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!

Shakespearean Convert

My past two days have been filled with Shakespeare.  Normally, or, I should say, back at school, I would not be thrilled about this fact.  I would probably moan and whine about it enough that that would be quite obvious.  So lets get some of the moaning and whining out before I explain my real reason for writing about a man I was formerly indifferent to.
I've never been a Shakespeare kind of girl.  Romeo and Juliet is beautiful and I cannot deny the talent and feeling that was put into it.  But it is the epitome of mush and gush as far as my mind is concerned, second only in mushy-factor to the The Notebook. (I love the movie, can't stand the book--please don't get me started.) Reading Macbeth in seventh grade was likewise terrible, mostly because of my complete inability to understand the language.  I would undoubtedly end up reading the translated text, and that just isn't the same.  I have been told many a time that reading Shakespeare and watching Shakespeare preformed are two completely different experiences, the later being worth your while, and the former being...well...not. I didn't believe it until last night. (Though I often wondered why my teachers would say this, then turn around and proceed to assign whole acts to be read for class the next day.)
Last night our whole group of 38 students lined up outside the Globe theater, tickets in hand, to be groundlings at Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Winsdor.  I will admit, I wasn't thrilled at the idea of standing for three hours with nothing but a stage to lean on and a Shakespearean play to entertain me.  I waited, quite afraid that I would again get lost in trying to decipher the Olde English, and become literally bored to sleep.  (I am not proud of this, nor my inability to appreciate Shakespeare as he deserves, but, nonetheless, there it is.)  But as the gates opened and the attendees were ushered in, I found myself getting a bit excited, even if it was only because I was standing at the world-famous Globe theater in London, England, about to see a play and walk on a replica that had successfully traveled through time and history.  The play began, and, I swear, I didn't mind standing for the required amount of time--it was not a burden, it was fun.  I became engaged in the dynamics of the play, eager to see the plot thicken and resolve itself, enjoying every minute of it.  I danced to the music and song at the end scene and talked about it incessantly on the tube ride home--from St. Paul's to Notting Hill Gate.
Now  I understand my teachers when they tell me I have to watch Shakespeare to get the full effect of it, the difference real actors and costumes and emotion, instead of the imaginary ones inside your head, make is remarkable, and transforming--I have a new found respect for Shakespeare and the imagination and skill that created his plays, though I still vow to never read one again, unless forced.  I will watch them from now on, as they were intended to be experienced.
So, today, when we took a day trip to Stratford Upon Avon, Shakespeare's countryside hometown, and visited five different sites associated with him and his life there, I appreciated them.  And while I'm positive I would have appreciated the homes and buildings for their historical value alone had I not been to the Globe Theater the night before, I had the blessing to be able to love them because Shakespeare had been there, and had written his touching tragedies and witty comedies at these vary locations.  For a little while I got be a part of the places that shaped this literary genius, even if just for a second of insignificant time, my footsteps are still there, and always will be. 
The lush green foliage of the English countryside always reminds of home in Connecticut, and the beautiful greens of nature that should be turning vibrant colors any week now.  The "ooooo"s and "ahhh"s of the Utah kids at the beauty of  the nature, at all the trees and shrubs and just the general color green that is plastered everywhere the eye can see makes me laugh, but also makes me feel lucky and blessed to have grown up in an area of the world where those are scenes from everyday life.  People vacation to the countryside of England for the beauty of the earth, but I don't have to, I can go home to get it. And that's even better.

Hello, Hello

So, I've never done this before, and my lack of writing in my journal over the summer months is a testament to the concern that I wouldn't be able to maintain a blog. But I have broken down, I have succumbed to the peer pressure, if you will, because everyone around me has a blog, and I have finally been persuaded by the abundance to start my very own.
I won't write everything here, I have a journal for that (which I have been writing in on a regular basis, thank you very much.) And as much as I probably love all of you that are reading this, because, let's face it, who wants to read about my life unless you are in someway significantly connected to me, I don't want you to know everything, nor would you want to.  So there will be many things that will find their way only to my journal, reserved for it pages for safe keeping.  Call me a romantic, but there's something so appealing about a person's real handwriting on paper in a bound book that an internet blog can never replace.  It will never be as real, or as personal, as intimate.  That's another reason I won't share everything here, or post everyday--if only to give a reason to keep my journal. And if I write everything hear, it will turn into a journal, making keeping one superfluous and a waste of my time.
So every week, maybe more if I feel the need to write, which I often do. I think this blog will become a great outlet for that, something I've never given myself before, and something I am excited about.  It's an ideal time for me to begin, too, (or not ideal, depending upon how you look at it, because when I get home from London, what will there be to write about?!) because I will be able to write about my unique experiences and preserve my memories of London before they fade away, and hand them to you all, instead of filing them away in my journal. 
I hope that you'll find my stories and entries entertaining, or at the least they'll keep you satisfactorily updated on my life here in the UK.  I've started a month into it, so you'll have to forgive me for foregoing a few stories and jumping straight to the present, though I will probably relapse periodically and pull some of my favorite happenings out of my back pocket on a quiet day that holds no other interesting news, if you will allow me the indulgence.
I'm afraid I've got to attend to some pressing Great War and Modernism homework now, maybe even some Religion and Humanities that didn't get done for class this morning.  We'll see.
Until next time,

Carolyn