On Wednesday I discovered this charming bullfrog hiding under the creek bank where I was eating lunch between classes. He was roaring so loudly that the water rippled around his throat.

My gorgeous basil plant, one of the joys of this summer, turned into pesto yesterday. I cut off about half of it to use for pesto, and I must confess that it sort of felt like committing murder. The pesto was delicious, though.

Another one of the joys of the summer, Scott's roses, have been flourishing. This spray was so enormous that we ended up cutting it off the bush and bringing it inside--before it snapped off the bush under its own weight. These are Evelyn roses, by the way.

The first week of school closed today with two events, one sad and one happy.

Laura, Scott, and I all woke up early this morning so that we could drive Laura to the airport. At half seven, Laura K met us at our house, and the four of us drove up to Indy together. At the airport we said good-bye to Laura, who's off to study abroad in Northern Ireland in two weeks. Last night we had a long conversation about study abroad. I only hope she can find the same reward in being part of the church there.

To kill time before Lindsay and Ethan's wedding at ten o'clock, Laura K, Scott, and I poked around a Trader Joe's near the church where the wedding was scheduled to happen. Scott apparently knows the north side of Indianapolis like the back of his hand, which isn't surprising, considering that he spent one summer downtown working as a bellboy in a big hotel, and another summer as a law intern.

Having stocked up on Trader Joe's curry sauce, micro brew beer, and salsa, we duly arrived at the church half-an-hour early. Lisa met us there, and the four of us sat together. The church, St. Luke's Methodist, is a big brick structure, one of these odd modern constructions that allows natural light to enter but only from high windows which are rendered invisible by strange straight angles.

The wedding was beautiful, of course--what else can one say about a wedding? Her colours were chartreuse and teal, with bouquets of vivid orange orchids and lilies. The service was Episcopal, so they offered communion at the end (which made the three of us RPs feel extremely awkward). Afterward we all sat together. Scott, Lisa, and I talked about Lisa's experience as a highschool teacher so far, about public education in general, about trying to maintain separation between work life and private life, about the lack of responsible guys in the church today, etc. Getting to sit down and talk to Lisa again was great, particularly since it happened over delicious brunch food.

When the wedding party arrived, the usual round of ceremonies began again: toasts from best man and best maid, from father of the bride and father of the groom; the cutting of the cake; Lindsay and Ethan's first dance; their dances with their respective parents and inlaws, and then finally the opening of the dance floor to all the couples. (Hardly any children were at the wedding, which felt rather unnatural to me.)

By this time it was nearly two o'clock, so the four of us congratulated the happy couple, said good-bye, and left. Scott drove Laura K and me back through downtown Indianapolis. First down a main thoroughfare lined with enormous half-timbered, Gothic revival or Spanish revival or Tudor revival houses, sporting diamond-paned windows, tiled or slated roofs, broad porches, details carved in limestone, and all set far back from the road on immense, perfectly-manicured green lawns, under gigantic trees. Then into a sketchier part of town, where the late 19th-century houses gave way to early 20th-century apartment blocks in yellow brick, Art Deco-style.

Then into downtown itself. Indianapolis's downtown reminds me of Tulsa's in many ways, though it seems to have caught the gentrification revival more quickly than Tulsa's. It, too, is graced with Gothic revival churches, Art Deco buildings, and modern skyscrapers. Unlike Tulsa, though, it boasts several enormous war memorials, which are far more grandiose than anything I've seen anywhere before. We drove through busy streets under the shadow of skyscrapers, and I gaped at the fancy hotels, restaurants, bars, and shopping malls. On the edge of downtown, of course looms the huge Colts stadium, an indoor football arena built of brick.

We followed the same road out of town--into sparsely-populated fields speckled with old farmhouses, where the skyline was dominated eerily by the twin stacks of a power plant. And so onto Indiana State Highway 37, and down to Bloomington.

At home we said good-bye to Laura. Scott did legal work and is now playing Red Dead Redemption in the basement. I've been housecleaning, washing linens and clothes, trimming back the ivy outside, and generally straightening the place up. Our neighbour across the street is hosting some sort of party tonight; her backyard is full of kids playing soccer, and her deck is full of adults talking. Tomorrow, thankfully, is Lord's Day. Some time to rest, perhaps.

For some reason, backhoes have always fascinated me. These are outside the Chocolate Moose, where we went to get ice cream tonight with sister Laura, old roommate Laura, and Heather. The city has decided to lay new water and sewage lines under the main north-south road through Bloomington, so these enormous diggers have slowly been making their way up the road. The one in the lower left of this photo is in a gigantic trench that's probably ten or fifteen feet deep.

Second day of classes began a little sadly as I said good-bye to Stephen before leaving the house. He drove back to Geneva for college today.

The morning was clear and cool again. This term I'm taking two MFA classes, one of which begins at nine o'clock. It's the MFA practicum, which is difficult to explain to anyone who's not in the MFA program, and difficult (sometimes) to justify to myself. We started off in Ballantine and then made our way to the Hilltop Garden, which is IU's community garden up past 10th St.

We spent all of today's class time planting our four plots in the garden. It's a fairly large, enclosed garden, right on the hilltop, as the name proclaims. In other beds lettuce, arugula, kale, chard, sunflowers, basil, tomatoes, and peppers were growing. A lot of the garden space was blank, though, baking under the morning sun. I discovered watermelons hiding under dense leaves and still vaguely blue with dew. Also squash and zucchini. We planted radishes, turnips, carrots, beets, cilantro, and fall greens (kale and the like). Why a literature class bothers to work in a garden is an abstruse question to answer. To me it makes sense from a practical perspective: if you're going to try to write nature poetry, you'd better be out in nature. Also some people in our class have never gardened before, which is a weird idea to me (about as weird as the idea that some people have never seen a live cow up close before).

Anyway, scraping furrows in the pale brown dirt under the morning sun, with the unexpected shadow of thunderheads on the western horizon, was a good way to start the day. After class I ran errands: post office, bank, Boxcar Books for the textbooks for this class, and streambank, where I ate lunch and read Britain After Rome and threw crumbs to the fish.

At half two I biked to Cedar Hall for workshop. Oddly enough, I taught my first W131 section in Cedar last fall, so the trek from the centre of campus to Cedar doesn't feel too foreign. We're in a nice room, too, much better than the windowless cinderblock pressure cooker at the top of the library--this one has a whole wall of windows and no disconcerting echoes.

At home again after class, Alex had left, and Laura, Scott, and I lounged for a bit. I tidied up my calendar and books for the semester ahead; Scott did legal work; Laura read Anathem. For dinner Scott grilled salmon, and Laura steamed quinoa and broccoli (not in the same pot). We sat outside. The evening was perfect. As Laura said, the light looked like something out of a film, catching everything just so. Blanche sat on the deck railing to keep us company, and after we ate, Scott and I wandered around the garden, admiring the roses.

For dessert we ate Laura's ice cream and a delicious chocolate-chip-oatmeal skillet cookie that she baked in the oven. We watched Groundhog Day, which sparked a discussion afterward about grace, realizing that the world doesn't depend on you. Scott thinks that the main character's moment of redemption arrives when he understands at last that nothing he does (nothing good or bad) will change his existence, or even save the lives of people around him, and he becomes content with that, happy just to relive the day looking out for other people whether that eases his own situation or not. Interesting.

Now Playing: Scott and Laura reading through an old Russian textbook.

First day of class for the Fall 2012 semester began in an unusual way. That is to say, I've never begun a school semester by waking up next to the guy I'm married to at half six in the morning so that he could go to a job interview with a large law firm in Indianapolis. The interviews started at half nine, so I sat with him while he drank his coffee and waved him good-bye (all very proper and domestic) before going for a run. For the past few days we've had lovely cool, clear, dry weather, and on Saturday I mapped out a new route for myself. It takes me through the neighbourhoods in a spiral centred on our house. This way I can appreciate the lovely neighbourhood and explore its nooks and crannies--its shaded avenues, lush lawns, painted houses, and bright gardens--as a distraction from how unhappy my lungs are.

By the time I came home, Laura had left for her morning run. She, Stephen, and I ate breakfast together (they're visiting right now), and then I spent the morning scampering around my computer, preparing to teach. At about a quarter to twelve, I walked to campus. Leaving Elm Heights or reentering Elm Heights from campus always makes me feel as though I'm leaving/entering a dense green labyrinth. By comparison campus seems crowded, bright, and chaotic.

The 12:20 section I taught seems to be full of bright students. I was terribly nervous to start with, but it got easier as the session went on, and the students made good analytical contributions to discussion. Their critical thinking skills seemed to kick in quickly. After class several of them came up to introduce themselves or ask questions about the syllabus.

Then I sat outside and ate lunch on the slope by the Bryan House (above). Admired the cool afternoon, read Geoffrey Hill. When I went back to Ballantine for the 2:30 section, I ran into Jackie and Lisa on the sidewalk, and Heather in the hall. The 2:30 section does not seem to be nearly as bright. Perhaps lunch ate their brains. They were too busy constructing a narrative for the picture I asked them to analyze, instead of analyzing/critiquing the picture. Oh, well.

When I got home, Scott was sitting in the kitchen, where Laura was occupied with making bagels. Scott gave us the rundown of the interview, and a few minutes later, Rich showed up, so Scott had to tell the story all over again. The three of us sat in the living room, and Rich listened to Scott talk, gave him counsel about this new job possibility, asked him questions, etc.

At about half four, Jane and Anne showed up, having been dropped off by Amy. Anne and Laura bonded mysteriously over the bagels, but Jane was her old crazy, wonky self, and insisted on being carried around the house piggy-back in an endless quest for Aria (Stephen revealed after they'd left that Aria had been hiding in the medicine cabinet under the sink in the basement bathroom!). We charged all over the house and lawn, Jane crowing, "Aria! Dear Aria!" over and over, and sometimes, "Blanche-y!" The funny thing was that she didn't actually want to pet the cats, just to see them, and would get very freaked out by Clover, who was sprawled on my desk and glared at us ferociously whenever we investigated the office.

After they left, Scott, Laura, Stephen, and I drove to Laura's for dinner, stopping at Sahara Mart for wine on the way. Two of Laura's old friends, Peter and Leah, joined us, and of course Cindy was there, too, since she lives in the Allen St. house now. We made quite a merry party.

We came home at about nine to find the cats quarreling with each other out of hunger. Scott fed them, and then he and Laura joined me in the office and proceeded to read bits of Russian out of the old textbook. Outside, crickets chirp. A storm went over this evening, though Bloomington had very little rain. The air is already warmer and more humid, so I suppose we're back to normal summer weather again. That brief spell of autumn was so pleasant while it lasted.

Now Playing: Tchaikovsky, Symphony No. I, in G minor, Op. 13, "Winter Daydreams."

Don't ask me why this particular symphony is so appealing, particularly on a hot August day. The second movement is especially gorgeous: a clear, harsh, bracing horn line above the orchestra.

Somehow this blog has managed to languish again. I guess summer just doesn't seem to proffer very interesting reading material to the rest of the world. Also, we've been scurrying all over the place this summer: not only the U.K. adventure, but also a week in Michigan with Scott's family, a week at the RP international conference in Marion, Indiana, and now a long weekend in Oklahoma with my family. The Beetle is certainly racking up the miles.

Thankfully, Michigan was nice and peaceful. We stayed at a cabin by a lake near Superior, in the Lower Peninsula, and took a day to visit the Upper Peninsula, too. Highlights included swimming almost every day, playing in the campfire almost every night, and watching Scott's ten-year-old nephew Joe land an enormous, sleek, powerful walleye.

Oh, yes: and getting to see a real live honest-to-goodness flying squirrel! It had the courtesy to make an appearance on our first evening by gliding across the open space above the campfire, clinging to a big birch tree, scampering up the trunk when we shone the flashlight on it, and then poking its head out at the first big branch it came to so that we could get a good look at each other. Since I was a child, I've been convinced that North American flying squirrels are legend--akin to Bigfoot--but no, they're real. Furry, flying, fat, and fascinating.

Our other animal adventure of the summer also included a flying mammal. This one was not quite as welcome, however. Last week Emmaline visited us, and one evening when we were saying good-night in the upstairs hallway, I happened to glance over to the frame around the hall closet. The small, brown, furry creature clinging to the door frame stopped me in my tracks: a bat. In the house. Hanging by its feet from the upper lintel. Twitching its ears amicably as we talked.

Scott looked up a Wiki How article, helpfully entitled, "How to get rid of a bat in your house," accompanied with ridiculous little cartoon drawings. Guided by this, he bundled the bat into a couple of towels, which he then rushed downstairs. I was waiting at the front door to fling it open and could hear the bat chittering confusedly as Scott raced past. He dumped the towels on the lawn, and the bat came crawling out on its claws, opened its wings, flew a lap around the front yard (I thought it was going to try to fly inside again!), and disappeared into the evening.

Quite an event. No more of those, please. Bats are awesome creatures--as long as they're outside.

U.K. Trip, Day 24

We were up promptly this morning. Outside it was still raining and cold. Mrs W was downstairs in the kitchen, chipper and cheerful, and we ate breakfast with her. Lots to pray for.

We packed the car and left by nine or so to drive to the airport, return the car, and inch through Belfast's steel-tight, sharply professional security force. Our flight to Newark left earlier than scheduled. A long flight.... I watched the new Sherlock Holmes film with Robert Downey, Jr., which is all flash and fluff, like a carnival. We ate two meals, dozed, chatted, read. Below, the Atlantic rolled away, cerulean, mile-by-mile. We flew down over Canada, I think--some land full of lakes as Swiss cheese is full of holes--then over hilly, forested country.

Landing in New Jersey was rough because of storms in the area. The Newark airport gave us as charming an arrival as ever: crowds and crowds of people, customs, layer after layer of security, the sensation of being pushed through lines and gates like a cow. Once we'd been cleared (which really wasn't that arduous; it only felt like a personal insult), we were reinstated--into more crowds, more security. A feeling of claustrophobia thanks to these masses of big, busy people packed together in dark, low-ceilinged spaces.

Thanks to our early arrival, we had just enough time to wend our way through security, terminals, rail system, and bus system in order to catch our last flight. I finished The Vicar of Wakefield on the plane.

Indianapolis seemed clean, light, and calm after Newark. Rachel, Dale, and Joe met us outside baggage claim. On the drive back to Bloomington, Scott told them all about our trip, while Joe and I played with his new lego ship. In Bloomington everything was green and lush. Masses of daylilies blooming everywhere, dizzying the eye with colour. The plants had grown over the house, and as soon as Dale stopped the truck, Scott was outside, investigating the gardens busily.

The rest of us went inside to say hello to Eric, who's been house-sitting for us. All of us eventually strolled down to Mother Bear's for pizza. Eric caught us up on all the news, which included two weddings, a neighbourhood garage sale hosted by the church, and the arrival of our new associate pastor. Back at home, after everyone left, all the wee things to be done before we could go to sleep: unpacking, emptying the cat boxes, giving some of the plants triage care, cleaning the bathroom, checking e-mail. Home.

U.K. Trip, Day 23

Gortrim Forest Park, Northern Ireland

~

After our last breakfast this morning, and packing, and chatting with our hostess, we were on our way back east. It rained... all... day... long.... A steady, persistent, soaking rain. We drove through Donegal, bought fuel, and crossed the border, where the roads immediately worsened. Scott really wanted coffee, as our last B&B had only served instant, but nowhere was a cafe to be found (we laughed at Edinburgh again!). 

We stopped at Gortrim Forest Park in the Sperrins. It turned out to be a nearly-deserted wood of tall, dark pine trees, reaching away across the hills. We sat in a car park overhung with evergreens and ate lunch. A flock of wee schoolkids in jackets and wellies pranced out of one of the forest service buildings and onto their bus, and then the place was quite empty. 

The rain seemed to let up, so we went for a walk through the dripping forest, following the burn. Gorgeous waterfalls. The path crossed and recrossed the burn on bridges so that we could gaze down on the backs of fast, sleek water as they shot back and forth through narrow channels, or fell over short drops, or swam smoothly over pebbly flats. All overhung with bracken and rowan trees. We walked back through the forest, which dripped. Perfectly straight pine trunks, rank on rank, marching away. The ground was lime green with moss and shamrock clover, and, in some places, immense ferns.

Back at the car we decided to take the drive through the park. This looped us up to a newly-logged hillside, so newly-logged that we could see the machines piling logs at the foot of the slope. Horrible, that desolate, jagged expanse, but that's paper for writing and boards for houses. Also, there were fields of new young trees sprouting up thickly. It was all very weird and desolate under the rain and low clouds, with the hills veiled in mist. 

We left the forest park finally and drove on straight through the valley of the Sperrins. Quite lonely. We passed farms and occasional single houses, but every wee town seemed deserted. Mist and rain blew over the grey hills. We managed to find our way out of this dreary dreamscape at last, but only to have to navigate the badly-marked B roads to the A6. So we went through Antrim and up to Doagh by the B59. We stopped for diesel, and Scott finally found some decent coffee. We were supposed to be at the Ws' house at six, but we were an hour early, so I pointed us down the road, and we stopped at Trinity RPC. I just wanted to show Scott the building. He drank his coffee, and we sat in the car park listening to Energy Radio, i.e., crazy club music, in which U2 and Coldplay were inexplicably mixed. 

It was so good to see the Ws again. After Scott piloted the car to a space in the crooked driveway, Mrs W welcomed us at the back door, and I received a whiskery kiss from Mr W, and Scott, a handshake. Then the warm kitchen. Claire had also just arrived, and Calvin joined us a little later. We ate a solid meal and talked and talked. After we ate, Mr W led us in family worship, and we sang Psalm 20B and 138B, beautiful--Claire, alto; Mr W, bass; Calvin, tenor; Scott, Mrs W, and me, melody, singing our hearts out. We played an uproarious round of Articulate, girls versus guys, with plenty of chaffing and laughter. Tea, camaraderie, warmth from the stove, and the rain sweeping over the windows outside. 

After we played, Calvin left, and Scott went upstairs. I stayed to chat with Claire before she left and then went up myself. Everything exactly the same, down to the smell of the house, down to the clock chime in the hallway. So many nights listening to that chime! When I went upstairs, Scott was busy inviting people to The First Traditional Ye Olde June 15th Party, in celebration of our return.

U.K. Trip, Day 22

Carrowmore megalithic cemetery with Knocknarea in the background, Co. Sligo

~

Our last full free day in R.O.I. After a late breakfast--tea and toast for us both; we've wearied of fries, despite their almost magical ability to sustain us on our feet for a whole day--we set out southward, toward Sligo Town. The further south we went, the lusher the land grew. The great headlands around Glencar and Benbulbin rose on the horizon, forbidding steeps, cliffs scarred by erosion channels, dropping sheer over grey escarpments to fields below. The fields, though, were green and verdant, unlike the highland country we'd seen yesterday.

Our first stop was Knocknarea, said to be Queen Maeve's tomb. We drove through Sligo Town and out, around the headland on which Knocknarea sits, skirting its western edge, and then winding back up past houses, down a narrow lane, to the car park. From there we hiked up a very gravelly path and then scrambled to the summit, weaving our way across erosion ditches, beside a pasture where cows gazed curiously at us. 

Up and up, up and up. The slope is long and steep. The view below expanded to reveal pastures, woods, and the ring of mountains/hills all around the east: from Benbulbin above Sligo Town around to the Ox Mountains, ridge after ridge, like the vertebrae of a dragon. All green below. To the south, clouds flowed up a broad, flat valley, covering the far hills with fog. To the north, more clouds marched inland above Sligo's broad bay, like the cavalry of an army.

When we reached the top, we found the enormous cairn. It stands with its satellites nearby, feet buried in heather. An eerie, eerie place. To one side, the dark clouds approaching from the sea; to the other side, the pastures, woods, and towns abruptly fenced by the mountains, and in the middle of it all, the great cairn, silent, undisturbed, holding its secret. Down the slope seaward, a black sheep wandered through the heather alone. We wandered there ourselves, and heard church bells tolling from far below, as though from another world.

After awhile we scrambled down and drove up the lane to Carrowmore. Here our good fortune began (or continued), since first Wednesdays of each month are free. So we were given a laminated self-tour map in the visitors' centre and set loose to view the cemetery ourselves. They all stand out in a deep pasture, a lovely lush hillside of purple-plumed grass, yellow buttercups, daisies, and red-and-purple clover. When the breeze blew, we seemed to stand in a mauve feathered sea, starred with yellow and white. In this the rings and dolmens and lone cairn were nested like jewels in velvet. The whole scene was weirdly overshadowed by Knocknarea's distant cairn. That cairn in its enormity dominates the landscape for miles; nearly everywhere we went today, we could see it, black against the sky. We made the circuit of the cemetery, stopping to inspect each grave. The massive, jagged stones are mostly undisturbed and make strange, rather ugly objects in the landscape.

After lunch, we braved Sligo Town. We stopped at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, a gorgeous space, painted blue and cream inside, with vivid but simple stained glass. Many arches. Silent but not dark. From there (the church bells sounding the half-hours followed us), we walked down to Sligo Abbey/Friary. On the way, we arrived at a not-very-favourable impression of the town, which seems to be ill-kept and not well inhabited. 

The friary rose suddenly out of the mess of shops, terraces, and narrow streets. We poked around it for awhile with another laminated self-tour map. A beautiful ruin. So much of the nave and tower still stand, from the tomb slabs in the walls to the quatrefoils in the windows. Some of the tombs were beautifully carved, especially the one of the Elizabethan couple above the stone altar. The altar itself is noteworthy, with its filigree of roses, grapes, and pointed arches, as it is one of the only stone high altars extant in Ireland. Stooping, we left the nave for the partly buried chapter house, where the 13th century stone weighed above us. Down the cloister, where bits of detail remain--a carved ram's head, columns carved with spirals or checkerboard patterns. Up a staircase to a pulpit overlooking the cloister, and to the dormitories. 

Standing there in the ruins, I saw a pair of wild swans flying east, white against the aquamarine sky and dramatic cumulus clouds, against the grey tower. Afternoon lay golden and quiet on the stones. Tombstones everywhere, flat in the ground, leaning against the walls, or fragmented. Partially-burying one's local friaries and then using them as cemeteries seems to be much in vogue here.

Once we'd made our way back to the car, we drove to Parke's Castle on Lough Gill. A winding road through thick forests. We emerged suddenly round a corner to see the long silver expanse of loch, with the castle showing a modest white shoulder on its green promontory. Again, a laminate map, and again we wandered alone through the old stone buildings. These, though, have been recently restored. The foundations of the original tower house still sit in the courtyard (to Scott's chagrin, since he wants to live in one), but the stone from that house was used in the 16th century to build the now-renovated manor house that encircles the old courtyard. None of the eerie loneliness of the cairns or the peaceful pathos of the friary; here, the proximity to everyday life via restoration made it all seem much more normal, even cozy. Sunshine through deep embrasures. Crenellations outside. The re-thatched forge. Swallows darting under the eaves. 

We followed the R286 up through the glens, back to the N15. The evening was gorgeous. Light lay like fine onionskin paper over the glens, light through which we saw lush trees, grey waters, and barren cliffs to the north and south. We drove through a valley where flat-topped cliffs cascaded down over grey and green slopes, all sharply cut in the evening light. Blue shadows veined them. The flat, reed-rimmed loch in the valley contrasted with the high cliffs. And before us, very far away, the sea. The quiet loveliness of it all.

We drove back to Donegal after two stops, one by the loch in Glencar to admire the lake and cliffs, and one at a shop on the N15 for groceries. Ahead of us on the highway rose enormous cumulus clouds, like the crowns of a magnificent forest, dark below, brilliant above against the vivid green hills and aquamarine sky. The scene changed as the road wound as though we were inside the facets of a flashing Faberge jewel.

At our B&B, we ate one of the best meals we've had all trip: floury buns, creamy French cheese, salami, and Australian shiraz, with salt-and-vinegar crisps and an apple for good measure. Something so comforting about that plain, straightforward food that we'd found ourselves. We listened to music for awhile and chatted and planned our route for tomorrow.

U.K. Trip, Day 21

Slieve League sea cliffs, Co. Donegal

~

At breakfast a random selection of soundtrack music was playing from a stereo in the corner of the room. Music and room decor were equally eccentric; Scott amused himself by singing along with the song from Top Gun. (As it turned out, we ate breakfast at approximately the same time every morning here, and each morning we were treated to the same music! Which meant I was also treated to Scott's singing.)

After breakfast we embarked on the day's voyage. We drove down to Donegal Town, which was surprisingly crowded, and onward, west-northwest. Our first goal: to find the Slieve League cliffs. This proved to be a somewhat arduous endeavour, requiring a great deal of driving up nearly vertical mountain roads, very narrow, through tiny villages, and out, across the lower valleys where the backs of the cliffs loomed enormous to our right. 

Eventually, we parked the car and walked from the foot of the cliffs up, following an even narrower road. Stunning views to the south over Donegal Bay, where the great blue cliffs in County Sligo ran out and out and out into the Atlantic, far vague headland after headland, mountains edging the horizon. Appropriately, the day was overcast, the wind cold, and drizzle falling. We soon learned that not even the dizziest edges or sheerest drops could frighten the sheep: flocks of them grazed just at the edge of the cliffs, placid, unperturbed by the gusts riffling through their wool.

We walked up through a barren world, the Atlantic reaching away westward, grey, smooth, trackless, and Slieve League towering, ridge upon ridge, to the northeast. When we reached the upper car park, we were rewarded with a spectacular sight of the cliffs. One's eye tries to level the heights, but they're nearly two thousand feet from ridge to ocean--forbidding slopes of scree and stone and desperate moss, grey and green, dropping to the deep, teal-grey water. Right below us was a sliver of grey rocky beach, with the pillars of the cliff creating other narrow coves and sea caves around it. We could hear the waters far, far below booming on the rocks. Seagulls helped us gauge the size of the cliffs: they wheeled against the sheer walls, tiny white specks, or leaped out suddenly from the cliff below us to veer through empty air, or skimmed the distant water so closely that their shadows appeared, small and dark. Above us, on the mountain slopes, was a huge, barren world, stone and moss and heather. Tiny birds and moths fluttered in the grass as though they were quite comfortable on those scoured heights.

As we walked back, into the maw of the frigid wind, we noticed the ruins of a tower on one of the sheer cliffheads. We ate lunch in the car and then drove on through Glencolumbkille to Ardara. Everywhere the same stark beauty: high mountain heads, often shrouded in cloud, steep, rocky fells, ridges, moorland, one steep after another. Sheep everywhere. Peat everywhere, too, freshly-cut, rolled into logs, endless patches of it. We drove up over Glengesh Pass, also breathtakingly stark. Rock reared out of scant grass on the boulder-speckled hillsides under the low, dark clouds. Occasional glimpses of the sea. 

Another very surreal landscape feature here: abandoned houses. Not just cottages, left in the 19th century, stones decaying, roofs gone, buried under ivy, but new houses, quite new, left derelict when the Irish economy collapsed. Big cinderblock constructions sprinkled everywhere, empty. 

In Ardara we explored a couple of wool shops. The first one seemed to have no proprietor, but when we finally sorted a wee cream hat (for me) and a rich green scarf (for Rachel) out of the piles of Arran sweaters, a guy emerged from a side room to man the till. He was red-faced, paunchy, and punch, blind, totally drunk. He talked a mile-a-minute and reeked. He crowed over my "Northern Irish accent" (which I was making thicker out of annoyance), and he slashed the prices on our goods ridiculously. The next shop was much more tidy and prim; we bought a couple of scarves there. 

Then on through Glenties--oh, but what a drive! Between Ardara and Glenties we were on the roof of the world. We passed through a high, broad plateau, with the heads of the mountains ringing us round, dark, blue, cloud-crowned, on the horizon in every direction--but immediately around us, moor, copper-brown bog. And then we plunged down suddenly into a valley beside a loch. I never though lochs were actually black (just as I thought no thatched cottages still exist, but we saw three today!), but this one was really and truly slate black, silver-scalloped, with a magnificent mountain slope rising steeply down its length. Barren fell in part, dark evergreen forest in part, and the clouds descending over all. As the road wheeled and veered, new crags, new fells, new bays emerged. Heaped and dark under the sky.

At long last we found the N56, just past Frosses, and entered Donegal Town again. We parked in the city centre and ate at a large bar/restaurant. I've been looking forward to fish-and-chips all trip, but now, when I finally ordered them, I couldn't stomach them at all. Too much restaurant food over the past two weeks. At a nearby table, two couples were dining together. One of the men had an iPad he wouldn't put down; his companions were looking at him askance, pained. 

After tea we walked down to the ruined abbey, which sits right on the bay and which we'd been able to see from the restaurant. For awhile we wandered there. The abbey is partly buried, its walls in total ruins, a few massive window frames and cloistered colonnades standing in what is now a crowded graveyard. At some point someone added three or four feet of dirt on top of the abbey to give room for graves. Tombstones dated from the mid 1700s mingled with ones from the present, a chaos of monuments, some decayed, some new and crisp. The cheap, faded funerary rubbish--silk flowers, figurines, smashed vases--seemed anachronistic beside the ruined Gothic arches. Beside the abbey lay the corner of the bay, a long, green inlet, overhung with trees, the water smooth, opaque. More like a river than the sea.

U.K. Trip, Day 20

Glenveagh Castle gardens, Co. Donegal, Republic of Ireland

~

We packed up and drove to Coleraine to meet Rachel. The three of us went over to Portstewart to walk the promenade. So beautiful: the light had that unearthly translucence, that quality in which the calm sea gleamed and flickered and danced and sheened aquamarine. White and silver clouds floated over, shadowing Donegal far away. Children played in the park in front of us, and people sat on the steps that led down from the promenade to the rocky shoreline. We sat there, too, and Rachel and I talked busily. After awhile the three of us poked around the shops. We bought books in an antique shop, most notably a wonderful thick tome, Guide to British Nature. 

After saying good-bye to Rachel, we picked our way through Coleraine's centre, which was completely made. The banks of the river were packed with people who had gathered to watch the Olympic torch come through. Insanity! People playing football, flying flags, gawking, thronging, milling.... We struck out for Donegal. The afternoon still had its slightly unearthly sheen. Great masses of magenta rhododendron bloomed against dark evergreens as we climbed the pass to Limavady and Londonderry, and so on into Donegal. 

Across the border, signs in Gaelic and English. The euro. Kilometers. More gorgeous scenery--green fields and wee abrupt hills, with the dark heads of mountains rearing on the horizon. We drove to Letterkenny, where we managed to find Daphne's new laundrette, the Washing Well, just by the hospital. She met us there and showed us around her business, a small room with eight washers and dryers and some ironing boards. 

She suggested we drive to Glenveagh National Park to see the castle. The park had an austere, rugged, weird beauty: the huge mountains rising suddenly out of the barren moor, above green grass and bracken, their sides gold with grass and grey with stone, grim, withdrawn. Vistas ringed with low, broken peaks. The castle beside its loch seemed strangely verdant and out-of-place. 

We took the bus up the loch to the castle, through leggy stands of red pine. The castle is surrounded by lush gardens, where we browsed for awhile. Flat lawns walled by rhododendrons, azaleas, and Japanese maples; hillside walks; an expansive formal garden with borders of lavish-leafed poppies; neat beds of herbs and vegetables. Arched gateways gave glimpses of still more green avenues and flowers, of peonies just blooming and dark evergreens. We reentered the castle through the orangerie, where a bird-of-paradise was flowering effusively, rich purple and orange plumage. 

We took a tour of the castle, which is a late 19th and mid 20th century hodgepodge of architecture, furniture, and knickknacks. Unfortunately, Scott and I are both the sorts of people who can't really appreciate furniture the way we do art, despite the docent's best abilities to the contrary. After the tour we drove Daphne home. Her mother insisted on serving us tea and sandwiches and buns as we sat in the parlour, chatting.

At about half seven we said good-bye and pushed on for Donegal Town. The drive took us through more steep mountains and dark glens. We found our final B&B easily: Rossmore Manor, a fourteen-year-old mansion built to resemble a castle, perched above an inlet of the bay. Quite an edifice: as though an amateur medievalist had gone crazy. Our room, "The Hall," has a twenty-one foot timbered ceiling, tapestries on the walls, massive furniture, a great fireplace, and a Gothic pointed window! Outside, clouds descended.

U.K. Trip, Day 19

Portstewart Strand, my favourite Northern Irish beach

~

Today was busy for a Sabbath, much busier than our last. We rode with the McCs to church at Cloughmills RPC. We were so warmly welcomed there that one couple our age, Peter and Linda McK, invited us over after evening worship. The congregation is small but lively. At the McCs' house we ate a sumptuous lunch, complete with an elaborate dessert that involved cheesecake and chocolate sauce. 

After lunch Scott and I drove to Portstewart Strand, which we walked end-to-end. The beach was crowded with kids, body-boarders, jet skiiers, picnickers, and dog-walkers when we arrived, but on our way back the tide was coming in, and most people had left. I love this beach--its long, smooth curve of sand, Portstewart's roofs huddled at one end, and the cliffs of Donegal at the other, with Mussenden Temple perched on its headland between beach and cliffs like a clock on a shelf. (Of course Londonderry hides up the river behind Mussenden Temple.) The sky was covered with whorled clouds to the south, which gave light and water an unearthly silver pearliness as the long smooth waves flowed over the sand.

Since Scott drove us back to Cloughmills for evening worship, we missed the crazy Mr McC driving experience, which had made the road home from morning worship a rollercoaster. After evening worship we said good-bye to the McCs and went with Peter and Linda to their house. Their three wee kids were already in bed. We stayed with them until after half eleven. I think that if we were ever to move here, we'd be best friends with them as we got along famously on all fronts, discussing everything from West Wing to witnessing to Catholics. 

On our drive home, down winding, narrow country roads, we saw a badger running along the hedge beside us. It's a mercy we didn't get lost; if it hadn't been for the map Mrs McC lent us, we would definitely have lost our way somewhere in all the turnings and odd angles.

U.K. Trip, Day 18

Dunseverick Castle

~

Thanks to our hostess's willingness to cook us a late breakfast, we actually rested this morning (the one flaw of a B&B, we've discovered, is having to get up and eat on someone else's schedule). So pleasant to wake with the lace curtains filtering the light, turning it silver over the pale blue walls. We intended today to drive along the coast and see what we could see, but we turned aside almost immediately this morning to visit Dunseverick Castle. Really it's only a ruined tower clinging to a promontory in the middle of a great bay of the land formed by two cliffs. Wild irises thick below. Windswept. Gulls wheeled to nests perched on the cliff faces opposite. 

We discovered a four-mile walking trail along the cliffs west toward Giant's Causeway, and, gluttons for punishment, we decided to go for it. A perfect walk, as it turned out, not strenuous, gently twining up and down, out and in, following the jutting clifftops closely. We gazed down into deep bays made by the sea, including Port Moon. Seagulls seemed to hover effortlessly far above the water. The cliffheads jutted away behind and before us like the prows of a fleet of great dark ships. We could see Scotland and Rathlin island far away against the blurred horizon, northward. Wind roughened our hair. A partly sunny sky, silver clouds tempering the light. We encountered a few sheep and cattle in nearby fields.

On and on, through the clear air, over the springy turf. The sea sighed on the rocks far below. The Causeway, then, seemed impossibly crowded when we finally reached it. Again, my head was full of wind and sea and sky and had no room for people. We poked around among the queer hexagonal columns, where we found tidal pools inhabited by translucent prawns, anemones red as blood clots, strange weeds curling upward like the spires of cities, and thick mats of glossy kelp. Tiny barnacles speckled the black rocks. 

We followed the herd of people up to the car park at last, and so out onto the road again. We walked the A2 back to our car (possibly not the safest idea in the world, but shorter than traversing the cliffs again). We drove to Dunluce Castle, where we spent the rest of the afternoon. Scott went dreamy-eyed and wandered around the ruins, following the very detailed map, reading bits of history to me, and wondering aloud what it must've been like to live here (cold, wet, lonely, and extremely precarious!). 

We climbed all over the old house, from gate towers to bakeries and up the spiral staircase. We stared up through chimneys, admired the glassless, stone-framed bay windows, and poked our heads into the ovens (no Sylvia Plath reenactment here, however). Wind soughed over the edges of broken rock and whistled through the wee clumps of flowers that sprouted from lintels and sills. Through windows and gun loops we could look straight down into the sea. The sound of water endlessly washing the rock. The eerie sense of being held inside a great stone bird, perched there, almost ready to take flight.

The castle was almost deserted, compared to the Causeway. We scrambled down under the cliff on which the castle sits, down to the sea cave under the castle. You can now go right into the cave itself, but the way is exceedingly steep, down under the rock. I perched in the mouth of the cave, staring, entranced, down into the great, high, arched, echoing space below. Down there the sea lapped endlessly on a sloping beach, daylight and blue water surging up against the rock. Thanks to the sea working away at this cave, though, the whole castle is gradually falling into the water, bit by bit.

We ate dinner at Smuggler's Inn near the Causeway. Their burgers turned out to be absolutely gigantic, two-patty affairs with cheese, bacon, fried onions, tomato, and lettuce. As we drove back to our B&B, we went through Bushmills. Before we could get up through the town because, lo and behold, another one of Northern Ireland's spontaneous, apparently ubiquitous parades was marching down the road. Bushmills Protestant Boys, all red-white-and-blue, fifes, drums, and banners. After it passed we drove back to our B&B to read. All this trip Scott has been obsessed with the Kate Bush song based on Wuthering Heights, and to his delight he found a copy of the novel on the sunroom bookshelf to read.

U.K. Trip, Day 17

Torr Head, Northern Ireland

~

After another delicious breakfast, accompanied by Bach cello suites and Mozart flute concerti, we said good-bye to our hosts at the B&B and walked down to Waverly Bridge to catch the airport bus. Then, our Easy Jet flight back to Belfast. The airplane seemed to be largely occupied by a group of flashy, drunk, loud women, which was somewhat unpleasant. But in the airport, the woman who process our Avis car rental was extraordinarily kind and spoke with the same accent as Mrs W, which made me feel at home again.

We were given a Peugeot hatchback, black, brand-new. Scott evinced some trepidation, but we managed to leave the car park without mishap (and by the end of our stint with that car, we had added about 800 miles to it!). Today's goal: drive up to the north coast via the Glens of Antrim by way of Larne. 

We drove up through Glenarm and Glenariff, where we stopped at the Forest Park. The air smelled so clear, fresh, full of evergreen and gorse and wet grass smells under the high blue sky. The glens were gorgeous, wild and rugged. Fields with webbed patterns of hedges ran partway up their steep sides, with only brown fells above. Those high cliffs, and then the rich blue sea, so calm as to be almost waveless. In the Forest Park there were fuchsia bushes that were probably about twenty feet tall and in full bloom.

We drove through a handful of wee towns strung along the coast and as adorable as children's book illustrations. Narrow main streets lined with white terraced houses and shops, nestled at the mouths of the glens, with the great, jewel-green crags rising overhead, and the cerulean sea lapping the smooth curves of white beaches. Jelly-bean-coloured flags zig-zagged between the roofs above the main streets in celebration of the Olympics. 

The road wound up and up, and we traced it out to Torr Head. The car groaned and roared as it climbed roads steep as the roof of a house, twisting back and forth, up, up, up, down, down, right along the cliffs' edges. Scott would have to dodge the car to one side in order to avoid vans or other cars coming the opposite direction. Once we got stuck behind a schoolbus. Torr Head is a knob of rock thrust out into the sea, reached by a long lane down from the cliffs. An abandoned RAF station stands there, a ruin eerie in its recentness, all the doors and windows burst in, graffiti everywhere. It was the cliffs themselves, though, that held our gaze. From the Head they run north and south, crag after crag. Far away, to the northeast, are the islands and Scotland, which in that clear air seemed really very close. It was a pristine afternoon, cool, brilliant. 

We drove on up, through Ballycastle, and eventually managed, despite the ill-signposted country roads, to find our next B&B, Island Corr, on a dairy farm near Bushmills. Three wooly collie dogs and the woman of the house greeted us. It's a modern farmhouse. Our hostess chatted away to us in her own light patter, brought us a tray of tea and buns in the upstairs sunroom, and generally made sure we were as comfortable as we could wish. We sat in the sunroom, enjoying our very Northern Irish snack, appreciating being out of the car.

The strangeness set in as we drove through Bushmills, over to Portrush, and so to the McC's house for tea at seven. The sun was just beginning to set. Dunluce Castle hovered weirdly on the edge of its cliffs, iridescent with the fading day, crowned with that strange bloom of light so that the ruined, roofless stone walls seemed more like shining curtains hung, billowing, on the land's edge. Beyond, out at sea, the great rocks looked like half-sunken ships. Past the golf course. Through the town. Up the road, past Loguestown Road, turning right at the Bellemont Caravan Park sign, and so on down to the farm. Perhaps it was partly so strange because, though I haven't been here for quite some time, and never drove here, I was able to direct us without a map, just by the landmarks.

In true higgledy-piggledy McC fashion, fresh concrete had just been poured at the entrance of the drive, so we jumped out and walked up the lane to the house. Mrs M met us at the kitchen door. Reuben and Eleanor were in the kitchen. As Eleanor and Mrs M put the finishing touches on dinner, we talked all about our trip, the boys' exams, Eleanor's trip to Colorado this summer, etc. We ate a delicious meal, of course, and caught up on all the family's adventures. Eleanor's sense of humour and timing when telling a story has become impeccable; we were all in stitches. 

After dessert Reuben took us out to the back patio to shoot his new recurve bow. A golden evening, green grass. Reuben let us try it out, and Scott loved it. Mr and Mrs M, Nathanael, and Reuben gave us a tour of the farm, from the enormous sheds where the cattle were eating to the massive new slurry tank, to the wee calf huts, to the gigantic new sheds, extensions of the old ones, to the vast gleaming milk tanker, ready for tomorrow's truck. All very prosperous. The smell of molasses and maize in the high-ceilinged feed barn. The rough, sticky, wet calf tongues on my fingers. The lowing of the cattle and stamp of hooves on the concrete floors; the bleating of the calves.

Indoors we sat and talked until after eleven. The McCs had just been to California last year, and when Scott discovered that, they could swap all sorts of tales about the beaches and landmarks. It was a fine, clear night when we left at last and let ourselves into our lodging again.

Another interjection, this time for some gems from Flannery O'Connor:

"The creative action of the Christian's life is to prepare his death in Christ. It is a continuous action in which this world's goods are utilized to the fullest, both positive gifts and... 'passive diminishments'...."

"Most of us have learned to be dispassionate about evil, to look it in the face and find, as often as not, our own grinning reflections with which we do not argue, but good is another matter. Few have stared at that long enough to accept the fact that its face too is grotesque, that in us the good is something under construction. The modes of evil usually receive worthy expression. The modes of good have to be satisfied with a cliche or a smoothing-down that will soften their real look."

From "A memoir of Mary Ann" in Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose

U.K. Trip, Day 16

Edinburgh streets

~

It was raining steadily this morning, a disappointment since we had planned to hike Arthur's Seat today. In fact it only rained harder and harder, so by the time we'd walked down to Grassmarket, my jeans were soaked above the knee. We returned to the National Museum and perused their Reformation and Medieval Church sections. One jewel: a gorgeous tapestry of the Arma Christi, the threads still vibrantly tinted, glowing. Another jewel: communion tokens, inscribed, "Holiness to the Lord." 

We took our time there, then sauntered down to Armchair Books to have a last look-round before walking back to our room, where we ate a very late lunch. We spent the afternoon reading while rain beat against the broad windowpanes. I finished The Help. 

In the evening we walked to Reverie again for tea, in the rain. It was crowded this time, the windows fogged over. We ordered a mussel pot, four pounds of mussels steamed in garlic, white wine, and butter, and garnished with fresh parsley, with bread to soak up the sauce. Another new food for me, and a delicious one--nutty, buttery, smooth. We walked back to our room in the rain, up Blacket Avenue, which we've come to love for its greenness and stillness--the elegant, protective, brooding silence of the huge old trees in the rain (with the barren city all round; no tree-lined avenues in Edinburgh!). 

We packed, and Scott finished "The Turn of the Screw." Back to Northern Ireland tomorrow.

U.K. Trip, Day 15

The National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh

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Today's adventures took place under another leaden sky, technically, though most of our excursions involved being indoors: in the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. After breakfast we walked the long way up the road back to the Royal Mile, which was already busy with tourists. We wound our way to the Mound and spent all morning and the early afternoon in the National Gallery. It was strange to be in a gallery with such a rich colour scheme in its own right--deep reds, greens, blues on the walls and floors--in contrast to American galleries where the walls are so often a shade of off-white. 

So many paintings! For me the highlights of the gallery included 

     Greuze's "Girl with a Dead Canary" (over which I've poured in Michael Fried's Absorption and Theatricality), which is even more delicate and lovely in person

    Cursiter, "Twilight" (1914), an eerie, balanced evocation of light, dark, and reflection

    Sargent's sultry "Lady Agnew"

    El Greco's "A Fable"

and by far 

    Velasquez's "An Old Woman Cooking Eggs," with its gloriously varied portrayals of light and the strangely evocative faces of woman and boy

    Botticelli's "Ave Maria," of Mary kneeling before Christ, with all Botticelli's characteristic lucid grace.

For Scott, highlights included a small Watteau and a luminous portrait of Mme. de Pompadour by Boucher, the sitter's eyes captivating above billows of blue silk, flowers, and pearls.

Outside, we munched on sandwiches and salt-and-vinegar crisps for lunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon at the National Portrait Gallery, where we remained until it closed at 5pm. The magnificent, newly-restored neo-Gothic structure, built of red sandstone, houses a fairly good collection. All the portraits from the 1500s - 1700s were very tastefully arranged so as to give the visitor an excellent sketch of Scottish/English politics during that troubled era. Scott moved very slowly, absorbing. Our favourite part of the gallery was the series of portraits of James III, covering his lifespan. 

I also found arresting the ornate entrance gallery. Here, a ceiling painted in rich blue with gilt stars portraying the constellations looked down on an upper gallery with murals from Scottish history: great victories, heroes, and heroines. Just below, bordering the divide between ground floor and upper storey, was a fresco full of Scottish dignitaries, a throng that spanned history, crowded together full-length against a rich gilt background. Their clothes were colourful, matched to their eras, and their faces were regal, serene. All done in a gorgeous, stylised, late 19th century hand. Really lovely.

From there we walked to St. Giles, which is too cluttered for me. Tourists everywhere. Scott was fascinated by the war memorials, though, especially to Scottish soldiers who fell in India. An organ had just been installed--the incongruity....

We ate tea at Reverie, an eclectic bar near our B&B: slightly French cuisine (mussels), traditional pub feel (scuffed country tables, leather, old guys sitting and talking, tennis on TV), and retro, quasi-reggae, quasi-1950s music, which made Scott feel at home. Then a quiet evening, listening to Corelli on Scott's phone, watching the fog gradually descend over the nearby crags, and reading.

U.K. Trip, Day 14

Armchair Books, Edinburgh, one of our new favourite haunts

~

When we ventured downstairs for breakfast, we found ourselves in yet another high-ceilinged, elegant room. White tapestry wallpaper in a pattern of dove-grey vines and yellow flowers, with original landscape miniatures hung above the sideboard. Baroque music was playing from an old set in the corner, which delighted us both, of course. Gladstone House easily takes the prize for classiest B&B on our whole trip. 

After breakfast, which followed the usual pattern, but with one anomaly--

     juice

     fruit/muesli

    tea/coffee

    toast

    pancakes and bacon (shock, horror, not a fry! And, from a British perspective, pancakes for breakfast--weird!)--

we set out. A chilly, overcast day. Edinburgh is quiet even in the late morning. We wandered down toward Grassmarket, past The Meadows. We stepped into Greyfriars Kirk and spent awhile strolling over the wet grass outside, perusing the monuments set into the grey kirkyard walls. Bitterly, I noticed that the Covenanter Prison has become part of a tourist attraction, the "City of the Dead" tour. 

Inside the kirk itself, a wee old woman detached herself from a group of docents gossiping in a corner to welcome us. She pointed out that the Gaelic church meets here now, too, and expressed astonishment at their old-fashioned (accapela) singing. The complete detachment from the faith jolted Scott and me, creating a sense of disquiet that strengthened when we entered the small visitors' centre, a room at the back of the sanctuary. Here all the emphasis lay on the church and the Covenanters as champions of democracy and human rights, not of God and His glory. The Bibles were in a glass display case with communion tokens and snuff boxes, and the only quote from the Bible was an unattributed sentence from John 17. 

The church itself was lovely in the plain, Covenanter way. Stained glass with geometric designs or illustrations of Christ's parables. A lovely organ - ! - proudly installed in 1990. No respect for the past, not even a sense that this naive appropriate might be misguided. Just the bland equalizing of past values and faith with present, humanistic ecumenicalism. 

We walked down the lane toward Grassmarket, stopping at a lovely wee artisans' shop with jewelery and prints. Then through Grassmarket itself, noting the Covenanter monument. We laughed at all the cafes that have sprung up everywhere, thick as fungus on a log. The Castle loomed on its rise behind the buildings. We spent the rest of the morning/early afternoon browsing around bookshops in the West Port district. Armchair Books was by far the best - two terraced houses converted into bookshops, both parts packed to the ceiling with books, books, books on tippy shelves and boards splayed overhead, books in piles on the floor, books on shelves on every wall. A bewildering array of lighting (mostly contractors' lights on extension cords) dangled overhead, and on the ends of the shelves were tiny plackards and notes of a sarcastically humorous nature. The place seemed to be run by two very quiet, neat young guys who kept very much to themselves, pasting pages into old books. We fingered endless gilt bindings, admired woodcuts.... The musty smell.

Eventually, we ate the lunch we'd packed outside. Then we went to the National Museum and explored the pre-900 galleries. The Roman altars were weirdly the most evocative, seeming to speak our language from a world of organization and right angles. Scott made endless fun of a series of bizarre bronze statues, human/robotic, that held Celtic jewelry in display boxes embedded in various parts of their anatomy. I've never seen an exhibit of prehistoric artifacts done so strangely. Also there was a Viking skeleton, displayed as found in a pit tomb set into the museum floor. Scott commented on the strange alterity that has to accumulate before such a display of human remains is acceptable--everyone would be disgusted if people from Greyfriars cemetery were dug up and displayed like this!

We looked at the Scottish exhibits from 900 - 1600 as well, including the lovely, odd Lewis chessmen with their blank stares and intricate clothes. When the museum closed at 5pm, we visited another bookshop, and then concluded the day at a Chinese restaurant, where we were the sole sit-in clientele. Good food, though. A tank of pirhanas sat in one corner of the room, and Chinese pop played on the radio. Our waiter was morbidly impressed by the pirhanas and showed us, when we paid our bill, how he had come in this morning to discover that they had eaten part of one of their fellows last night.

Back in our room, Scott laughed himself silly over captions he created for photos of me with the big bronze statues. He read aloud to me Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw," which we'd bought this morning in a perfectly-sized paperback edition. We also bought a lovely copy of The Vicar of Wakefield and a small volume of French poetry. Scott managed to get through about a third of the story this evening, while I sat curled up beside him, listening to his even voice and watching the fog descend to cover the shoulders of Arthur's Seat. Then we read our own books; he started the Petite Anthologie des poetes Francais, and occasionally he read bits of the French to me. I read The Help, much less classy, but still enjoyable (on loan from Missy--it will have had quite the voyage before I give it back to her).

Another break from our regularly-scheduled programming:

It rained yesterday! Triumph!

U.K. Trip, Day 13

Our room in Gladstone House, Edinburgh

~

The early sunrise always wakes me up long before I'm ready; this happened frequently on the hike, too--I'd wake up at four, half four, five, six, half six, as the light grew stronger and stronger outside. Thanks to yesterday's rest, this staccato sleep-pattern wasn't quite as onerous as it was on the hike. From my pillow I watched blurred colours growing out on the firth. At breakfast this morning we sat with an elderly British couple, diary farmers, the wife very chatty, and a middle-aged Swedish couple, very taciturn, who had just finished the Wall. 

Afterward we packed up and waited outside in the warm sunshine for the Carlisle bus. We watched a man washing windows at a tiny pub on the corner and swallows darting in and out of their nests under the eaves of the row houses across from the bus stop. So began our trip back to civilization, an hour's ride over ground we'd so arduously covered on Saturday. Everyone on the bus seemed to know each other and were busy waving and nodding as we entered Carlisle. Slow city traffic. Then the bustle of the city centre, the train station, and a long, excruciatingly hot wait on the platform. I was sick and felt worse still on the train, so I missed the majestic entrance into the Scottish Lowlands, and was nearly ill in Waverly Station when we finally reached it. 

Crowds, crowds, crowds, all packed together underground, and then up a long series of escalators. At the top, the cold wind took our breath away. Sunny here, still, but far colder than the north of England somehow. We made our way over the bridge and up to the Royal Mile. Scott was dazzled by the crowds--American students attempting to look as hipster as possible, Indian and Asian tourists, Scots decked out with kilts and bagpipes, knots of teens in weird tight clothing.... We dodged down a side street and into a pub, The Advocate, where Scott happily consumed an enormous plate of fish-and-chips while I watched, still green around the gills. 

We found a coffee shop up the road, where I ordered peppermint coffee, and Scott an Americano, and we sat and people-watched for a good hour-and-a-half or so. I felt better slowly. It was a highly amusing late afternoon pastime; together, we maintained a snarky commentary on the peculiar garb of all the passers-by. (Although I daresay we looked odd enough ourselves, with our enormous packs!) Scott commented dryly that Edinburgh seems to want to be San Francisco--at least, that all the failed American hipsters want it to be San Francisco since they've come here to try to be cool. 

After awhile, we moved on toward Gladstone House, our next B&B, stopping at a Tesco along the way for supplies. Gladstone House is down a fairly busy street near Arthur's Seat. Our host greeted us and showed us to our room. It's right at the front of the house, with an enormous bay window that gives a gorgeous view of the craggy hilltop over the roofs of a school. Scott and I relaxed and tried to plan the Northern Irish portion of our trip, which commences at the end of this week. From the bay window, I could look down into the neighbour's neighbour's garden, where a large rosebush was covered with a magnificent flush of cream-yellow buds and blossoms. The bush was taller than the ten-foot garden wall and nodded above the footpath; its great blooms almost glowed as the slow, meditative, silver dusk began to descend on the street. 

We ate a late tea after Scott had found our accommodation for next week. Our meal included a giant mango, which we'd picked up at Tesco on a lark. Scott had to saw it into dripping, ragged, juicy pieces with the only knife we had--the tiny knife on the corkscrew our host had lent us. We used a saucer from the tea tray to catch the juice, which rapidly filled it. We laughed ourselves silly over the mess, but oh, it was delicious. A quiet evening of thumbing through guidebooks.