U.K. Trip, Day 11
Hadrian's Wall, Day 6

Solway Firth

~

We bid farewell to Warwick House after a sturdy breakfast of cream-cheese-and-smoked salmon omelets. Another gorgeous, warm day, with a strong north-northeast breeze (freshening steadily). We walked up through Carlisle's centre, past the castellated town hall set among crooked streets, past all the standard British amenities--chippies, Marks & Spencer, Topshop, travel agents, and a preponderance of hairdressers. Even a bookshop. 

Rounding a corner, we came upon Carlisle cathedral, a splendid red sandstone structure. We took a few moments to step inside and were abundantly rewarded as we passed through the narrow wood-paneled hall from the old Norman church into the "new" nave: a glory of morning sunlight poured through curtains of stained glass, illuminating the vivid primary colours on ceiling and carved misericords and organ--deep red and blue, clean gold and white, angels, fleur-de-lis, trumpetes, stars. Shining carving and gilding in the sunlight. The misericords were dark wood carved into a forest of spires and flourishes crps as ice crystals. Scott harangued against Oliver Cromwell for wrecking the earlier Norman nave as we reentered the sunshine outside. 

We wove through the cathedral close, through Tullie House grounds (where we unexpectedly encountered Philippians 4 inscribed on a plaque in a pedestrian tunnel under the road), and up to the castle, and so on past the crowded football fields, down through Bitts Park, to follow the River Eden again. We couldn't figure out why there were so many people on the football fields til Scott remembered that today is Saturday...!

And so we walked along the river, gradually back into farmland. We followed a winding path that ducked and dodged through pastures, down to the river, up into fields, across farmyards or village greens, back down to the river, and so on. At last we left the river and stuck to a track through fields, long sandy lanes between tremendously tall hawthorn hedges. Always the wind, singing eerily in powerlines overhead or kicking dust into our faces or rippling through grass.

In a village we stopped to admire a church; a girl riding by on a horse said hello. We came to a weird line of oak and hawthorn trees intermingled in a field, following the vallum--huge trees hollowed but still blossoming, creaking in the wind, like giant pillars left to rot on the close-cropped grass. For lunch we stopped on a bench in Burgh-by-Sands, an extremely quaint town. The bench was just under the parish signboard, which was plastered with notices about village celebrations for the Queen's Jubilee. 

In the afternoon, the long, long slog across Solway marsh to Drumburgh. Endless wind roaring over the fens, flats, and sand plains, roaring in the scrubby arc of hawthorns that hedged the south side of an old railway embankment--our trail. The embankment ran beside the current road. We had to detour for steers on the embankment, but the sheep we encountered scattered in fear. Out on the marsh, the tide was rolling in slowly, slowly over the sand. Cars passed frequently on the road. Far away by the water, two people sat while a very happy border collie ran circles around them. Beyond the water lay Scotland, severe ridges adorned with white windmills.

At Drumburgh we took to fields and gravelly bridleways again. We had to beware of stinging nettles that grow around the kissing gates and stiles--nothing new for us. And then suddenly we were out of fields, across a road by a caravan park, and plunging into a long, low tunnel made by wind-writhen oak, hawthorn, gorse, and ash. Stunted but thick-growing. To the left of the trail, black pools of water and cattails. Ahead, the long sunlit tunnel, narrow, secret, with the wind booming over. To the right, between scrub and trees, glimpses of the sea. Whitecaps. Gulls and terns. A sailboat. The smell of gorse, like curry and cinnamon.

Then out at last, up past holiday cottages, to our last stop, Heskett House, an old stone building well-maintained but redecorated in modern freehand style. Our hostess, who looks like an Irish fiddler (and is, in fact, a fiddler, but a British one), welcomed us and showed us our room. It's on the corner, its windows open to the sea. Sharp wind over the open sill. We showered, drank tea, and then walked the very last mile-and-a-half to Bowness-on-Solway, the end of the wall.

The trail followed the road here, up through the village, which was completely empty--a narrow street between white-washed, crooked, narrow houses. The path dodged right, and we found ourselves on the old Edwardian promenade--an overgrown alley behind cottages. A wee arbor there marks the end/beginning of the trail. Sunshine welcomed us as we stepped out of the trees and into the arbor. The end of the way for us. We paused, enjoyed, appreciated, celebrated.

Then--to the King's Arms for tea. Apparently that's where the whole village was because the place was fairly crowded with people eating and hanging out, watching TV, etc. We sat in a corner by windows with lace valances and ate fish (for Scott) and lamb (for me). The pub around us felt like a glorified living room; a football match was being broadcasted tonight.

After we ate, we walked around the corner to the wee Anglican church where we'll worship tomorrow. We wandered among the headstones for awhile. Peaceful. The wind had subsided, and the evening sunlight lay gently on the rows and rows of tall, flat stones. They were weathered, covered with lichen; we tried to make out the inscriptions. One, "Waits for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ," really touched Scott. The quietude and emptiness of the place after the wind-filled marshes and the noisy pub.

We walked back to our B&B in Port Carlisle, only to discover that our hosts had left us a bottle of Chardonnay and an enormous bunch of red-purple lilacs to celebrate our honeymoon! We lay back and laughed about our trip and inspected our bruised nails, blistered toes, and calloused heels. The sun set very, very slowly over the firth. The sky faded gently from vivid salmons and periwinkles to shades of tangerine and cobalt into deep navy and silver with a hint of rust. The wind whistled easily through the (closed) windows. We read. The last light glimmered out on the wet sand.

Done. Done. Done.

U.K. Trip, Day 10
Hadrian's Wall, Day 5

Sandy lanes and farmyards today

~

After another English breakfast (the full country fry), we set out. Overnight, the breeze had strengthened, and all day it followed us, fanned us. It's unusual in this country to have an east wind, we'd learned from our host on Wednesday; most often, people walking from east to west have the wind in their faces and are miserable.

A day of farms and pastures. Cows and horses more than sheep. The Wall was buried under tree roots or turf, and sometimes the path was even directly on top of it--as it lay buried under short grass. Lots of narrow lanes, tiny villages, and alleys behind gardens or through clusters of milking sheds. Pervasive farmyard smells--silage, stale milk, manure, hay. Also tall hawthorn hedges. We crossed several clear brooks on narrow bridges under thick trees. A whole day of this--of wind running before us through long grass in lush fields, of the Penines shadowy to the south, of wood pigeons clattering above us, of blackbirds singing from fences, of crows scouring pastures, of daisies, dandelions, and rich earth.

We paused for lunch in an open field, ate our snacks, and pressed on to Carlisle. The path into town takes you past the weird Georgian folly of Rickerby, past Rickerby mansion, and into Rickerby park, which is a great, open green space dotted with enormous old trees. Cows grazed on the common, to Scott's disgust, but none of the many cyclists, dog-walkers, sunbathers, or lounging highschoolers seemed to mind. We crossed the River Eden on a graceful suspension bridge, where the river flowed below, shallow, clear, and fast. The cattle were splashing in the water. We walked in a long loop around a golf course and found ourselves deposited into Carlisle city centre, just by the university.

It was so strange to be in a city again. Short as today's hike was, from 10:30 a.m. - 3:30 p.m., we were grimy and windblown. My eyes were still full of crags, and my ears were still attuned to the silences of wood and hillside. The city seemed rude, cluttered, and filthy. 

We stayed at Warwick Lodge, an old school turned guesthouse--a huge Victorian corner terrace house in a neighborhood of late 19th century brick row houses. Like Renwick House. Our hosts welcomed us with open arms and even offered to wash our laundry (the "bilges," as Scott dubbed them). Our room was very spacious with a great bay window overlooking the street.

After showers we walked up Warwick Road to the Andalusian for dinner. It was very elegant--Spanish tiles, sketches of horses, clean, white walls accented with corbels. I ate clams and squid for the first time, mixed in with pasta. After our meal, we hunted up a Spar for tinned food to eat on Sabbath day. In our room again, I read The Help, and Scott talked to his mother on Facetime--a quiet evening.

U.K. Trip, Day 9
Hadrian's Wall, Day 4

Thirlwall Castle

~

A series of kindnesses from people along the trail punctuated our hike today.

Kindness #1: Our host at Vallum Lodge drove us up to Steel Rigg car park so that we didn't have to hike the mile-and-a-half or so up to the trail (and it would have been straight up, too, right up the backs of the cliffs). So we had a strong start as we headed west over the crags again. Vallum Lodge lies just about in the middle of the craggy portion of the trail, so we spent all morning and part of the early afternoon repeating yesterday's steep up, steep down again and again. We reached the highest trig point in the morning and could look back and ahead along the spine of the crags, north over the sparse moors, and south over rocky slopes. At one high point we encountered three black horses poking their heads over the Wall--I've no idea how they climbed so high; their pasture lay on the moor side, the north side, so it must've been insanely steep.

Then gradually we reentered farmland again. Hot walking over slick, wet grass. We crossed a Roman fort in someone's front pasture, horses and sheep grazing above walls, thresholds, a Roman altar with an amphora carved into the side. We paused in a wood just above the fort for a breather. I grew to love woods even more today for their cool quietness. We passed a disused quarry and several Roman milecastles.

More crags again. The Wall cut long swathes like a circling hawk across the tops of the huge hills. The highest section of the Wall was here--about ten or eleven feet still standing, which is quite unusual. It makes sense, though, because that particular portion is actually down on a cliff face and therefore hidden behind a steep rise from anyone who might be looking for some spare stone to pinch for a farmhouse or a castle. 

For lunch we stopped just below the perilously-perched Arthur's Turret (so-named for King Arthur, though of course it's actually a Roman wall turret). We ate snacks and over-priced ice cream from a National Trust shop that happened to be the only bit of civilization around. Their ginger ice cream was surprisingly delicious.

The hardest part of the day was early afternoon. We walked right under the ruins of Thirlwall Castle on its knoll--we could tell that we were back in civilization again; it's entirely built of Hadrian's Wall stone--over a brook, over railroad tracks, and into the vallum ditch. Long, hot, merciless sunshine beat down on us. Thanks to the unhelpful National Trust, which doesn't provide drinking water, we had very little water. As you might imagine, this heightened our discomfort, particularly for Scott, who isn't used to the heat.

Kindness #2: Just past Gilsland (a small village where school was just letting out; the path led us right by the P1s being picked up by their mothers), we turned aside in some desperation to Willowford Farm, which we reached by crossing a broad field on the path. It's a working farm but also a B&B. A young guy, the owner, just happened to be sitting on the farmhouse threshold with his border collie when we walked up. When Scott told him our plight, he ushered us right into the kitchen to refill our water bottles. He and his wife--ruddy, sweet, completely kind people--made our day.

So on, past the remains of the Roman Wall and bridge in the valley below the farm. The river has changed its course; we crossed it on the new Willowford/Irthing bridge, a sleek, modern span. Late sunshine illuminated the leaves on the beech trees, and the river valley had a dazzle, an abundance in that light--narrow, flat, peaceful, as it wound between high, tree-lined ridges to the north and south. To the north, thunderheads were building.

We slogged up to Birdoswald, rested in the shadow of the fort's tourist centre, and so on... and on... and on.... Back into fields now, through pastures where we scared lambs, through more lovely beech woods, past hummocks and hillocks that clearly hid other Roman sites. Past turrets, milecastles, and the great ruined signal tower that looks south toward the majestic Penines. Apparently the Picts were less of a concern here than the local Brigantes.

My eyes began to play tricks; distant trees looked like horses, and we were both so footsore. But now we were going down, down, down, always more down than up, following the gentle curves of the small hills. Oaks joined sycamores and beeches in copses. Tiny daisies and dandelions freckled the pastures. The smells of earth, sheep, cattle; the occasional "hello" to a fellow walker. Sheep bleating constantly--lambs are noisy creatures!

Past the wee village of Banks, hardly more than a cluster of terraced houses around a crossroads in a wet, wooded valley. In a lane past the village, I saw a pheasant, tottering across the road. We also had our last sight of the Wall, buried under the roots of an immense sycamore tree. Then up, up, up to Walton, an almost nauseatingly picturesque village on a hilltop, complete with a church under tall, lacy trees and a village green with a fete being set up--tents, giggling children. 

Kindness #3: Hoping we weren't lost, we walked through Walton and were rewarded at last with Low Rigg Farm, an operational dairy farm cum B&B. Our hostess showed us to our room (spacious but rustic) and kindly agreed to cook a meal for us. Through the dining room window, we could see a pasture of content Holsteins shadowed by a great copper beech, all gilded by the evening sunlight.

Quite a day: from Windshields to Walton, from magnificent to commonplace, from wall as a glorious luxury, an accent to cliffs already impervious to attack, to Wall as a quiet collection of grey stones bedded down in green pastures.

U.K. Trip, Day 8
Hadrian's Wall, Day 3

The famous sycamore gap at the end of today.

~

From Portgate to Vallum Lodge was our hike today. The proprietor of the Wheatsheaf very kindly gave us a lift from Corbridge to Portgate since Corbridge itself is three miles or so south of the Wall. That lift probably saved us since I'm not sure we would've made it to Vallum Lodge in time for tea (or anything, for that matter) if we hadn't shaved those three miles off what was already a nearly eighteen-mile day.

Since I wrote this journal entry at the conclusion of a very strenuous day, it's pretty sparse. The morning was sunny, warm, and breezy. Overall, our path today consisted of a string of milecastles, towers, and forts, most notably including Chesters and Housesteads. Black Carts began the real section of wall for us, after we ate lunch in the early afternoon. The general trend of the trail was upward, from the verdant lowlands--castles, pastures, fields--to barren crags inhabited only by the occasional sheep and hooded crows. It's no wonder that so much more of the wall survives up there since the crags are so steep as to be uninhabitable. 

At the start of the day, we enjoyed the shade of conifer plantations and woods in creek beds. Tangles of roots. Unfortunately, a lot of the early portion of the day also included some extensive road walking, our least favorite part of the trail since British roads have no shoulder and no footpath beaten alongside--hard on the feet, therefore, and harrowing, since cars tend to come whizzing from one direction or another around tight bends. One section of road walking was mitigated by turning out to be along a lovely wee country lane that skirted an estate and followed a fast, clear brook under deep trees. Soon after, under the lea of that wood, we encountered our first Roman wall tower. We could still see the indentation for the door hinge in the threshold stone. 

We walked up into Chesters, which includes one of the best-preserved Roman forts--past a waterwheel, over the massive bridge, past the fort itself, and past a gigantic 19th-century mansion house (complete with stable block) that was up for sale. Into fields again. We lunched on a grassy bank in a cow pasture high above Chesters, which was quite possibly one of my favourite stops on our whole trip. Something about the long, warm hike through woods and fields up to that ridge, and then the pause under the low hawthorn trees, and the simple food we ate--Spanish oranges that shot spumes of juice--and having our packs off, and our feet bare to the cool green grass....

The path wound up past an evergreen thicket, and there was Black Carts, another sinuous spine of wall stretching down the hillside.

After that: wild, stern midafternoon. Bricolitia and its Mithraic temple on a desolate, wind-dazzled hilltop. Mile after mile of hilltop, the land growing wilder to either side. On the left, it tended to slope down more gently, a sheer swallow's wing slant into vast distant valleys (bordered far, far away by the Pennines). On the right, it tended to slope more steeply so that we seemed to be walking on the ridgepole of a roof. A military jet roared past, almost skimming the moor. We trudged by chunks of stone abandoned by the Roman masons, too hard to cut. 

After the next milecastle, the land became thoroughly wild. To the left, the steep slopes rose and fell like the backs of Atlantic breakers, chopped into huge fields by drystone walls, and falling into that valley, at the bottom of which sparkled the indefatigable B6318. Beyond the highway, it rose into infinite blue, richer and richer as the sun sank. Sheep, ubiquitous.

To the right--cliff. Those great hills ended abruptly in sheer falls, rocky escarpments tumbling hundreds of feet to empty moors far, far below. Cattle way down there, and farmhouses. To the north up there, hills rose again, blotted by occasional oblongs of dark pine forest. Loneliness. The clear, pure, high air. A cool wind. The vast sky above those great cliffs. Ahead of us the cliffs marched, head beyond head, like the faces of a line of gigantic cavalry horses rallied against the north. Sheep bleated and hooded crows cried to each other; I heard a nest of them twittering in one cliff face above the last loch we passed today. Also, meadowlarks, irrepressible, mounting up, up, up, singing to that vast, empty sky. 

And of course, our constant companion now, the indomitable Wall. Steep up and down it ran; after Housesteads it was so steep that the path required stairs to chase it. Of course, all this time our muscles ached, our mouths burned, our packs weighed on our shoulders, and the sun blazed in our faces. We stumbled downhill and scrambled uphill.

The trail took us through Sewingshields Woods, a gorgeous patch of sycamores, their elegant limbs and roots echoing each other's patterns. Also, through a pine wood above a loch, where the path ran so close to the edge of the cliff that Scott nearly perished of fright when I paused to take a picture of the loch far below.

My journal entry for this afternoon can't do it justice at all. Perhaps it's the sheer volume: we climbed every single one of those cliff faces (and encountered many other hikers along the way), but there's no way to account for the ups and downs, the panting and pausing for breath, the stunned awe at the top, the terrifyingly vertiginous struggle down--and the constant repetition of that process, which resulted in as much emotional tension as physical exertion.

Seeing Sycamore Gap was a glorious moment because it meant that we were almost done, almost done--all we had to do was hike down the slope from the trail to Vallum Lodge. My feet nearly killed me for that last mile. The sun was setting; it was nearly eight o'clock. At Vallum Lodge, our hostess showed us our room--small but very elegant in the mild British way, comfortable. We ate tea at the Twice Brewed Inn down the road. Steak pie. 

When we left the Inn to walk back to the Lodge, the sun was nearly gone. The long, grey backs of the cliffs sloped upward, grey as a slate roof in the dusk, with a couple of stone houses huddled at their backs. Above them, the sky was forget-me-not blue, pearl-and-rose clouds skeined across in an iridescent web. 

I was particularly struck by how the landscapes we saw today reflected God's character, His sheer love of variety. White hawthorn flowers, yellow gorse flowers, tiny white daisies, forget-me-nots, dandelions. Wee lambs with their mothers; ravens soaring down the wind. The deep, cool waters of the sedge-crusted loch near day's end; the clear, high majesty of the cliffs in the afternoon; the rich pastureland this morning.

U.K. Trip, Day 7
Hadrian's Wall, Day 2

Rape Field

~

Downstairs for breakfast this morning, our hostess served up an enormous French press of coffee, giving the lie to all my warnings about the British and their coffee. We ate a full country breakfast (we learned to hate them by the end of the trip, but that was all in the future), which included thick bacon, eggs, toast, and black pudding. 

The church bells rang the hour as we walked out of Wylam, down the lovely wooded lane we'd come up yesterday. Cool. Clear. Sun through young trees. Birds trilling. The Tyne buried behind thickets to the right; a golf course to our left. We slogged up the hill to Heddon-on-the-Wall, a long, slow trek, which was greatly mitigated by our first mature woodlands, great beeches, elms, and sycamores, which threw deep shade over the rutted track.

At last, we emerged past an old farmhouse into modern neighborhoods. "It's a lovely morning," a wee old woman remarked to her friend as we walked through the village on the hilltop to the first real stretch of wall--a great, sinuous backbone of stone curving alongside a horse pasture.

Then downhill, out into open countryside. Field after field, all morning. We followed the B6318 all day. A thoughtful 18th-century general decided that Hadrian's Wall would make an excellent army road foundation, so the road is actually built on top of the wall. The trail usually keeps to the ditch beside the road--in other words, the ditch the Romans built in front of the wall. On the other side of the road is the vallum, the ditch behind the wall that was probably used by the Romans for transport. 

Oh, the lovely, lovely countryside! The first part of the day and the last part were the best. At first, we walked through fields of sheep, which bleated and gazed at us curiously from the shade provided by hawthorn hedges. We passed Vindobala, the hummocks and mounds showing where the Roman fort still lies buried in a paddock behind disused cattle sheds. Then the path ran right beside a field of rape, which smelled like daffodils, the showy flowers viridescent against the sky. A bridge over a brook. A long green lane, shaded deeply, beside a cow pasture.

More open fields. A pale blue cloudless sky. Meadowlarks zipped into the sky, arpeggiating incorrigibly. Lush fields of wheat. We hiked up to Harlow Hill, where an abandoned church with a pale blue door sits under a maroon-leafed copper beech. Then down from to a reservoir for a lunch break. After lunch, we stopped at Vallum Farm for blueberry-and-lemon gelato, which was perfectly cool and sharp for what was becoming a scorching afternoon.

The afternoon stretched on and on. The sun became merciless. Small hills betrayed us as we had to hike up them, shoulders rubbed raw by our packs, and then down, our feet throbbing. Sweat, sun, flies. Of course this all sounds highly melodramatic, but it was nothing compared to what tomorrow held. And also, this whole time we were walking through gorgeous fields, elegant beech groves, rows of cottages with tiny gardens (colorful with late tulips, narcissi, and saxifrage). Sheep bleated and panted in the fields. We scrambled up and over stone walls by stiles, or through fences by gates.

We paused to rest on a hilltop. Behind us, the Vallum curved in sinuous throes over a green slope. Before us, a great valley lay, fields and fields of wheat and rape, distant hills sliding away to the hazy horizon. Crooked walls, punctuated by copses of beech or pine. At our back was one such copse, on the hill's crest. At its edge was an absolutely gigantic chestnut tree, one of the biggest trees I've ever seen, and it was under this mammoth that we took refuge from the sun. We hadn't packed for this heat and were carrying all the gear we'd need for rain and cold weather, which made the excellent sunshine an added insult.

Past Onnum, we turned south toward Corbridge via Halton and Ayden Castles. A lovely, peaceful lane in the late afternoon. At Halton Castle, a wee old woman with white hair waved at us as she perambulated around her gardens. We admired the squat crenellated keep, the patchwork of added farm buildings, the well-trimmed evergreens, the clear stone pool. In a field across from the castle, a tractor was ploughing, and great flocks of crows followed, cawing, hunting insects in the brown hillside.

Down the hill, Ayden Castle was just visible through the trees, a swallow's nest of roofs daubed thick against the forest. A small herd of curious horses walked up to the fence to make our acquaintance.  Just below the castle, we plunged into the forest, down a steep bridleway. Earthy smells here. Black mud. A sheer ravine, heavily wooded, down which the path leaped to a fast, clear, broad creek, which shone over tea-brown stones. The dazzle of light on water.

And here we got lost. Thanks to a passer-by with a dog, we veered left, not right, and wandered up and down through sheep pastures for awhile, til Scott asked a guy digging fencepost holes for the way to Corbridge. When we were back on track, we followed the path under an overpass, past a school, and into ugly modern terraced houses. We found our B&B easily: the Wheatsheaf, just on the edge of the small village centre. Despite sheik modern furnishings, the building maintains its crazy old footprint.

After we'd relaxed a bit, we ventured down the street to St. Andrew's, the ancient church nestled in the centre of the town. It sits in an irregular oblong of graveyard with huge leaning stones. The late sunlight through the trees was jewel-toned. Inside, the church was cool, quiet, and dark. The bit of the nave under the belltower was built in the late 7th century with stones pinched from Corstopitum down the road; the rest of the church dates from the 13th century, I believe. The very friendly warden let us stay and explore, though she normally locks the doors at half four.

We stopped at Boots for suncream and the Co-op for food, with everyone else in the village, who was shopping after work. We ate tea in the hotel restaurant, Yorkshire puddings and sausages. The sunset was all wispy lace of white and silver, flung across the blue sky above the deeply blue-green fields that rise just beyond the town. 

Gluttons for punishment, we walked to Corstopitum after tea. Of course the fort was closed, but the walk was lovely, taking us through neighborhoods and down a lane. A cool, quiet evening. Sheep, blackbirds, rabbits. We could look out from the low hilltop, south to the river valley with its steep distant hills beyond; north to the B6318 and more deeply-wooded hills and fields; east through the trees to the village, roofs, and the square church tower riding above the curve of the hill. Dusk falling. 

We walked back through narrow byways behind detached houses with expansive, dense gardens of evergreen and rhododendron. In our room, we watched the BBC, hoping for weather news. Karaoke pumped up from the bar below.

U.K. Trip, Day 6
Hadrian's Wall, Day 1

Newcastle-Upon-Tyne

~

My journal entries for today consist of scribbled doodles accompanied by brief notes. The first doodle is a picture of me with wrinkly eyes and mouth, and a headful of curls standing straight on end, at 4:00 in the morning. That's how our day began: the alarm went off at four, we drank tea, paid the concierge, and left the hotel. The streets were silent, totally silent--hardly a car, hardly a lorry, hardly any other people. We walked down to the Europa to catch the airport bus; while we waited, we chatted with a friendly older guy who was traveling to Malta with his wife. 

At about 6:50, we reached the airport (the bus was late), made a Starbucks stop, and joined the queue for our flight to Newcastle, which was scheduled to leave at 8:20 a.m. We happened to find ourselves surrounded by lads with football kits, which made for an interesting half-hour or so while we waited for the plane to board. 

The flight only took about half-an-hour. In Belfast, the morning had been gorgeous, clear, even warm, but in Newcastle, the skies were overcast. We were out of the airport at about nine. Since Newcastle's train service only runs clockwise, we had to take the long way round to Wallsend, approximately  forty-five minute train journey around the perimeter of the city. On the train, we noticed an unusual trio sitting near us, composed of an older-middle-aged woman and two older men, one of them with the bull face and deep voice of a character from the Pickwick Papers, the other much shorter and stockier.

Wallsend platform was helpfully labeled in Latin as Segedunum. We walked down from the platform to the Wallsend museum, where the receptionist looked askance at our Bank of Ireland money but finally agreed to let us purchase a Wall passport (which we subsequently lost on Day 3, but hey, it was a good thought). Then by a quarter to eleven, we were ON THE WALL AT LAST. Scott was overjoyed, as you might imagine.

So began our fifteen-mile hike to Wylam. Most of the way was exceedingly unprepossessing, even hideous, in the post-industrial-wasteland sort of way. Inner city Newcastle looks a lot like inner city Pittsburgh; these coal/steel cities don't age well. The trail begins with warehouses on the left, between the path and the river, and housing estates on the right. The path itself was very easy to follow, a tarmac strip bordered by shrubby plants on either side. 

We passed out of the industrial zone into Walker's Park (wonder how that got its name) by the Tyne. Thanks to St. Anthony's lead works, the river is fully foul and stinks to high heaven. I noticed the ribs of a ship rotting in a welter of mud and weed just under the embankment. Gulls along here, and also docks for fishing or sailboats. 

Gradually, as the path followed the Tyne, we found ourselves in the city centre. A concerted effort has been made recently to rejuvenate Newcastle's centre, and it has been somewhat successful. The architectural variety was fascinating, everything from Edwardian to modern; we even stopped to snack in front of a g-e-n-u-i-n-e Tudor house. Newcastle is famous for its bridges, and we could see why: they provide an elegant horizontal counterpoint to the vertical lines of the tall office blocks and spires on either side of the river. We hit this part of the trail just at lunchtime, when people were bustling up and down, frequenting the many restaurants on the ground floors of the office buildings. 

After a short break under one of the bridges and near the Tudor house mentioned above, we entered industrial estates. Along the Tyne were disused coal loading platforms, skeletal above the flat, lead-colored water. I saw a wild swan, out-of-place among the scrappy gulls. In the midafternoon, we trekked through more estates and a couple of parks. Every so often, we'd encounter other trekkers on bikes or on foot, some of them carrying all their camping supplies, others only equipped with day packs. 

At long last, the city slowly evaporated. The Tyne valley became suddenly green. Horses grazed in a field across the river; behind them rose a high, wooded ridge, with a church spire silhouetted against the sky. Bells rang the half-hour; seagulls flocked into the air, and I felt as though I were either in a spoof of a BBC period drama or enjoying a taste of Heaven--so perfect. 

Just past a village, the path turned sharply north, and we were suddenly in wheat fields. A tractor was ploughing up another field nearby, and the rich smell of the damp earth rose to meet us. We turned west again down Wylam Waggonway, which we followed past the turn-off to Heddon-on-the-Wall (which is perched inconveniently on a hilltop, as we discovered tomorrow). 

On the right were fields of wheat and fields of rape, flowers the same yellow-green as fireflies, and to the left were deep woods between us and a feeder from the Tyne. Despite the fact that my back, shoulders, hips, and feet were complaining murderously, I could've hiked through those woods for much longer. All day, wildflowers had accompanied us (daisies, hogweed, buttercup, silk-petaled wild roses), and now there were so many more, in profusion, forget-me-nots and red clover, all tumbled together in masses under the thick young trees. I noticed maples, larches, rowans, birches, sycamores, and even a tall, slim stand of red pines. Birds everywhere, too--robins, blackbirds, tits, all singing and twittering away as early evening began. 

The path seemed to reach on forever. We were both sore-footed. As we discovered later, this was largely due to two factors: the tarmac we had been walking on all day (we quickly learned to use grass whenever we could find it) and our packs, which we didn't really learn to settle properly on our backs until tomorrow. Scott had been reading bits and pieces of historical information as we'd walked, but we both grew quiet from weariness now.

At last through the trees we had our first sight of Wylam, which consisted of a stray dog nosing through a KFC bucket in a car park! Not terribly inviting. Nonetheless, we hiked up through the village and found our first B&B, Bistro en glaze. It's an old house that sits right beside the road. We went round back and found ourselves in a quiet, orderly walled garden, the garden swing occupied by an enormous pied cat. The proprietor was tinkering with a motorcycle and welcomed us.

He showed us right up to our room--cozy, red-and-white walls and carpet, a large bay window, crown mouldings, a four-poster bed. We relaxed for awhile and then walked just across the street and down the hill a bit to the Spar for lunch provisions for tomorrow. After we'd cleaned up, we were the first downstairs for dinner, which was served in the inn's restaurant, a long, low room at the front of the house with dark beams and old newspapers for wallpaper. Classy table settings. 

The food was delicious: carrot-and-ginger soup with creme and lemon for me, followed by a Moroccan salmon, zucchini, potato dish that tasted at first like apple and then like cinnamon, red pepper, and cumin.  Nearby, a group of seven or eight women chattered busily; from their conversation, we gathered that they were also hikers.On our way out of the dining room, we thanked our hosts, a young couple who apparently do all the cooking and cleaning themselves. We felt that our rest tonight was well-earned, but we had no idea what was in store for us.

A break from our regularly-scheduled programming

Despite the drought here, our crazy wildflower bed is managing to survive quite beautifully. We've got a fabulous mix of zinnias, coreopsis, cornflowers, marigolds, daisies, etc. Thankfully all those plants are drought-resistant.

The lilies are also flourishing. We have stargazers and oriental lilies; the daylilies have already come and gone. The oriental lilies in particular fill the air with their scent right now so that the whole front yard smells like lily.

U.K. Trip, Day 5

Shaftesbury Square RPC

~

We walked down to Shaftesbury Square RPC for their morning worship at half eleven. Grey day but less bitingly cold. We were welcomed in the porch and entered the sanctuary and found seats. It was good to see Peter, Debbie, and the McKays again, as well as Rosemary and Rachel. After the service, Philip invited us up to the hall for lunch. It was also encouraging to see Heather again. About eight of us sat down to eat together--good fellowship.

The afternoon passed quietly in our room. The window looks out over the roof of another church, and past that, the yellow H&W cranes seem very close, looming over the crowded, tall, narrow houses. 

Naomi picked us up at six, and we went with her to Dromore RPC for evening worship. (I could recognize her car coming from around the corner!) After worship, Naomi and I served coffee/tea in the small fellowship hall at the back of the building. Again, it was good to meet some of the people in the church. Of course, Phil, but also some new acquaintances. When Naomi took us back to our hotel, we had to say good-bye for the last time, which was rough. She'll be in the States by the time we get back from Hadrian's Wall.

U.K. Trip, Day 4

The Mournes from Silent Valley

~

After breakfast this morning, Scott and I stood on the pavement outside our hotel, waiting for Naomi to collect us. As we stood there, we heard drums and fifes away up the street toward Queen's, and suddenly down the road marched a whole parade: two bands, lots of guys carrying banners. Everyone else on the street paused to watch. When Naomi arrived, she was less than impressed, and as we drove out of the city, she made known her thoughts on Northern Ireland's political situation. 

We stopped at Sainsbury's for picnic supplies, and then struck southward. The car's suspension squeaked, grumbled, and whiffled over the A24. On either side, green cow pastures and yellow fields of rape. County Down, an "egg basket," bubbles with odd, abrupt wee hills jammed in next to each other, as though the land were a towel stretched over a boiling pot. Low, grey cottages with slate roofs flitted past, interrupted at times by big, tan, new houses with sprawling cattle sheds. We passed a gigantic 19th-century estate house in ruins and for sale, with a ring of sycamores in front (the remains of a rath). Scott was enchanted.

And then the Mournes appeared, huge, grey masses on the horizon, their heads hidden in cloud. We stopped in Dundrum to see Dundrum Castle, which perches on a hillside up a back lane. The castle is a good old motte-and-bailey, with a slightly newer (15th-century?) ruined house beside it. Massive stone walls, of course. The keep is a huge drum open to the sky. We climbed the spiral staircase, treading warily on the worn stones, and admiring Victorian graffiti scrawled on the walls. From the top, we had a magnificent view of the cluttered roofs of the village, the bay, white-walled Newcastle, and Slieve Donard, immense and blue on the horizon. Directly below us, the curator was throwing a ball for his yellow lab, Lady. In the stones of the castle, tiny red flowers bloomed. 

When we went back down, the curator, a dingy, friendly chap, greeted us and showed off his collection of period weapons, which included a basket-hilt rapier, a broadsword, a fencing foil, a four-foot-long dart, and a slingshot. Lady wagged around our feet.

We drove down to 12 Arches Bridge, where we walked through the dunes to the beach. Smooth periwinkle pebbles, creamy sand, the flat Irish Sea, and a bone-numbing wind, with the vast mountains still on the near horizon. We ate lunch at a picnic table near the road. 

The afternoon took us round the sea-side of Donard, through tiny fields walled with dry stone, endless dry stone, in dizzying, crazy patterns. We paused in Kilkeel to see the fishing harbour, where trawlers rocked at anchor and gulls circled overhead. 

Then up to Silent Valley Forest Park. The car tipped and roared up and down and round frenetic narrow country roads. We passed small, shaggy sheep and hulking cattle. Crows dropped from the heights above on the constant cold wind. All the houses seemed the same.

Inside the forest park, the woods were very cool, quiet, and sane after all the tiny barren fields. We parked the car and walked up to the reservoir, past the water-filled quarry. Above the woods that grow along the creek below the reservoir, we found ourselves in the peacefulness of the open mountainside, wind whistling through the whin. Great peaks marching away to the north. Magically, the sun came out, and the slopes burned tawny and copper, and deep blue above, where clouds still lingered. The reservoir lay still and blue before us in the valley.

We followed the trail then back down into the forest--deep pine woods, bluebells, the clear creek, golden sunshine striking through secret aisles of trees. Bees buzzed past.

Back in the car, we drove through the pass by Slieve Binnian. Enormous, barren slopes, dun and copper and grey, unabated, running to the sky, blank, empty. Then down, gradually, into the green hilly pastures on the other side (we made a loop, basically). I looked back in brilliant sunshine, over a neat green hawthorn hedge, across an emerald-green field, over the brown roof of a house, up a green slope, a valley side, up again over the tawny, barren slopes, up further to the mountains, hooded with blue shadow once more.

Thanks to Scott's sense of direction, we managed not to get lost, despite Naomi's and my best efforts to the contrary, and made our way to Castlewellan. We walked far enough to see the castle, posh grey bulk against a hillside of evergreens, everything very well cared for. On a whim, we decided to poke around in Annesley Gardens nearby, and that turned out to be the best part of the day so far. 

Scott loved them for their benign neglect, their genteel decay--like the Palm House, only more so. They're a walled garden on Castlewellan's grounds. All the plants are very old, well-established, huge. Massive rhododendron trees, bushy, in full, exotic bloom. Also, towering groves of cypress, dark, reddish trunks threading a nighttime gloom. A writhen Japanese maple, moss-grown, maroon-leafed. To Scott's awe, there were a pair of magnificent sequoias.

We discovered a couple of fountains, one derelict and still, one running but hung with algae and surrounded by overgrown shrubs. We found bits of iron gate. We found a long, low greenhouse, its windows smashed in, plants run rampant inside, doors boarded over. We walked down long aisles of dark or gold-leafed evergreens and stared up through star and saucer magnolias grown huge, spidery, sprawling into decay. We breathed the smell of lilac bushes, which filled the air. On one side, the garden was bordered by a long, tall line of silver-leafed eucalyptus trees. And suddenly, a tiny cultivated square with neat geometric beds of snapdragons and begonias around an urn.

Overall, the sense of stumbling through a glorious, queenly, beloved place now forgotten, turned wild and secretive and shadowy in decay. All the plants were too large, too choked and tumbled, grown beyond proportion. 

Naomi drove us back through Hillsboro, past Lisburn, and so into Belfast. She left us at our hotel. Scott and I walked down to Maggi May's for tea. The evening had stayed clear and relatively mild. Scott pronounced their fish and chips the best he'd ever had.

U.K. Trip, Day 3

Belfast from Cave Hill

~

As one would expect after jet lag, we slept late today. Our first stop: Belfast's Botanical Gardens. My favorite place here, quite possibly. We walked in past the wee garden-keeper's house on the side closest to Queen's and were suddenly enveloped in the garden's smells--cool, damp earth, rhododendrons. Ahead of us opened smooth green lawns, the last tulips (silky black), chestnut trees in white and pink bloom. 

We spent quite awhile in the Tropical Ravine, awed by the enormous cycads, banana trees, ferns, and palms. The long brick building has maintained its general air of decay, age, abandonment. Ficus sprouts from the bricks. The girders under their white paint have begun to rust, and tree limbs have started to shoot through the glass panels, which seem almost oppressively low above the enormous jungle canopy. Tiny jewel-colored flowers hung in the darkness under broad leaves, and koi flickered in deep pools. Moss wrapped crumbling bricks, the girders, the fogged glass.

Outside again, we walked round the rose gardens, not yet in bloom, and up through the dell, where rhododendrons (orange, magenta, purple) and conifers grow. A fine rain began to fall again. Then we crossed beside the green to the Palm House, in all its stateliness. Our visit, however, happened to coincide with that of a tour group's, so we dodged into one of the heated side wings to avoid everyone, and were rewarded with ten minutes' contemplation of a fiery display of snapdragons.

Out through the main gates, then, and on to our next adventure: Belfast Castle and Cave Hill. On our way down to city centre to catch the bus, we stopped for lunch at Weatherly House, near the RP church. My first taste of solid Irish stew in awhile. At a table near ours, a bunch of lads (not Northern Irish, by their accents) were drinking and roaring with laughter, which prompted a long discussion between the two of us about decays in morals.

The bus left us at the bottom of the hill, so we walked up through neighborhoods to the Castle park's entrance. We followed an avenue through deeply forested grounds. Huge beech, tulip, and fir trees. The sun nearly came out as we arrived at the Castle and looked down on its lovely small garden, laid out with geometric flowerbeds around a central fountain. Cats were mosaiced or sculptured among beds of tulips, poppies, and sage.

We hiked Cave Hill after a brief investigation of the Castle (which is hardly more than a reception venue). The long trail flings itself over the east face of the hill, winding gradually up through dense trees. Bluebells grew on the darkly shaded ground. The trail emerged suddenly on a promontory overlooking the city and the bay. Up and up again, through whin, all in yellow bloom. Hooded crows and magpies dove from the cliffs looming overhead. We clambered up to the cave and then on, around the slope's shoulder, to approach the cliffs from the back.

The path took us across the open hillside and at last to McArt's Fort, right at the head of the highest cliff. We could see to Carrickfergus Castle, across the bay where the ferry was plowing toward Scotland, over to Crawfordsburn, across the cranes and tower blocks of the city, to the distant shadowy Mournes. Cold wind scoured the ridge, and the rain had returned. Behind us, the back of the cliff broadened out into what can only be described as a moor, weird as that seems in the middle of this densely-populated area--a long, wide swathe of hilltop, all windswept grass.

We followed the trail down as it wound under this ridge. Suddenly, we came upon horses on either side of the path: a big muscled stallion in one enclosure just up the hillside, all magnificent dark flanks and wind-tumbled mane, and a herd of bays and chestnuts just down the slope, grazing. They eyed us inquisitively, and we paused to watch them.

And so down. The trail took a long, slow, straight descent under the ridge above. Where it crossed a creek with a pair of small waterfalls, it doubled back toward the Castle, putting the Black Mountain (at the opposite end of the high ridge from Cave Hill) behind us. High hawthorn hedges on either side. A field with three cows, thick with iris spears. Then down into the deep woods again. Birds sang everywhere, pealing from every branch. The huge, winding, twisted limbs of the trees were vivid with moss.

Down, and out into the cultivated park, and then we found ourselves out on the street again. On our way back to the bus stop, we paused to see the Resurrection Chapel, built by one of the Castle's former inhabitants for his dead son. A lovely Gothic gem, it sits abandoned in a patch of brambles in the middle of the housing estate. No glass in the traceried windows, and graffiti on the belltower.

We took the bus to Castlecourt and found ourselves swept along in 6 p.m. crowds--shoppers going home, kids going out, etc. The mess and grime and grind of the city, so different from the stillnesses above on that ridge. We stepped into a pound shop and bought an umbrella, but when we walked outside again, the rain had stopped (and that was the last we'd see of rain until Edinburgh, almost a week-and-a-half later!).

After tea, we happened to be walking down Botanic and ran into Sarah and Sheep, and stopped to chat with them. Good to see them again! We went to Starbucks to contact Naomi and make plans for tomorrow.

U.K. Trip, Day 2

Up at the top of Victoria Square shopping mall, we saw a falconer using a hawk to scare away the pigeons.

~

We descended through layers of cloud toward Belfast International Airport this morning at about nine o'clock. For the fun of it, Scott was keeping up a running commentary in French as we landed. Customs in Belfast never ceases to amaze me: the personnel are always friendly, relaxed, and professional. Since we hadn't checked any luggage, we walked right through the airport--and there was Naomi, waiting for us just outside! A joyful reunion. 

She drove us to Hotel Ibis, right by Queens. All the familiar sights and smells of the motorway, right down to the potato factory on the outskirts of the city (which gives the air a distinctive odor), and the abandoned door factory next door. We passed through the grim estates and terraced houses behind city centre, around the corner guarded by City Hospital, and suddenly found ourselves whizzing under the green archway made by the trees that give Elmwood Avenue its name. Then the maze of one-way streets around Queens, and the fun of trying to find a parking spot.

The three of us ate lunch at The Other Place, a cafe in Botanic, Ulster fries all round (the first of many for Scott and me). All afternoon we walked the city: Shaftesbury Square and the venerable red brick Reformed Presbyterian Church building, City Hall with its green copper dome, the Albert Clock, the Bigfish by the black Lagan, Belfast Cathedral (St. Anne's), Victoria Square, the long drag up past Castlecourt Mall, Great Victoria Street, the Opera House, the Europa, the Lanyon Building, and the new Queens Library. A fine drizzle descended on our heads every step of the way, and I shivered in the unfamiliar cold. Inside St. Anne's, an organist was practicing; on the crowded footpath outside the mall, someone was playing an accordion. The new library was packed with students revising for the spring term exams; I've never seen a library so full. It was so full as to be hot and uncomfortable, claustrophobic, even after the bustling streets. We stepped into the C.S. Lewis room but didn't stay long.

I remembered as we walked how much I love this city: its bricolage of mid-19th century neo-Gothic, mid-20th century (Soviet-style!) modern, 21st century sleek glass and steel and pine; its weathered slate or green copper roofs; the occasional glittering mosaic or intricate limestone cornice. It's a dirty city, of course; people smoke constantly, and many of the grand, palatial office buildings are vacant, a product of the economic collapse. Still, it has a crazy, dingy, familiar beauty all its own, under the steady rain.

To send our families an e-mail saying that we'd arrived, we went with Naomi to the maths building to borrow her computer. Since she needed to work, we said good-bye, and Scott and I stepped back out into the rain--a proper rain now. We walked down to a mini Tesco to provision ourselves for the weekend, and then we returned to our room. Despite all advice to the contrary, we napped for awhile, jet lag getting the better of us.

After awhile, we perused our guidebooks, listing off possible adventures for the weekend. We ate PB&J for dinner and then ventured out to find a Starbucks. I guided us down past Queens. The rain had stopped and the evening was chilly but pearly--grey and rose skies, blue peeping through. We passed Renwick and stopped to admire All Souls across the way. Ivy looped velvety gold ruffles over the grey stone. 

We spent awhile catching up on the internet in Starbucks. As we walked back, Scott commented on how everyone on the streets seemed to have cheered up once the rain stopped. No surprise there. The evening really was lovely, a gentle gilding of sky and buildings. 

Now Playing: Vivaldi, "Four Seasons."

U.K. Trip, Day 1

 Indianapolis Airport

~

Frantic preparation for our grand adventures consumed most of today. Our flight from Indianapolis to Newark didn't leave until about half five in the evening, so we had all day to deposit checks, mow the lawn, wash sheets, eat leftovers, and stuff our backpacks with everything we'd need for the next three weeks. Most of the around-the-house tasks were Scott's--he had to show Eric where everything was; he had to print all our reservation confirmations; he had to mow and spray deer repellant on the rosebushes.

At 2 p.m., Mary showed up to take us to the airport, and Eric returned with his first load of belongings. The four of us ate an impromptu feast on leftover wedding cake and lasagna before Mary took us up to Indianapolis. The afternoon was warm, May in full flush, variegating the woods and fields with the lush greens of late spring.

At the airport we said good-bye to Mary and were off. I've decided that I much prefer traveling with someone else--no tear-jerking farewells, no panic at the check-in desk. We had no hitches as we went through security, waited for, and then boarded our flight. As we coasted down over New York City, the setting sun flashed apricot and peach from the skyscrapers, flashed green from roofs and the Statue of Liberty, outlined all these against the grey bay.

We sat at the gate for the flight from Newark to Belfast for awhile. Around us the familiar Northern Irish accents had already begun to crop up, and for once I wasn't stressed, afraid, or melancholy. Our cinched backpacks rested against our knees until boarding began, and then the six-hour flight. At one point, lightning flickered below us, intersecting across the night sky, sketching vast fields of cloud to the south. I hardly slept, but Scott did.

Now Playing: Beethoven piano concerti.

This blog has been woefully silent for the last month or so. A lot has happened since then: a wedding and the attendant festivities, a three-week holiday to the U.K., and VBS. Since VBS ended last Friday, Scott and I have moved on to the next big project, painting the stairwell and hallway in our house. With Mary's help, we finally finished today.

In order to finish the stairwell, Scott taped a paintbrush to the end of a pole. With this contraption he reached all the high parts perfectly, while Mary and I painted the doors and the trim.

Tomorrow, I'll start posting day-by-day with a photo and an entry for each day of the trip Scott and I took after we got married.

Today I lay down to take a nap and dreamed I was writing my paper about Beowulf, hospitality, and monsters, right down to the details of quoting bits of Old English to myself in my sleep. Hopefully I wasn't talking aloud.

Rain has come, at long last. It's Little 500 weekend in Bloomington--Little 500 is a bike race that takes place on the third or fourth Saturday in April each year--and everyone has been out on the streets partying. The parties seem to start on Monday and run through until Sunday at the earliest. Last night, when I was biking home from Scott's house, knots of college students were standing on the sidewalks, talking and drinking, or filling the porches of the historic houses along First Street.

But now it's raining. I rather hope that this will drive some of the merrymaking indoors since people tend to get pretty raucous. The Little 500 phenomenon always puzzles me: right before finals, at the end of the term, when a lot of professors give tests or assign essays before the major projects are actually due.

The rain is also good because we bought more plants today: spirea, marigolds, phlox, saxifrage, begonias, and fuschia. Scott is excited about filling pots to put around the porch, and I'm excited about having plants from the garden in Stillwater that I will recognize here. Also the borders around the house are mostly full of ivy and dark evergreens, so the phlox, saxifrage, and spirea will provide some bright color.

Back to writing that paper now.

Now Playing: Bach, Mass in B Minor, Credo/Aria: Et in spiritum sanctum.

The end of school has made this blog suffer significantly, it seems. Thanks to my own coursework, teaching, and wedding-planning, free time has been hard to come by. Today I'm studying at Scott's house, sitting on the deck, while he does yard work. The results are beautiful, and will be still more lovely, hopefully, as the summer arrives.

This is our crazy bed: marigolds and zinnias off to the sides, among the hostas and rabbit's ear, and lots and lots of wildflower seeds in that big swathe along one side, the patch that currently looks empty. The azalea blooming by the front door is incredibly vibrant right now.

Along University, down the south side of the yard, are lots of rose bushes, interspersed with Russian sage and two butterfly bushes. 

Blanche bemusedly surveys her domain. The shrub almost directly in front of her, to the left of the wooden trellis, is actually a Jane magnolia tree, a saucer magnolia.

Now Playing: Brahms, Symphony No. 4 in E minor, "Andante moderato." I love the opening to this movement so, so much. It's contending with the first movement of Beethoven's "Eroica" symphony for favorite Classical piece right now.

I discovered tonight one reason to be slightly melancholy about changing my last name: the codex in which Beowulf is found is often called the Nowell Codex, after a sixteenth-century antiquarian. Put that last name through a spelling permutation, and what do you get? Yes, yes, I know my family's last name is technically Dutch but hey, the connection always brings a certain glow to my heart whenever I stumble across that term for the manuscript.

Even when it comes early, I love this time of year. Above, tulips in the church parking lot. Below, the dogwood tree just outside Scott's dining room window.

Strong storms this evening--typical March weather for the "Midwest," I guess. (Does Indiana count as the Midwest?) Thankfully we had a rainbow out of it all.

Hail on our front porch.

All the trees are blooming, a glorious overabundance of flowers everywhere, even on campus.

Now Playing: Corelli, Concerto Grosso in F, Op. 6, No. 2, Grave - Andante Largo.

Another spectacular sunrise yesterday morning.

Daffodils at Scott's house are phenomenal right now. These ones with the pale peach centres, above, are a variety I've never seen before.

I've been reading Manalive by G.K. Chesterton over spring break, thanks to Anna.

Oddly enough, some of the moments that stood out to me most were when characters were talking about marriage (!). I was surprised to find so much wisdom in Chesterton about that particular subject since I usually think of him as being wise in matters of life philosophy, but I suppose that, given the topic of this particular book, I really shouldn't have been so shocked.

Anyway, a few quotes:

"'Imprudent marriages!' roared Michael. 'And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? .... You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! Of course you'll be unhappy! Who the devil are you that you shouldn't be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! Of course we'll be disappointed! I, for one, don't expect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute...."

~

"'Oh, what's the good of talking about men,' cried Mary impatiently; 'why, one might as well be a lady novelist, or some horrid thing. There aren't any men. There are no such people. There's a man; and whoever he is he's quite different.'

'So there's no safety,' said Diana, in a low voice.

'Oh, I don't know,' answered Mary lightly enough; 'there's only two things generally true of them. At certain curious times they're just fitted to take care of us, and they're never fit to take care of themselves.'"

~

"'Don't you be frightened,' said Mary. 'All over, these men have one advantage: they are the sort that go out.'

A sudden thrust of wind through the trees drifted the dying leaves along the path, and they could hear the far-off trees roaring faintly.

'I mean,' said Mary, 'they are the kind that look outwards and get interested in the world. It doesn't matter a bit whether it's arguing, or bicycling, or breaking down the ends of the earth.... Stick to the man who looks out of the window and tries to understand the world. Keep clear of the man who looks in at the window and tries to understand you....'"

For one thing, Chesterton's sense of humour is often impeccable, with his peculiar blend of uproariousness and sarcasm. For another thing, the human balance of these ideas seems very appropriate. As a whole, the novella deals with loving the everyday:

"'... I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.... Because otherwise... we might worship that.'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Eternity,' he said in his harsh voice, 'the largest of the idols--the mightiest of the rivals of God.... if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge. I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything. and I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.'"

In other words, we love the specific, real, and concrete because we worship a specific, real, and concrete God, and not an airy-fairy generality that we've made up ourselves.

This is why the ideas about marriage seem apropos: Instead of worrying about "people out there," other possibilities, the vague exigencies of the future, it seems much more fitting to focus on this person in front of me, the one God has given me to love, right now, in this moment (and leave the future to take care of itself, if such a thing is possible for the human mind).

Which is why I love this quote that I stumbled across today in The Fellowship of the Ring, concerning Rivendell:

"The future, good or ill, was not forgotten, but ceased to have any power over the present."

A focus on the present good and the present blessings, thanking God for what He has given right now, without letting the future overshadow or overpower the present, specific, concrete reality of this moment here. This also precludes, one would hope, idolatry of the future, or of oneself in the future--or in the present, for that matter, since when you're busy being thankful and enjoying, it rather crowds out too much selfishness and introspection.

High ideals, and probably impossible--but good to think about, at least.

Crazy month, March: now the saucer magnolias are all in full bloom, the daffodils are out, and every bird in the world seems to be singing outside our windows.

Some absolutely amazing photos of our solar system here.

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Not All Who Wander Are Lost," "Sinai to Canaan, Part I."

No existential musings today, just a quote stolen from Anna's blog: 

For the true apprehension of beauty, like faith itself, is an exercise in laying claim to what is already ours. There is a low door in the garden wall, and it opens on an inheritance: this is my Father’s world, and He has given it to me... In short, if we find ourselves wandering through this beautiful world of ours with ink-stained fingers and dreamy eyes and a slightly lopsided ivy crown, gazing about like we own the place, it’s because we do. 

-Lanier Iverson, "On Possessing Beauty"

From tornadoes on Friday to snow on Sunday. I'm wondering if it will ever really be spring here, but of course I wondered that last year, too, and it magically came eventually.

A crocus blooming today for the first time in Scott's yard. Thankfully, no white rabbits were nibbling on it.

After the recital.... Laura with her lovely chrysanthemums.

This past weekend, Scott and I drove to Beaver Falls, PA for Laura's junior piano recital. The drive back to Indiana was particularly striking since we took state highways down the Ohio River valley, past old steel towns. Old houses huddled in the shadow of abandoned mills, their views of the river entirely blocked by enormous sheds and towering smokestacks. Houses whose elegant wooden facades were peeling and crumbling, their porches sagging, their windows boarded over. It all seemed particularly haunting given the weather: a steel-grey sky, dry snow swirling endlessly across the windscreen. Hillsides cloaked with tall, straight, black trees, the river rolling steel-grey and flat under the flat sky.

Seeing my mother, Laura, and Stephen was delightful though, with Mrs. P, Stephen M, and Keith as well. Laura played beautifully; probably about seventy or eighty people came to the concert. On Saturday, we went out for breakfast at BFCAT for their legendary waffles, and then downtown to Athen's (yes, that's how it was spelled) for lunch. I think Scott and I both could've spent much more time with everyone, but we wanted to be back for church in Bloomington on Sunday, so we ended up driving fifteen hours out of the last thirty-six.... Sweetened with some Father Brown mysteries and a sermon by Pastor D, of course!

Church today was well worth coming back for. Pastor H has been preaching on Joshua, a surprisingly encouraging book, as it turns out. Today: Joshua 5, preparation for fighting against the Canaanites, about how God equips His people, sets them apart as His own, feeds them, provides for them, strengthens their faith. A timely reminder that it's not what we do so much as who we are that God cares about (of course, what we do flows from who we are, necessarily).

The weather today has also been gorgeous, a pleasant change from that bleak Ohio afternoon. Daffodils coming up and crocuses blooming in profusion.

Stargazers to help drive back the grey days.

This weekend Scott and I are driving up to Beaver Falls for Laura's junior recital. It will be a whirlwind fourteen-hours-in-two-days drive, but well worth it.

Now Playing: Some sort of Indie pop music in The Pourhouse where I'm sitting.

I'm grading essays for W131 right now. Slowly, slowly, slowly.

Scott has been painting away.... The office is now a lovely shade of robin's egg blue. Since it's up at the highest corner of the house, the room feels like an aerie or the cabin at the bow of a ship.

Now Playing: Brahms, Requiem, "Behold, all flesh is as the grass."

Scott and I went out for sushi yesterday for lunch. The colorful plate made a vivid contrast to the snow outside (by this morning, most of the snow has melted).

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore, "The Prophecy." I know, I know, but I just can't give it up. It's such good study music.

Right now I ought to be revising a short paper that's due tomorrow in my Cosmopolitanism in Medieval Literature class. The professor assigned it last Tuesday and gave us a week to complete it, but she also said she didn't want us to spend too much time on it. I feel sort of as though I cheated because all day Wednesday and Thursday, I had two documents open: this paper, and the poem I was writing for workshop tomorrow. I'd poke at them both by turns, but I'm not sure whether that approach helped or hindered.

Anyway, this past weekend was lovely: Laura, Mary, Cindy, and I drove up to Chicago. We stayed with Laura's grandparents overnight (they have a house by Lake Michigan, an hour's train ride east of Chicago) and took the train into the city the next morning. We ate brunch at the Bourgeois Pig, a restaurant about as delightful as its name would indicate. Some of the best waffles I've ever had.

We spent most of the day at the Art Institute. Balm to my soul: it's been a long, long time since I've been to a real art museum. Their collection of Impressionist paintings is fabulous. I stood for minutes on end, mesmerized by A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, Seurat's famous pointillist painting, and was startled into delight by one of Monet's Waterlilies, by vivid blue and deep green. They had Corot, Constable, and Turner as well--like running into old friends. Toulouse-Lautrec lent his nightmare-like gargoyles to the Impressionist wing, and Degas a few restrained, delicate pastels.

For a late lunch we joined one of Laura's friends at a pizza place for Chicago pizza. Crust as flaky as pie dough, and an enormous wedge of sausage down the middle. Then we took the train back to Beverly Shores and drove to Bloomington. The moon rose in the southeast, very low, enormous, orange and lavender.

And now it's back to work: paper for class tomorrow, poem for workshop tomorrow, film screenings in W131 this week, a presentation on Thursday, and so on and so forth.

Apparently, spring is the time for gorgeous sunrises. We're battening down the hatches for snow here. If Oklahoma got it, amazingly, then I'm guessing we will, too. Poor daffodils!

This morning I went running, and it was snowing. Little tiny snowflakes. So apparently spring isn't here yet after all....

A slice of life in Bloomington.

This past Wednesday evening, we celebrated the first orchestra concert of the semester--Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto and Brahms's 4th symphony--with dinner at Scott's house. I made curry, which has become my specialty, and Mary made pears soaked in rum sauce. Her plan: to set the pears on fire, in a reprise of her attempt at my birthday party back in November (she used wine that time, which didn't work).

Scott, Laura, and Eric helpfully suggested that a cast-iron skillet might be a better place for the not-yet-flaming pears than a thin metal baking sheet.

On goes the sauce....

 Partners in crime, as usual. Scott provides the lighter.

Success! We stood around and watched the sauce flare up in small, petal-shaped blue flames before we ate the pears with vanilla ice cream.

A lovely sunrise this week, one of the few perks of waking up at half six every morning I teach.

There he is, ladies and gentlemen, a cardinal perched up in that saucer magnolia. I love cardinals because when they start to sing, it's usually late winter or early spring, and their cheer-cheer-cheer-cheer calls often signal the end of the most bitter weather. This morning I walked home from campus and was treated to not only cardinals, but also chickadees and sparrows (a trio of them nearly ran into my head), as well as snowdrops and crocuses blooming at the feet of trees. It felt very much like Aslan's spring in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (minus the snow!).