaside french villages and Italian wine country villas might see Edinburgh as a downer. The buildings of old and new town are of a fairly uniform caramel-colored brick in a sort of grandiose-Utilitarian style (if that's not completely contradictory). Somehow, the city seems older than even London. It may be that Edinburgh seems more in touch with its Scottish landscape than London which makes it feel older. I'm not sure. I do know that Edinburgh Castle is everything I would hope for from most castles, if a bit touristised. Its even on a hillside so you see it from practically everywhere. That first day we also made it to the Scottish National Gallery. Like the British National Gallery, it is free and has a very good collection of renaissance art and a lovely exhibition devoted to Scottish artists. While I enjoyed the art, I found it a bit lacking in impressionism which, if I had to choose, would be the art movement that most feeds my soul. However, several lovely neo-classical marble sculptures which are always a treat. That night the hostel fed us a filling dinner and most went to bed early. Scotland is a tiring place.
The next day we had breakfast at 7:30. The hostel served "Full SCOTTISH breakfast" which, if it diverged from "full ENGLISH breakfast" I have no idea how. It consisted of bacon, sausage, baked beans, bread, and a tomato. Oh, and tea. ALWAYS tea. As horribly unhealthy as it sounds it is actually one of my favorite breakfast styles now. My future roommates should be prepared for a new Saturday morning tradition. Anyway, on the schedule of events for the day was the High Kirk (I think that was the name) which is the large Catholic Cathedral-turned Presbyterian kirk in the city. It has a fairly extensive history and it was interesting to learn about the rift between the Church of England and the Presbyterians of Scotland, led my John Knox. I'm not sure I'd favor either side (john Knox being kind of a downer and old school Anglicans being kind of legalistic) but all in all it makes for a very interesting church history. After the tour we went to the Scottish Museum. To be honest I spent most of my time searching in vain for William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. I felt cheated to discover that their only mention in the whole museum took the shape of a small display of artifacts and a few blurbs about the wars of independence. I then promptly ate my crisps to show the world my dissatisfaction.
After that, Martin gave us free time consisting of about 3 hours if memory serves. He gave the option of taking the train with him to Linlithgow palace or doing whatever the heck we liked. Being of the castle hunting breed, I opted for Linlithgow as did about 14 others. I think it was one of the best decisions I have made here. Fully expecting a smaller Kensington or Hollyrood, I was ecstatic to discover that Linlithgow is not a "living" castle. Its a skeleton of James IV old residence. It was once a handsome and luxurious home on Loch Linlithgow. Now, its standing stone in the shape of rooms, courtyard, dungeon, ramparts minus roof and all signs of hospitality (excepting a small gift shop near the entrance). Not believing my eyes when we approached, I took Martin's advice to explore (on my own) the area. Giddy as I haven't been since I was 9 and I found out they were making more Star Wars films, I ran immediately across the courtyard, avoiding the ascending steps and heading straight for the ones that went DOWN. I squealed with delight when I realized their was no hand rail, nor helpful lights to illuminate the palace kitchens or other rooms. And there were rooms. So many. Most with dark, small passageways leading to more dark rooms. At times I pulled out my cellphone flashlight to see if that thing in the corner was another passageway, a hiding hole or the ghost of some murdered Scottish lord. It usually was one of the first two. Some of the lower rooms had these enthralling and romantic window seats (there were some windows down there) that were straight out my early imaginings of forgotten princesses and greedy barons and their Magna Cartas (I was a bit of history geek as a child). I think all of this would have made me cry if I had not been so eager to see what else the castle offered. Tears would only obscure my already horrible vision. I won't bore you with further details. I will say that the view of the locks was straight out of stevenson's "Kidnapped" and that I don't think I'll ever forget this experience as long as I live.
After returning from Linlithgow we ate dinner and the night ended. The next day was short as most of the class was heading back to London. We did get a tour of the Scottish parliament. I fully expect that in 10 or so years Scotland will have full independence. Shocked? Don't be. There won't be a war and it ma take some getting used to but I feel most scots want and are ready for a country of their own. Anyway, after the parliament Emily and I said goodbye to our classmates and headed to our own hostel. The plan had been that the next day we would take a train to Aberfeldy and make our way to the Menzies castle from there as I had made a promise to a friend to check it out. Unfortunately, Scotland in the winter is like Russia in the winter: It likes to keep out invading forces. So, as the lines were closed and we were afraid of being stuck up there if we went by coach, Emily and I opted on a different day trip. But before I get to that, I'll talk about The Elephant House. For you Harry Potter fans, this should be a nice volt of jealousy. For you that could care less, now is a good time to get a cup of tea and check your stock portfolio. JK ROwling first (I think, anyway) began to pen the Harry Potter series in a cafe in Edinburgh called "The Elephant House". Aside from this fame, the Elephant is just a darn cool place. There are pastries and tea, hotdogs and soup and all sorts of tasty others. I had a scone and it was deliscious. Sitting at a table next to the window with the view of the castle, I have no doubt in my mind where the idea of hogwarts came from. earlier in the trip (I went to the cafe twice) I had even been inspired to write a bit of something. When I was with Emily, I soaked up the atmosphere and let my mind be a piece with the fact that I had touched someone's muse.
After a decidedly sleepless night (bring earplugs when staying in a dorm room hostel) Emily and I got up early and got our tickets for Stirling. Being disappointed with the Scottish museums display, we had made the early decision to seek out William Wallace and Robert the Bruce on their own turf. Stirling is a beautiful town, right on the edge of the highlands. Emily and took our time getting to the Wallace monument and ended up stumbling on the ruins of an old cathedral where one the James' was buried. We then walked (as Emily would say in the boonies) around until we found a road that took us up the steep incline to the monument which was a tall tower with a great view. Granted, this was made for tourists. But it felt pretty good to walk the 246 steps past all of fake tartans and plastic bagpipes to the tippity-top. We got some very nice posed pictures and headed back down for an early tea. Right after that we walked to the other side of the town to Stirling Castle. Although smaller, Stirling was still pretty cool. The tour guide was a character, if a very distinguished pointy nose, long white hair, a propensity for saying "yay" at the end of statements and long, bony fingers. I of course fell in love with him. We had an unfortunately light lunch and then headed back to Edinburgh. We were both exhausted and ready for bed. When we got to the city, we stopped at Marks and Spencers for sandwiches and whatever else would fill our stomachs (which turned out to e a lot) and made our way back to the hostel. The next day we left Edinburgh for London, better for the experience. I am going back one day. That's not a hope, or goal. Its a fact.
And now for something COMPLETELY different. Like Scotland, Birmingham was also a planned excursion through my study program. I suppose going there had a good deal to do with a better sense of the industrial revolution and the British Emprie and what not. In all honesty, I just wanted some chocolate. We did see a nice gallery ith some Pre-Raphaelite painters. It was nice.
Now, to the good stuff. Cadbury World. Really, a place for kids and kids at heart. But can you imagine a more magical place than an entire complex devoted to the entertainment of chocoholics from around the world? I don't think I can. Yes the staged welcoming videos were as corny as corn gets. Sure, I'm not really sure what an animatronic gorilla drumming along to Phil Collins has to do with coco. But hey, its chocolate. It doesn't have to explain itself. What i wanted I got. Within an hour of our arrival had a small cup of warm, melted chocolate in my hands and that was enough to justify the whole trip. Of course, there were more samples but there's something undeniably appealing about eating straight melted chocolate. Of course, I also discovered a new favorite candy- Cadbury's Turkish Delight. Its Turkish Delight. Its chocolate. Its INCREDIBLE. In future, if someone were to ever need a gift for me, this is it. I could devote volumes to my new found passion for Cadbury's Turkish Delight.
Well, now that I've exposed what a gluttonous fiend I am, I'll end my note. Next weekend is Bath. I have the option of staying over a night. I'm not sure if that'll happen. We'll see.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Pilgrimage Part 1: Bredfield and Hampton Court
I'm exhausted. I say this, not for your pity, or for admiration but as a simple warning. I'm pretty much writing this on the fly. Grammar won't be checked (has it ever been?) and I may or may not say things that sound just plain (as my host mother would say) contrary. Well, I don't and care. Take it or lave it.
As I've said, time and time again, London is a large, dirty, compressing city full stinky, loud, gawdy things that really overstimulate a person of my *achem* sensitive nature. Previously, I've done quite a bit to relieve myself of the big city by hiding in parks. Well, within these past few weeks I've actually left it for brief stints of time and that's been nice. However, I feel I've done a lot more in these trips aside from recharging my introverted batteries. So, I'll start from where I left off.
On friday, February something or other (I'm too tired to remember) I woke up at 5:45, got dressed, and headed out the door towards Liverpool Street train station. My equipment: 1 wool sweater, 1 rain jacket, leather boots, camera, Lonely Planet great Britain Guide Book, Google maps of Ipswich and Bredfield, Waterbottle, 2 scones, 1 carrot, 2 apples, and an assortment of cheese (non-dairy, of course). My destination: Bredfield, Suffolk, England. Why, you ask? Well, about 2,000 years ago two Americans, a man named Robert Middleton and a woman named Dorinda McKnight, in the airforce stationed in England decided they just might like each other enough to spend the rest of their lives together. There was some sort of archaic ceremony involving appeasing the volcano god (as Suffolk is FULL of Volcanoes) and (here the details get a little vague) they some how got a house in Bredfield. Around this time they also bought a bought a changling baby from Queen Titania for five shillings and a basket of oysters. Why they wanted I'm not sue. It had something to do with a deal they made with a warlord and the rites of primo geniture and so forth. I'm not really an expert on ancient Middletonian customs. But I digress.
Anyway, I wanted to find the house they lived in in Bredfield as, they are, in fact, mis padres. The house even had a name. I say had as I discovered a little later the house no longer exists. But back to the story. So, I took a 9:00 o'clock train from London to Ipswich. The train was lovely. Fast, clean and there was even a woman who pushed a food trolley up and down the aisle. Once I got to Ipswich, I knew vaguely where I needed to go as I had researched the area previously. I knew I needed to find the bus station on Cameron road and take the 12:38pm bus to bredfield. I knew it. Well, apparantly Ipswich didn't know it as the bus station turned out to be a sign next to a pub and casino. Not only that, but it being half term for school children, the bus schedule was all off kilter. So, my plans changed. Instead of 12:38, I would wait for the 2:09 bus. This gave me ample time to roam around Ipswich. Its a very normal, British town. Its not a bustling, cosmopolitan city like London. There was a lovely state home where cardinal Wolsey (head man for Henvry VIII), a nice church and tasty pasties so I enjoyed myself. When the time came I was able to leave Ipswich, on my way to Bredfield. I could not believe I had actually done it. Pride really does not cover how impowered I felt at having succesfully navigated the transportation system on my own without getting lost. It was a great moment in my life.
Now, I feel I should say something about the English roads system. All-in-all, its an excellent system that's been around since the Romans who were darn good planners. However, what has also been around since the days of ox-carts and horsemen is the road size. Seriously. One mini can drive down the road and either side will be touching hedgerow (the bushes that line pretty much all roads). Imagine taking a regular sized city bus down what your imagination has now conjured. Scared? Yeah, so was I. When I wasn't biting in my hand to keep from gasping every time we "passed" another car, I was watching my fellow passengers. There were probably five in all heading outside of Ipswich and not one was under the age of 70. What was really great was that they all seemed to know not only each other but the bus driver who in turn knew exactly where each of his patrons needed to go. He even stopped seemingly in the middle of no where to pick up an old lady and take her to the Tesco (a cheap grocery store) in the next town. One woman even got to talking with Nigel (such was the bus driver's name) about his recent knee surgery and how her cousin Helen was about to get her hip replaced. I liked listening to this particular woman, who was probably in her mid-seventies, had brought along her mother who she always made sure to repeat everything that Nigel said to. Or she'd ask her questions like "i'n't bwight muvah?" When we got to a town that i thought might be my stop I asked her what stop it was. I love how she turned to, as if it was the most absurd question she'd ever heard and said, "why, this is Bwedfild, dawling."
"Bwedfild" or Bredfield as the town sign says, is a small village. Really, you don't get much smaller in England. But its peaceful and quiet and there are tees and fields everywhere. I took my time walking around, tying to find mom and dad's house but I didn't have any luck. Of course, I'm notorious for not finding things so it may very well be there. I really did enjoy the town, but it being small and having no working businesses I didn't really have a reason to stay after I'd finished searching. I was especially eager to get back to Ipswich as it was about 3:30 and would be dark soon. So, I headed back to the bredfield bus stop and waited. and waited. and waited.
About 4:30 I decided I should have planned how I was going to get back better. I had no bus schedule but I was pretty sure one was not coming in the near future. I was also waiting right in front of a house where the mother kept peaking out her window and looking at me like I was some kind of creeper. So, not wanting to be thought a stalker, I decided I had two perfectly good feet and I'd walk somewhere with a better bus service. I had a vague idea that Woodbridge was pretty close and my google map of Bredield had a road that led somewhere that i thought was woodbridge. So I walked. If your remember, the roads are very thin which left me about 5 inches of sod between the road and the hedge to walk on. Sometimes I jumped into a field to keep out of the way of the cars. Eventually I got the the A12 or something like that which is a fairly popular road. This turned out to be a good thing as it had something resembling a sidewalk which took me to by Sutton Hoo (anglo saxon treasure trove), some other towns I don't remember, Melton, and finally Woodbridge.
Now, by this time I was in what I like to call a state. As bold, brave, and brash as I like to think I was, in reality I was an internal wreck. Being lost in the middle of East Anglia is not my idea of a good time. In fact, on the scale of time quality, 10 being a good time and 1 being a bad one I'd say this ranked about a 3 which only got its points because, well, I was lost in ENGLAND which just doesn't happen every day. However, I was good and truly lost without a tube station or friendly face in sight which is kind of nerve racking. I got the point of seriously considering flagging the first bus I saw down and demanding the driver take me where I wanted to go when i saw the familiar sign that meant rail road. I had not planned on taking a train back to Ipswich but as I was, as you can imagine, desperate, I didn't particularly care. When I tried to buy my ticket I discoved that the ticket window was closed and nearly cied. However, a friendly woman in the gift shop told me I could buy my ticket on the train, which would leave at 6:07. This gave me about a half hour to calm myself down. I gave my dad a call, which helped my state of mind quite a bit and finished off my food stuffs which I had been nibbling on for most of my day. When the train finally came, I was tired, a bit shaky but extemley happy. I didnt even have to switch trains at Ipswich to get back to London. I got into London about 8 and decided I wanted a good strong meal to carry me home. That finished, I got on the tube. Then I realized I had a few phone messages from my host family making sure I was, you know, alive, and checked the time which was around 10:30.
The next morning I slept in. I love stating the obvious so I'll indulge myself and say it was very nice. Then I got it into my head that what I really needed to comabt my recent slightly traumatic but very fulfilling experience was another one. So, I invited a few of my new friends Sasha and Annie to Hampton Court- the famous home of cardinal Wolsey, Anne Boleyn and henry VIII as well as other english monarchs.
Like bredfield, i had to take a train from Waterloo station to Hamton Court. Unlike Bredfield it was a rather hoping place with tourists galore. This left a rather sour taste in my mouth- especially all the rubbish in the gift shop. That day i realized that when I go to a castle I don't want dress up Henry and Katherine Parr and newly remodeled state rooms and wax-works in period costume. My imagination doesn't need help getting an idea of what castle life was like nor do I want to see the fifteenth state bedroom decked out in full regalia. I suppose its nice to see the rich fabrics, tapestries and paintings but really, I'd jsut as soon put those in the British museum and see them separately. What I want in a castle is evidence of how time has left it. I don't want carpet I won't worn down stone. I don't want safety rails- I'd just as soone trip down the stairs like Thomas Moore might have. I don't want a cafe or gift shop I want the hollowed out corpses of the royal court apartments. In my mind I think a castle is a kind of tribute to the past in a sad way. They're all gone (when I say they I mean the old kings and queen and nobility) and a castle should kind of leave a haunting impression, like a cemetery. I want to touch the same stone's that two-year old Elizabeth I touched and I want to look out the same windows as Jane Seymour.
Now, in all fairness Hampton Court is a very well preserved depiction of Tudor and Stuart achitecture and for anyone interested in that history I'd recommend seeing it. Its vey beautiful. However, Hampton court lacks something my heart desperately wants- a solid presence of death. That sounds morbid. sorry? I don't mean to be a weirdo but really, I can't put it any other way.
Well, I'm exhausted. I've said that already but its still true. I'm not entirely sure what I just wrote but I have the vague idea that I forgot scotland. well, I'll wirte somethine else on that later. When I've slept and don't have an 8 o'clock train to birmingham the next morning.
good night.
As I've said, time and time again, London is a large, dirty, compressing city full stinky, loud, gawdy things that really overstimulate a person of my *achem* sensitive nature. Previously, I've done quite a bit to relieve myself of the big city by hiding in parks. Well, within these past few weeks I've actually left it for brief stints of time and that's been nice. However, I feel I've done a lot more in these trips aside from recharging my introverted batteries. So, I'll start from where I left off.
On friday, February something or other (I'm too tired to remember) I woke up at 5:45, got dressed, and headed out the door towards Liverpool Street train station. My equipment: 1 wool sweater, 1 rain jacket, leather boots, camera, Lonely Planet great Britain Guide Book, Google maps of Ipswich and Bredfield, Waterbottle, 2 scones, 1 carrot, 2 apples, and an assortment of cheese (non-dairy, of course). My destination: Bredfield, Suffolk, England. Why, you ask? Well, about 2,000 years ago two Americans, a man named Robert Middleton and a woman named Dorinda McKnight, in the airforce stationed in England decided they just might like each other enough to spend the rest of their lives together. There was some sort of archaic ceremony involving appeasing the volcano god (as Suffolk is FULL of Volcanoes) and (here the details get a little vague) they some how got a house in Bredfield. Around this time they also bought a bought a changling baby from Queen Titania for five shillings and a basket of oysters. Why they wanted I'm not sue. It had something to do with a deal they made with a warlord and the rites of primo geniture and so forth. I'm not really an expert on ancient Middletonian customs. But I digress.
Anyway, I wanted to find the house they lived in in Bredfield as, they are, in fact, mis padres. The house even had a name. I say had as I discovered a little later the house no longer exists. But back to the story. So, I took a 9:00 o'clock train from London to Ipswich. The train was lovely. Fast, clean and there was even a woman who pushed a food trolley up and down the aisle. Once I got to Ipswich, I knew vaguely where I needed to go as I had researched the area previously. I knew I needed to find the bus station on Cameron road and take the 12:38pm bus to bredfield. I knew it. Well, apparantly Ipswich didn't know it as the bus station turned out to be a sign next to a pub and casino. Not only that, but it being half term for school children, the bus schedule was all off kilter. So, my plans changed. Instead of 12:38, I would wait for the 2:09 bus. This gave me ample time to roam around Ipswich. Its a very normal, British town. Its not a bustling, cosmopolitan city like London. There was a lovely state home where cardinal Wolsey (head man for Henvry VIII), a nice church and tasty pasties so I enjoyed myself. When the time came I was able to leave Ipswich, on my way to Bredfield. I could not believe I had actually done it. Pride really does not cover how impowered I felt at having succesfully navigated the transportation system on my own without getting lost. It was a great moment in my life.
Now, I feel I should say something about the English roads system. All-in-all, its an excellent system that's been around since the Romans who were darn good planners. However, what has also been around since the days of ox-carts and horsemen is the road size. Seriously. One mini can drive down the road and either side will be touching hedgerow (the bushes that line pretty much all roads). Imagine taking a regular sized city bus down what your imagination has now conjured. Scared? Yeah, so was I. When I wasn't biting in my hand to keep from gasping every time we "passed" another car, I was watching my fellow passengers. There were probably five in all heading outside of Ipswich and not one was under the age of 70. What was really great was that they all seemed to know not only each other but the bus driver who in turn knew exactly where each of his patrons needed to go. He even stopped seemingly in the middle of no where to pick up an old lady and take her to the Tesco (a cheap grocery store) in the next town. One woman even got to talking with Nigel (such was the bus driver's name) about his recent knee surgery and how her cousin Helen was about to get her hip replaced. I liked listening to this particular woman, who was probably in her mid-seventies, had brought along her mother who she always made sure to repeat everything that Nigel said to. Or she'd ask her questions like "i'n't bwight muvah?" When we got to a town that i thought might be my stop I asked her what stop it was. I love how she turned to, as if it was the most absurd question she'd ever heard and said, "why, this is Bwedfild, dawling."
"Bwedfild" or Bredfield as the town sign says, is a small village. Really, you don't get much smaller in England. But its peaceful and quiet and there are tees and fields everywhere. I took my time walking around, tying to find mom and dad's house but I didn't have any luck. Of course, I'm notorious for not finding things so it may very well be there. I really did enjoy the town, but it being small and having no working businesses I didn't really have a reason to stay after I'd finished searching. I was especially eager to get back to Ipswich as it was about 3:30 and would be dark soon. So, I headed back to the bredfield bus stop and waited. and waited. and waited.
About 4:30 I decided I should have planned how I was going to get back better. I had no bus schedule but I was pretty sure one was not coming in the near future. I was also waiting right in front of a house where the mother kept peaking out her window and looking at me like I was some kind of creeper. So, not wanting to be thought a stalker, I decided I had two perfectly good feet and I'd walk somewhere with a better bus service. I had a vague idea that Woodbridge was pretty close and my google map of Bredield had a road that led somewhere that i thought was woodbridge. So I walked. If your remember, the roads are very thin which left me about 5 inches of sod between the road and the hedge to walk on. Sometimes I jumped into a field to keep out of the way of the cars. Eventually I got the the A12 or something like that which is a fairly popular road. This turned out to be a good thing as it had something resembling a sidewalk which took me to by Sutton Hoo (anglo saxon treasure trove), some other towns I don't remember, Melton, and finally Woodbridge.
Now, by this time I was in what I like to call a state. As bold, brave, and brash as I like to think I was, in reality I was an internal wreck. Being lost in the middle of East Anglia is not my idea of a good time. In fact, on the scale of time quality, 10 being a good time and 1 being a bad one I'd say this ranked about a 3 which only got its points because, well, I was lost in ENGLAND which just doesn't happen every day. However, I was good and truly lost without a tube station or friendly face in sight which is kind of nerve racking. I got the point of seriously considering flagging the first bus I saw down and demanding the driver take me where I wanted to go when i saw the familiar sign that meant rail road. I had not planned on taking a train back to Ipswich but as I was, as you can imagine, desperate, I didn't particularly care. When I tried to buy my ticket I discoved that the ticket window was closed and nearly cied. However, a friendly woman in the gift shop told me I could buy my ticket on the train, which would leave at 6:07. This gave me about a half hour to calm myself down. I gave my dad a call, which helped my state of mind quite a bit and finished off my food stuffs which I had been nibbling on for most of my day. When the train finally came, I was tired, a bit shaky but extemley happy. I didnt even have to switch trains at Ipswich to get back to London. I got into London about 8 and decided I wanted a good strong meal to carry me home. That finished, I got on the tube. Then I realized I had a few phone messages from my host family making sure I was, you know, alive, and checked the time which was around 10:30.
The next morning I slept in. I love stating the obvious so I'll indulge myself and say it was very nice. Then I got it into my head that what I really needed to comabt my recent slightly traumatic but very fulfilling experience was another one. So, I invited a few of my new friends Sasha and Annie to Hampton Court- the famous home of cardinal Wolsey, Anne Boleyn and henry VIII as well as other english monarchs.
Like bredfield, i had to take a train from Waterloo station to Hamton Court. Unlike Bredfield it was a rather hoping place with tourists galore. This left a rather sour taste in my mouth- especially all the rubbish in the gift shop. That day i realized that when I go to a castle I don't want dress up Henry and Katherine Parr and newly remodeled state rooms and wax-works in period costume. My imagination doesn't need help getting an idea of what castle life was like nor do I want to see the fifteenth state bedroom decked out in full regalia. I suppose its nice to see the rich fabrics, tapestries and paintings but really, I'd jsut as soon put those in the British museum and see them separately. What I want in a castle is evidence of how time has left it. I don't want carpet I won't worn down stone. I don't want safety rails- I'd just as soone trip down the stairs like Thomas Moore might have. I don't want a cafe or gift shop I want the hollowed out corpses of the royal court apartments. In my mind I think a castle is a kind of tribute to the past in a sad way. They're all gone (when I say they I mean the old kings and queen and nobility) and a castle should kind of leave a haunting impression, like a cemetery. I want to touch the same stone's that two-year old Elizabeth I touched and I want to look out the same windows as Jane Seymour.
Now, in all fairness Hampton Court is a very well preserved depiction of Tudor and Stuart achitecture and for anyone interested in that history I'd recommend seeing it. Its vey beautiful. However, Hampton court lacks something my heart desperately wants- a solid presence of death. That sounds morbid. sorry? I don't mean to be a weirdo but really, I can't put it any other way.
Well, I'm exhausted. I've said that already but its still true. I'm not entirely sure what I just wrote but I have the vague idea that I forgot scotland. well, I'll wirte somethine else on that later. When I've slept and don't have an 8 o'clock train to birmingham the next morning.
good night.
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