I’m Not Alone On A Wide Wide Sea

[NOTE TO READERS: I’M REPOSTING THIS BLOG ON MONDAY, JULY 2. IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT MANY OF MY FB FRIENDS DID NOT GET THIS WHEN I FIRST PUBLISHED IT ON JUNE 27. I’VE MADE A FEW CHANGES. SOME PHOTOS ARE OUT OF THE PROPER TIME SEQUENCE.]

 

Sometime in the 1980’s, I came to the conclusion that I was getting older as each year passed. I projected that simple logic into the future and realized that there was, essentially nothing I could do about it.

So I read a book. It was the story of a man, Joshua Slocum, who sailed across the Atlantic alone. When I closed that book, I knew that was something I would do one day. A solo crossing.

A few days later, I was forty years older. Yes, I did get certified to sail a deep keel 26′ boat while Mariam and I spent two months in Florida a few years ago. I was given a log book where I was to keep track of my hours sailing.

There are no entries since we left Florida. I have not sailed since then. I must say that of all the things I ever accomplished, sailing was the one thing that gave me the most pleasure.

Well, maybe I’ll make an attempt when I grow up.

When this trip became a reality, part of my dream became fulfilled. The one part of my dream that was missing, was my being alone.

We departed Southampton about 5:15pm on Sunday, June 24. Before the boat left the dock, we had our first “drill” at 4.30. We assembled in our assigned area and actually put on our life vests. We were even allowed to test the little yellow whistles.

Sunset

[The sunset off the coast of Devon and Cornwall]

I am told that there are about 2,700 passengers aboard. The staff numbers 1,200. That gives a total of 3,900 people on this boat…the Queen Mary 2. According to the captain, there are people of 33 nationalities aboard. I guess they included Mariam and I, even though most of the people we meet in the bars and restaurants are either Canadian, Australian or from New Zealand.

I have made an educated guess that the average age of the total passenger population is 70.6 years.

NAV TV.jpg

[Constant information in our stateroom]

Britannia Restaurant.jpg

[The Britannia Restaurant, our assigned dinner venue]

Tonight is our second Black Tie dinner (Gala Attire). The only thing I get to keep from this rental is the bow tie.

[No comment necessary.]

The WiFi is spotty and very slow and I’ll be grateful if this blog post gets to you, my readers, before we dock in New York City on July 1. I began writing this on Sunday, the day we left Southampton. It’s now Wednesday afternoon.

Sunday morning we will be docking in Red Hook, Brooklyn. We will get the chance to see the Statue of Liberty as we enter New York Harbor.

Just like my ancestors from Ireland and Mariam’s from Asia Minor did, decades and decades ago.

[It’s hard not to tear-up when this comes into view..just as the sun was rising.]

 

 

 

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Lancelot, The Spotless Starling And The Blogger

 

[Spotless Starling. Source: Google search.]

I’m perched on a chimney near the Ashfield House B&B with my friend, Tristram. We’re Spotless Starlings. You can find us on page 303 of Collins Pocket Guide to Birds of Britain and Europe. You might not find us in Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds of  America, but we’re in the British edition.

My name is Lancelot. Some other Starlings think my friend and I are named for two of the Knights of the Roundtable, but that’s nonsense. The whole King Arthur thing is vague and not really provable, historically speaking. But, this Blogger that I’ve been watching…he believes. He’s been to the Glastonbury Tor and desperately wants to believe that Arthur is asleep, deep inside the Tor, awaiting the time when England will need him once again.

But, I digress.

Lance, I saw you keeping an eye on the American Blogger while he sat on his little balcony, sipping wine and eating cheese with his wife. What’s the deal?

Well, Tristram, as far as I can make out, he is a bit sore of foot and hurt in the lower back. And don’t even mention the pollen. It’s awful this year here in the Yorkshire Dales. He and his wife both sneeze enough to chase away the Morning Doves.

[Map is by Contour Designs Gloucester. Copyright Ordinance Survey, 2016]

So, Lance, has he gotten out into this awesome countryside yet?

Oh, yes indeed. Come let’s take to the wing and I’ll show you where I’ve spotted them. The first hike was short and hesitant. They walked between the stone walls to the River Wharfe and crossed the footbridge at Linton Falls. He wanted to visit the small country church at the end of the road.

How sentimental.

Yes, Tristram, he is a very melancholy person. Old mossy graveyards attract him. My theory is that he spends too much time thinking of his own mortality…but, hey, I only have a bird brain.

The next day they hiked down to the river and along a path that went beside some of those stone walls that everybody talks about. As I said, he was sore of back and his right foot was causing him grief. He didn’t feel he was going to make the entire 4.5 miles as described in the Short Walks in the Yorkshire Dales so he left his OS map and guide back in his room.

So, Lance, did he make it?

Funny thing happened. The two of them came upon a couple from Australia. They had a map but were unsure if they were going in the right direction. The Blogger once taught Geography so he knew maps. Then they met an older couple coming from the opposite direction.

Oh, don’t go up that way, the woman said. Me husband slipped and slid downhill on his bum. It’s like bloody mountaineeeering.

Soon the four of them, after walking up the steep bit, found themselves in an open and pleasant woods. The Blogger knew then, I could feel it from soaring over their heads, that he wasn’t going to retrace his steps. So, on they went.

Soon they came out of the woods. I could see them again. The wife seemed to find the wettest place to cross two pastures. And, by wet, I mean with recent cow pies.

Before I could find my favorite chimney, they were back in the center of Grassington and sitting at a pub. The couple from Australia joined them. They felt satisfied with completing 3.5 miles. I have good eyesight…the old guy took something called Alleve. It seemed to help.

But, somehow, Tristram, I could read his mind as he tried to photograph me. (I didn’t let it happen.) The old guy with the gray hair, gray beard and sore back wanted to hike again. He wanted to see Coniston Cold, East Marton, Sharp Haw, Winterburn, Ewe Moor, Captain Moor and Old Cote Mill Top.

But he never got there. They left two days later.

So, Lance, where are they now?

How could I know, Tristram? My range isn’t that far. Look it up in the pocket guide. But, I did hear them say one thing said as they were loading their car: the old guy said I wonder how Lichfield will be. Mariam, he said, do you think they will have Starlings waking us up in the morning?

No, it’s a Cathedral City, silly. They only have doves…doves of peace in places like that.

And they did.

 

 

 

Yesterday Afternoon And An Afternoon Thirty-Three Years Ago

[The tomb of Joseph and Caroline Damer]

Thirty-three years ago I parked a VW Polo in a small space a short distance from the village of Milton Abbas. I was an exchange teacher at a school in Dorset, England. A teacher friend told me that I must visit an Abbey near Milton Abbas. I was open for any suggestions so off I went on a Saturday afternoon.

I can recall the day in great detail. It was crisp and clear and the air was chilly enough to slice like a razor through my new heavy wool sweater. I walked along a gravel path. There was (and still is) a private school on the grounds of the Abbey. I was told it was where “To Serve Them All My Days” was filmed. The movie was a sort of “Mr. Chips” kind of story about a teacher who spent his entire professional life…teaching.

But, I digress.

I wasn’t there to see the school. The Abbey was my goal. I can’t say it was an easy place to find. It’s basically located in the middle of an isolated part of Dorset. The roads were narrow and the hedgerows were brushing against my left rear-view mirror. If I met an oncoming vehicle, one of us had to pull over and let the other pass by.

[The fields near the Abbey]

After walking the path, I stood at the front entrance of the Abbey. The exterior was covered with moss and lichen. It was a cathedral on a small-scale. The flying buttresses were almost reachable.

I opened the door expecting to enter a typical English church. Instead, I held my breath and stood, trying to take in one of the most awesome sites I had seen so far in England.

To my left was a marble tomb. The ceiling had vaulting that would make an architect sigh.

[Vaulting]

That was more than three decades ago. Yesterday, I revisited the Abbey with my wife. I needed Mariam to see this place. Nothing had changed with the exception of the organ that was wrapped to protect it from the dust of some interior work.

People had worshipped on this site since 964 B.C.E. That’s over 1,000 years of prayers and funerals, weddings and quiet contemplation. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around a millennium.

The building I stood in yesterday is not the original. The first structure burned in 1309. Changes too confusing and complicated for this space occurred over the centuries.

In 1752, the Abbey and grounds were taken over by a Joseph Damer (Lord Milton). He had a wife, Caroline, whom he loved dearly. Death separated the two. She died young. Joseph commissioned a tomb of white marble-topped with an effigy of the two of them to honor their marriage.

I approached the figures. I reached out and stroked Caroline’s marble hair. I glanced up and saw Joseph staring into my eyes. His white marble orbs unnerved me.

“Take your hands away from my wife’s forehead,” he said with white accusing eyes. I ran my hand down her cold marble arm. I squeezed her delicate fingers.

All of it was cold white marble.

 

[A full view of the Damer tomb]

I still wear the heavy wool sweater that I had on that day, thirty-three years ago. Some things like well-made sweaters and Abbeys are made to last and last and last.

 

[Beauty and Death]

[The view from the entrance of the Abbey]

[Information source: britainexpress.com (Google search)]

[All photos are mine]

 

A Walk Through Lichfield Cathedral

[Lichfield Cathedral]

Some people have life-lists of the birds they have seen. Some people have collections of autographs of rock stars or artists. A fair number of people pay a ton of money for signed baseballs; signed by Ted Williams, Goose Gossage or Ron Guidry.

That’s great. Many of these things can be framed and mounted on the wall of the hallway or the study in  their home. Signed baseballs can be kept in glass boxes on an office desk of an attorney who is handling your divorce or settling your estate.

But some lists need special attention.

My particular list is visiting all the English Cathedrals that I can manage. I’ve not completed a “to do” a list yet, but I can add two for this trip.

A word about the “to do” list. This post is not about things. It’s about memories, faith, beauty of architecture, hope and thought. I’m not visiting these Cathedrals just to tick them from my list. I’m not visiting and photographing and saying…”I’ve been there and done that.”

No, I wanted to study the Gothic and Norman architecture of each place. Who is buried where? What Baron or Lord or Lady is buried against this wall? What Vicar is buried under our feet in the nave?

What farmer or mason worker lay beneath the grass outside, on the lawn, under the green grass…not invited into the floor or walls of the Cathedral?

But time was not on our side. Nor were many rules.

“NO PICTURES IN DURHAM CATHEDRAL”

So I discovered that I would be near Lichfield Cathedral. I knew this one was a winner from what little research I did before the trip. We went in and the size and structure of the nave and alters took your breath away.

Some images:

[The effigies of an older daughter and young son. William and Mary]

[The Nave of Lichfield Cathedral]

These are places that do not belong on an “to do list”

Places like this, of beauty and peace and contemplation can’t be kept in a photo file, only in your heart.

[All photos are mine]

[Note: I will post a video with organ music of the the time we spent in Litchfield when the opportunity arrives.]

 

 

Her Husband Is Poorly: A First Walk In Yorkshire

[Grassington, Yorkshire.]

We’re staying in Grassington, Yorkshire. I saw somewhere it was called the “Swiss Alps of England”.  I can get the sense of that. No snow-capped peaks and Matterhorns, but the Dales are pure and English and brimming with grand vistas. There are enough walking paths to satisfy the Swiss Alpine Club, the Sierra Club, the Adirondack Mountain Club and the odd afternoons when the Grassington Horticulture Society has run out of gardens to visit.

Today was the first day that I felt like taking a walk. We’d been traveling a great deal and travel, as we know, is broadening, but also very tiring for a guy who just turned 71 years old. So, we chose a very short walk from the town center to a small church at Linton Falls. The entire hike was a bit over a mile.

But, I got my scenic jolt among the stone walls, the fields of sheep and the church at the end of the walk.

[Yes, that’s me.]

We found the small church and spent some time inside studying the Norman columns and arches. There was a Norman baptismal font. A few crypts were on the floor of the nave. One man died in 1665. Only his initials were given.

[St. Michael’s of Linton]

Then, after sitting in quiet contemplation for a short time…I noticed the window.

It was really a place that I would call a ‘prayer alcove’.

[The prayer window/alcove]

There was a small pad of paper. A pencil. A few prayer cards, some stick pins and two cork boards.

I took a moment to read a few prayer requests. After the second one, I felt an unexpected sorrow and pity for the person who wrote it. I’m assuming it was a woman…but I’ll never know. It was a simple note, not even a real request. Just a simple statement which read:

A good friend who’s husband is poorly.

 

[Another part of the prayer board.]

The word ‘poorly’ hinted to me that it was a British person who wrote this. As usual I began to wonder where she lived, who was her friend? How poorly was he? She clearly felt desperate and desolate enough to go to a remote church and post this humble note. Did she light a candle at Salisbury Cathedral?

But, most of all, I failed to notice the date (if there was one) and I wondered if the husband was still alive…

We began to make our way back to downtown Grassington. It was sunny and hot. The sheep I saw earlier were all laying down in the fields. We stepped aside for many walkers. We side-stepped for many dogs. The Brits love their dogs. So many signs about keeping the dog leashed…so few leashes.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I took pictures of the ferns and wildflowers growing between the rocks of the walled path.

I wondered about the ‘poorly husband’.

I’m not a praying man, but…

[All photos are mine]

 

The First Full Day In Edinburgh

[The Scott Memorial being evacuated by the police.]

I waited while Mariam took her shower and washed her hair. I felt like we were being delayed. We’re travelers, we don’t need showers. Tourists take showers.

So, I snuggle deeper into the comforter and went to Spotify. She seemed to take forever to wash her hair and do whatever women do in the only bathroom in the suite, and a guy has to relieve himself.

Once I secured Spotify ( not easy in any of the hotels we’ve been staying in), I decided to get her in the mood of the city and country we were touring.

After five playings of Scotland The Brave and two readings of Coming Through The Rye, I think she got the point.

She knew we were in Scotland.

Our first job of the day was to visit a dart shop and buy my son a dart set. I won’t say more. It’s going to be a surprise. Especially when I give him the 23 gram Titanium shafts. Don’t tell him.

We walked down Ely Street. The sandstone townhouses were beautiful.

I next secured tickets to an American musical that just happens to be playing about 30 feet from our hotel door. We’re seeing Wicked. (For a fraction of what we’d pay in NYC).

We decided to walk to the Edinburgh Castle. When we got to the Scott memorial, the police began to evacuate and tape off the whole area.

[Prince Street Garden}

I’ll buy The Scotsman tomorrow and find out what we almost became a part of. Someone told me that the tower gets a lot of jumpers. That’s very sad to hear that this beautiful and historical city has people who want to take a quick exit to oblivion.

Which takes us to our post dinner activity. We booked a tour called Doomed, Dead and Buried. I couldn’t be more pleased. The tour guide was a beguiling young Scotswoman named Rachel. She wore a hooded cape. There was a brass clasp at her neck and she knew how to tell a story.

[Rachel, our ghost tour guide. Okay, what guy wouldn’t have a slight crush on her?]

If you want to hear those stories, you’ll have to come here and take the tour. I’m too exhausted to retell anything she said.

[A “close”…the name I can not remember}

This is a city that could grow on me. Dark history and a bright future.

I was here about thirty-three years ago and I remember nothing of that trip, except that I was very cold on most evenings.

Perhaps that’s why one can smell the coal smoke in the air (I’m assuming that coal is still used here, hopefully I’m wrong).

As we left a pub after the Ghost Tour, I heard bagpipes in the distance.

Someone was playing Scotland The Brave.

 

 

Real Place/Fictional Person

There are so many real existing places named for, dedicated to or all about fictional people. (How I wish Trump Plaza was in this category!). So, let’s visit one.

First of all, I don’t write travel blogs such as those where the blogger is paid by the hotel or resort to write-up all the great stuff. Nobody pays me to write what I write about. It’s only what I find curious and interesting that drives me to this keyboard on a chilly evening in Edinburgh, Scotland.

But, I’m playing catch-up here. Travel is tough and taking a zillion photos and posting them, some to friends and family, some for Facebook and some for a blog or two…we’ll it’s hard. I just make it look easy.

In my mind, at this moment, I’m back in London. It’s last night. We saw a wacky comedy called The Play That Went Wrong in Covent Garden. If you can catch it in New York City, go. It’s a real hoot.

After the play we walked back to our hotel, thankfully located just steps from Trafalgar Square. And, just across the street from our front door is the famous pub, The Sherlock Holmes. We went in and had a quick nightcap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Right now my reading is mostly nordic noir mysteries. But, I appreciate Conan Doyle, even though he believed in charlatans and mediums, I totally appreciate his talent as a mystery writer (full disclosure: I’ve only read one or two of Doyle’s mysteries). But, I don’t want to talk about books right now. I want to share a tiny bit of the pub.

Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, it’s a theme pub. But, I thought it captured some of the essence of what most people think about when they think about 221B Baker Street.

There is a variety of ales, ciders lagers and stouts on draft.

The second floor is a restaurant. It’s set up to look like Sherlock’s study on Baker Street.

And, the stairway down to the WC’s (why are they all downstairs?) are decorated with movies poster and book covers.

Remember, I’m not paid by anyone to say that I rather enjoyed the place for a little while. Truth is, I paid them about £9 for the experience.