Paint Me a Birmingham

I have recently come to the realization that I have been severely lacking in my blog posts in October.  For those of you who really do follow my escapades closely, I apologize.  Though I think I am rather flattering myself to believe that is many of you. Anyway, my neglect has not been intentional, but simply stems from a draining, but lovely busyness of the past week and a half. 

 Last week was our program trip up to the north of England, and it was there I discovered that my impressions and beliefs of the north have been incorrect.The words "Northern England" always incited a picture of sprawling fields, natural beauty, and everything lush and green, everything desirable and wanted in a rural and wilderness-inspired setting.  But, driving on our mustard yellow coach through the narrow roads of northern industrial towns, lined with remnants and sites of former cotton mills and factories, I realized how wrong my vision was.  The homes and public buildings still standing from the age of the industrial revolution are permanently blackened from the constant out pouring of soot and ash, forever marked with the legacy of darker days.  

On a lighter note, I learned the south of England was more of the countryside, picturesque world I had imagined in the north, though the north definitely contained its fair share of beautiful views, rolling hills dotted with white and black sheep, plots separated by old rock walls--breathtaking.  I got a perfect view of this standing atop the ancient wall that separated the Roman Empire from Scotland back in the day.  Hadrian's Wall, the official name of the old Roman camp, was constructed atop one such hill, enabling a person to see for miles and miles.  Not all the way to Scotland though, I found, because the boarder between the countries 

has since moved. 

Before we stopped at Hadrian's Wall on the way to the lake district, however, we spent two nights in York, where I made some of my fondest memories.  We had a full day to ourselves after our tour of York Minster, a rare and unusual gem that we took full advantage of. Museums and little tourist treasure abound in York, like the Shambles shopping district, which a considerable amount of time was spent in.  Thankfully, I did not spent a considerable amount of money, but there were a considerable amount of pictures taken in the Shambles, where there is a row of houses on each side of the street, leaning toward one another almost enough to shake hands across the topmost windows.

Our museum excursions took us into several exhibits, my favorite being the recreated Victorian street, complete with horse and buggy, flickering lamp posts, and overhead lights that faded the scene from day to nighttime. The Jorvick Center, on the other hand, was another ordeal entirely.  The museum-turned-ride is famous for it's recreated Norman town, and the modern day buggy that carries you around it, narrating the stories of each scene and hut, and the persons in them.  The most memorable part of our journey through the Viking civilization came at the very end--the recreated scene of a grown man in the outhouse, his upper torso clearly visible to us museum goers, as well as the look of utter pain etched into his plastic face.  Yes, I assure you, that actually happened, and the constipated man still sits there--never relinquished from his uncomfortable condition. Poor, unfortunate soul.

Our last night in York ended with a Ghost Walk through its streets, with a surprisingly friendly old man.  The cold and crisp autumn air was a delight wot walk through, and filled my lungs with a freshness that only the fall can give.  The old cobble stoned streets and encroaching brick homes lended themselves nicely to the telling of eerie ghost sitings and supposed hauntings, but even the ideal conditions and the deserted, dark streets couldn't pique my fear, but rather I was full of giggles and silliness the entire time--something that good company tends to bring out in me.

There is so much more to tell, hiking in the Lake District and reading Wordsworth while looking out upon the scene that inspired many of his works, disgusting hostel food, and goosebump inducing views--even more from the following weekend back in London and the subsequent days that followed.  But there is not enough time, at least not right now.  Our early departure tomorrow morning, to head down to Portsmouth and Brighton, demands hours of sleep, more hours than I can give, and I am short on hours in my day already. 

So much to do, so little time.

A Local in a Picturesque England

I've made a discovery. Nothing quite has the ability to thrill and also quiet me in reverent awe like the picturesque gardens of England.  Kew Gardens, grounds that have been painstakingly manicured and cared for since the time of King George III, were amazing, even in the infamous, windy, London rain.  I conveniently spent most of my time in the sheltered greenhouses full of exotic plants and trees, and it was wonderful and inciting to learn and observe such natural beauties--especially with my gardening professor as a personal tour guide.  But even the conservatories, tree-top walk, and long windy paths of Kew can't compare to Stourhead.  The landscape at Stourhead are unbelievably...picturesque, I guess, is the word I would use to describe it.  They are my whole imagination wrapped up in an amazingly, heart-achingly beautiful scene, and I did not want to leave.  The central pond, which is more like a small lake, boasts grottoes and old stone temples in every corner, partly shaded by the yellowing leaves of 100 year old trees.  Everywhere you look in picture worthy, and I felt like I couldn't snap enough frames fast enough to capture the pleasure the scenery bestowed upon my heart.  Though, now, looking back at my pictures I realize I do, indeed, have quite enough, probably enough to supply each and every one of my friends and family members with slightly different copies of some part of the view--you should know I have quite an extensive extended family.  Stourhead also gets to boast its role in Hollywood and the part it plays in the newest rendition of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as the site of the first proposal of Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth Bennett.  Surprisingly, this was not the highlight of my visit to Stourhead, and I did not participate in the sad exploitation of the few males on our program to reenact the proposal scene with all but a few of the 36 girls.  Instead I got the chance to walk the paths around the lake, climb up to Apollo Temple, which is where Darcy proposed, and visit the arched bridge that Keira Knightly runs across as a means of getting to the temple that she is so completely blindsided  by Matthew Macfadyen on.  I did, of course, have to take pictures at all of these places, but I really was relishing the scene rather than the film history.  It was only grudgingly that I left, unwilling to miss the bus and find my own way back home.  I would have given anything to be able to sit atop the hill that the Apollo Temple resided on and read my book overlooking the serene, wind rippled lake flanked by the changing trees of fall.
Yesterday after classes I went on another excursion, though this time around the city of London, and not the green fields of the English countryside.  Over a little north of Oxford street, the mecca of all things shopping (at least to my knowledge so far), is an exhibit called the Wallace Collection.  It houses mostly Rococo art, and is an old family collection that is now open to the lucky public.  I enjoyed going through the rooms of the antique house that is nicer than my own at home, because I really do like the French Rococo artists...especially Fragonard.  I enjoy the wispy, painted landscapes and soft features and fancy dresses of the women, and also the satirical air subtlety portrayed in some of the works, like The Swing.  That has to be one of my favorites.  As much as I enjoyed the art, however, I enjoyed just roaming around the surrounding area afterword more.  My friend and I wandered somewhat aimlessly, not knowing exactly where the public gardens were that we had previously spotted on a map in passing.  The wandering and finding new streets and exploring without specific directions on where to go was liberating to me, and made me wonder why it had taken my almost a month to do it.  It wasn't the fear of getting lost because if you can find a tube station--which you undoubtedly will run into one at some point, the blaring signs are, for the most part, hard to miss--you are never really lost. (you are also never really lost if you carry a map with you...which I usually do). Perhaps it was the lack of time.  There is just so much to do and so much to see that I know it will be impossible to accomplish everything even in my three and a half month stay, and school work doesn't make that feat any easier.
Eventually we did stumble upon the park--a very small one compared to the massive Hyde and Kensington we are used to, but charming and quaint just the same. I realized on our little jaunt that I need to do more of the random walking and finding--it's how you get to know a place, it's how you start and end the journey of transforming from a tourist into a local, and I want to be a local by the time I leave, dangit!