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"