It was 1980. I was teaching Oceanography and Earth Science at the Ridgefield High School in Connecticut.
Monday, Dec. 8, was a normal day of classes. Late that afternoon, Parent/Teacher Conferences were scheduled. I was a new faculty member and somehow I scored The Conference Room near the Main Office for my appointments. Parents came into the room, we discussed their child, I held the reports and we talked.
Me–“Oh, your student is doing just fine.”
Them–“Are you sure? She/He seems to distrust me now. Am I the enemy?”
Me–“No, it’s just hormones. You child will rediscover you in a few years.”
Them–“Oh, thank goodness.”
Then the darkness descended…
The parents came in and left. The dinner hour passed. The final dozen or so waited in the hall. A father and mother came in. He had a bandage on his forehead. We sat for a few minutes and I politely asked about the bandage.
Father–“You heard about the Stouffer Fire?” {Conference Center in Westchester Co. A fire broke out while a Corporation was have sessions. Twenty-six people were killed.}
Me–“Yes, of course.”
Father–“I was the last one out. The guy behind me died.”
I sat in silent shock. The academics of his (really good child) was suddenly put into a new perspective. The upcoming holidays, the father/husband and child flashed through my mind. There were more important things in life for this fortunate man than his child’s Earth Science grade.
Me–“I’m sorry. We’re done here. Go home. Have a special holiday.”
Father-“I most certainly will.”
My mood darkened…
After conferences, several teachers from the Science Department met in the Parking lot. The decision was made to go to a nearby pub and have dinner. So, we did…
We had nachos, tacos, refried beans and a few beers. Then the lights came on. The night manager told the crowd to please leave. There was a bomb scare. Get out!
So we did. In another parking lot, there were three of us left.
My co-teacher, Jeff and his house mate whose name I can not recall, said: “Hey Pat, why don’t you come over to our place for a dessert? It’s on your way home.”
I said: “Lead the way, Jeff.”
And things got even darker…
At Jeff’s house (Jeff was a musician with an album or two out there. It was his avocation. He taught Biology.) I plopped myself on the sofa and opened a final beer. Jeff went for a bowl of popcorn, some cheese and not a few crackers. His house mate, sat and ate with us and retired to bed. Jeff and I sat on the sofa and talked about the next day, and the upcoming holiday vacation. It was 10:30 pm. I began to think of going home to my room in the house of a teacher from the Ridgefield Junior High School.
In New York City, at the entrance to the Dakota Building, something very very wrong was about to happen…
I sat for a few minutes longer then found my coat. Jeff was in the kitchen attending to something. I stood in front of the TV. A news break.
On the screen, a news stringer from one of the City’s stations, was standing in Central Park West holding a mic. His update…
“John Lennon has been pronounced dead.”
I called Jeff. He stood in front of the screen. I never saw a person turn so completely white, so fast and so pale, in my life. He called his friend.
Ten minutes later I was driving home, just a few miles, but it took me ages.
I was somehow less innocent than I was at the start of my day. So many tragic things, so much pain, so much confusion. But, in a sense, the world became less innocent that night. The spirit of the 60’s, the excitement of the Beatles–it all seemed to die when Chapman pulled the trigger. He is sitting today in his cell at Green Haven Correctional Facility, probably unaware of the chain of events he set in motion. But, perhaps he is aware. And, if he is, is he sorry?
It doesn’t really matter, though.
It’s a “day the music died” again. In the years to come, there will be many days when someone’s music will die.
We’re all sorry.
[The last photograph of John. Taken by Annie Leibovitz on the afternoon of Dec. 8, 1980. He was also photographed naked, in the fetal position, on a bed, next to his beloved wife, Yoko Ono. Photo: Google Search.]
I’ve never seen the tree. Several years ago, on a trip to Scotland and England, we drove along the eastern coast toward London. We passed Hadrian’s Wall. As usual, we were rushing to a hotel to make the check-in time. I didn’t realize then how close we were. If I had the information and the time, I would have driven the extra miles to see this tree.
It was a legendary tree in so many ways–being made famous in the movie Robin Hood with Kevin Costner.
“This is my land, and my tree…“
The Bishop of Newcastle said that the tree bore “a pastoral load” of worries and pain of the local folk. Ashes were scattered under the tree, proposals made, loves consummated, hearts broken and kisses bestowed. For generations, it was an ingrained symbol of personal and communal landscapes.
A botany of desire.
In the darkness of late night of September 27 or in the morning glow of September 28, someone with a 28″ chainsaw felled this sacred tree.
[Photo: Google search]
With so many things that I cannot wrap my brain around these days: i.e., the selection of a right-wing religious fanatic to the Speaker of the House, the horror of the Israeli/Palestine conflict and other disheartening events, I found this story hurting me in a strange way. Obvious but still strange. Vandalism is an illogical and dispiriting act. Teenagers (mostly boys, I’m afraid), tipping over headstones in old mossy cemeteries. I’ve seen my share of this destruction and often wondered how some mind could say to itself: “Yes, I see that this stone has a family history engraved in the marble, but I will topple it into the mud. And for added agony on the descendants, I will make sure the name and birth dates and death dates are face down.”
Or, “I see a clean face on a building that I don’t own. Its the living space for strangers. Nevertheless, I will treat the wall as if were only mine and spray my unique ‘tag’ to the smooth granite.”
Or, “I hate your mosque.” “I hate your Temple”…therefore I will bomb it. Destroying your faith a little more, because I don’t understand it and therefore I hate.”
And, closer to home…”I am afraid of you. I am afraid of your body. It will lead me to sin. Therefore, I will tell you what to do with your body…because I am a man and you are merely, in the end, property.
And not to forget…”I believe that God hates you. There are only two sexes, the Bible says so. Therefore, you are violating God’s commandments if you think you can love anyone you choose, regardless of gender.”
My tree, the one I have never seen, may seem minute and insignificant. But, to me its just a symptom of an illness in our society. The disease of hate and intolerance.
I’m not naive enough to think that it’s only the here and now. This sort of thing that has existed for millennia.
It’s just sad that we haven’t grown as a collective soul…as the sole stewards of this isolated planet. It boggles my mind to think that there are people out there, friends and politicians who actually believe that climate change is a hoax. If it wasn’t so dangerous, it would be funny…that people can deny satellite imagery and field studies and instead believe the lies that are fed them by those who will benefit from their ignorance. What a joke. What a tragedy.
Small planet, small ideas from small intellects, and small minds.
I feel so lonely. I feel so afraid for my children and grandchild. I feel gloomy about our future.
[Note: The information about the Sycamore Gap Tree was published in the October 7th issue of The Economist.]
[One of the many small chapels in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral. Photo is mine]
I’m sitting with Mariam in a small chapel in the crypt of this amazing Cathedral. There are several reasons why I’m sitting here on a small very hard wooden chair. One is that the temperature is probably close to 65º F. Outside, it’s in the low 80’s. So it’s cool. The crowds are above me listening to the organ practice. So it’s quiet. And I’m trying to act like an artist. I have my sketch book and drawing pencil. I am not really an artist by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But I’m trying. I’m trying to draw a column that was carved and set in place over 1,000 years ago.
Everywhere I turn I am steeped in history. And the thought weighs heavily on me. The worn limestone steps that lead this way and then that way in the Cathedral are places to contemplate. How many monks, abbots, priests and saints have used these very stones? What undiscovered cleric lies beneath my feet, waiting to be discovered when the stones are taken up to replace a water pipe or repair an already replaced electrical cable that had been installed in 1952?
These thoughts ground me to where I stand. They ground me to a solid stability in a time of turbulence and change.
But, enough about the crypt. Let’s go back several days ago when Mariam and I decided to take a walk. I had to justify bringing my hiking boots, didn’t I? We (I) had big plans to hike the North Downs Way, but the usual lower back issues and leg problems kept our walks to a minimum. So instead we took our chances to hike along the Great Stour Way. It’s a fifty-one mile trip, accessible only a few blocks away from our hotel. And I was curious about what I was capable of.
The day was unusually warm for this part of England. The local fields had just been cut and the pollen was as thick as a January blizzard in Yellowknife, or the smoke from the Canadian wildfires blanketing New York State.
The first part of the walk was through a garden-like park at the northwestern edge of town. People were laying on the lawns reading, small groups were sipping wine, and old men and old women sat on the shady benches thinking about the past.
We came to a bridge. Passing through the short tunnel I noticed three poems written on the brick walls. I photographed all of them. Here is my favorite:
Canterbury
The patchwork houses bend their great heads
Down to greet me as I pass
Walking the cobbled path
Saturated in history
Of those who had gone before me
~ ~
I hear them now
The many remembered and forgotten
Their voices live upon the wind
Their hearts wedded to the horizon
~ ~
Raindrops like goblets patter on the street
Marking the places that their feet once trod
I stand in the footprint already imprintedfor me
— Lauren J. (?)
The poem seems to have been written for me, as all great poems are supposed to make you feel.
We finished out trip in a little over an hour. We didn’t get very far, but that wasn’t the point. I know now that I am still capable of some trail walking, no matter how little.
The day after tomorrow, we will be boarding a British Airways flight to JFK. We’ve seen a great deal. The trip was a success beyond my expectations. But what am I going home with? What am I taking with me? How have I changed?
After the exuberance of life in Venice, the riotous traffic of Rome, the art of the Vatican, the pubs and the people of England, the trials and sweat of the Canal boat, seeing old friends…there is a renewed spirit within me that I had begun to lose during the Pandemic.
My experiences have redirected and affirmed aspects of why I choose to get out of my comfort zone. Observing sculpture, buildings and frescoes that were created for the sake of beauty alone and not for utilitarian use has put my mind back on course.
I will choose beauty over the mundane, love over hatred, hope over despair, peace over violence and tenderness over brutality.
And, I will try to remain grounded in the present with deep roots to humanities collective history.
[Along the Great Stour Way. Photo is mine]
[A tree for lovers for sure. Photo is mine]
[Wildflowers along the Great Stour River. Photo is mine]
[NOTE: It is Monday morning in England. 10:45 am to be precise. I have just finished reading “The Case Against Travel” by Agnes Callard in The New Yorker. (June 24, 2023). I have been a faithful reader of that magazine for many decades. I value it’s quality fiction, insightful and timely news articles and, of course, the legendary cartoons.
I found this article a misdirected attack on the whole idea of travel as a broadening experience. Callard clearly does not like to travel so she invokes classic overused quotes from G. K. Chesterton, Ralph Waldo Emerson and even Socrates to support her view. (What can Socrates know about the modern world?). I understand that a fair number of people, famous and otherwise, regard travel as a waste of time. Using that mindset, so is mowing one’s lawn or planting a garden. How do these things change and enrich our thinking about the world as a whole?
I will not write a screed to tear apart her argument. I’ll simply say that I think she misses the bigger picture and that I disagree with her premise. It’s clear to anyone who reads my posts that I love to travel and I feel I am a more rounded and thoughtful individual because of it.]
I didn’t think I could do it. I worried that we couldn’t afford it. I thought we were taking on too much. Was it more than we could pull off? Somehow, though, it all came together and it worked like a charm on a little girl’s bracelet. We were older by four years since our last visit to England. Even then I had trouble walking and had to scurry through muddy fields to catch up with Mariam and our friends.
I didn’t think I could do it.
I had taken her to England and shared with her the footpaths that I love. The thatched cottages, pubs, fields of rape, Roman roads, Christmas pantomimes, chilly and quiet country churches, mossy churchyards that were surely haunted. Stone walls of Yorkshire, crashing waves of the Cornish Coast, the Jamaica Inn, the Ploughmans lunch, steak and kidney pies, a room temperature pint of The Best Bitter, the bell (“Time, Gentleman, please”), the jaw-dropping grandeur of the Gothic English Cathedrals, driving on the left, the hedgerows that were over four hundred years old, the fields of sheep, sitting on a log in a gloomy forest with cold water, a chunk of bread and a chunk of Stilton, the effigies in the old churches, Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral, the manor houses, lonely country lanes, place names like Hoo Farm, Puddletown, Sturminster Newton, Plucks Gutter, Blue Pigeons, Maypole, Chislet Marshes and Wagtail to name a few. I sat with her atop a Tumulus, where the ancient ashes of forgotten local chieftains are mingling with the soil. We sat under the hot sun in Trafalgar Square, walked the halls of art of the National Gallery, ate lunch in a crypt beneath St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, graves beside our table. I took her to the Barley Mow Pub where I drank a pint or two of the “Best Bitter” beer.
I had shown her the England that meant something special to me. An England that held many memories of many trips over the decades.
But after the Covid lockdown we were anxious to travel again. Mariam had been talking about showing me the beauties of Italy for years. She wanted to show me the Sistine Chapel in Rome and DiVinci’s Last Supper in Milan. During my travels in Europe, somehow Italy eluded me. Someone once told me that there was no off season in Rome. Somehow, the idea of crowds put me off any plans to tour Italy.
Until the day I came to realize that it was high time that Mariam had a go at planning a trip and sharing with me the places that she had seen years before we met. Crowds or no crowds, I became interested in seeing for myself the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica.
While we were working out an Italian itinerary, something on the Internet came across my screen. It was a cruise from Venice to Rome calling at ports along the Dalmation Coast. We would see Croatia and Montenegro. It was a relatively small ship (number of passengers were about 275). This wasn’t a Carnival Cruise by any means. It suited us just fine. Despite the hefty cost, we booked the trip. I have posted several blogs that described our experiences. The foul weather prevented us from visiting a few places, but one can’t control the weather. We rode a gondola in Venice, climbed hills in Rovinj, walked in the rain at Pompeii, and saw the Pope in Rome.
[The Duomo in Milan. Photo is mine]
From Milan we went to Lake Como to see the beautiful villages. We returned to Milan and rode the train for six hours to Paris. A week in Paris. We walked a cemetery and saw the graves of artists and existentialists. We celebrated my birthday in a nice restraurant. We went to see the show at the Moulin Rouge.
The Chunnel Train took us to London. A Jack the Ripper tour, tickets to Hamilton and just wandering for a few days.
A quick return to Dorset to visit our dear friends. And then, something new. Something I had been reading and thinking about for many years. A short 5-day trip on a canal. We chose the Kennett Avon Canal not too distant from Salisbury.
Then Brighton to see what an old Seaside Resort looked like. And, of course, the famous Pier.
From Brighton we drove to the White Cliffs of Dover. I had made it so far. I felt good. Mariam felt good. Onto to our final destination…Canterbury.
I had been here several time since the mid-1980’s for only for a brief visit. This time I made sure we set enough time aside for me to sit in the vastness of the Cathedral and sketch some architectural features. We sat in the quiet of Crypt where Becket’s body was first placed after his martyrdom.
Today we walked the Great Stour Way for 2.51 miles. I was uncomfortable but able to walk without holding onto Mariam. I plan to post this on Saturday June 24th. Then I will go down into the crypt at the Cathedral again to attempt to draw the arches and capitals and columns in the cool dark rooms.
Tuesday will find us packing. My problem is where to find the room for the books I bought during this extended adventure.
I will ask Mariam to sit beside me and I will recite a favorite short poem by A. E. Housman from A Shropshire Lad:
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, What farms are those?
~ ~ ~
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
So, here, very near the end…is this the last adventure I will be having? No more walking the footpaths of Dorset, Yorkshire or Kent? Will Mariam push open another swing bridge on another canal? Will I sit in the chill of another forgotten parish church and look at the slabs on the floor that mark the graves of a long-dead villager? Have I reached the age and have I reached the point when anything is a little too much?
I hope this is not the final post from across the sea. I need to see the breathtaking dunes of the Sahara Desert, look down into the vast fjords of Norway or cross the equator and take a boat up the Amazon.
Sometime soon, maybe not in my remaining years, but almost certainly in my grandson’s life, much of what we are so used to seeing as our physical world will be changed.
I hope it not too late, for me or my descendants.
[A portion of the floor of Canterbury Cathedral. The stone has been polished by the steps of pilgrims and seekers for a thousand years. Photo is mine]
[Sunset on the Kennet & Avon Canal. Photo is mine]
Part 1 ~~ Starting Out And Mooring
After arriving at Devizes we had little trouble finding the Foxhangers Canal Boat Rental building. Our boat wasn’t quite ready so we strolled down to the canal and found a lock. I (having watched three YouTube videos on how to open and close a lock) decided that Mariam needed a little bit of explanation of the mechanics and engineering of an English lock. So I spent the next thirty-five minutes mansplaining how one could go from one level to a higher or lower level by using the ingenious lock system.
We returned to the office where Kristy was ready to check us in and send us with our car down to the wharf where our boat was now waiting. But first we needed the restrooms. Finding them took about fifteen minutes.
A few minutes later we were introducing ourselves to Jon. He was the guy who was responsible for giving us a walk-through, instructing us about what was where and how to use it. At the end, we were at the stern. He explained the basics of tilling and steering. I pretty much got that because I have paddled canoes since since about 1956. Want to turn RIGHT, pull the rudder to the LEFT. No problem.
But what about the locks. I didn’t have a 100% grasp of how they worked. I knew the theory, I just didn’t know the method. We walked toward a lock and he gave us a hands-on lesson on how to open the sluices and fill the lock. How to close the gates, let the water rise or fall, and then do it again at the next gates. Our boat (50′ long Narrow Boat) would fit in just right, he said. Back at the stern he handed me a clip board and asked me to check off all the things he had briefed us about. I did.
“Who’s the skipper?” Jon asked.
“Me, I guess,” I said.
“Sign here.” I did.
That meant I was in charge and Mariam was my crew of one. He asked if we wanted to pilot the boat a short distance to get the feel of the thing. I said sure.
Five minutes later he hopped off and went back to the wharf to attend another customer.
It was about 5:30 pm by now. We had to be moored by dusk (an insurance thing).
We were off. Speed limit was 4 mph. I kept it at a notch below that but there was no speedometer, so it was a pure guess. Our first lock was due up in a very short time. Then luck came our way (and remained with us for much of the trip). The other boat that was departing Foxhangers around the same time as us happened to be four twenty-something lads from India. One of them was quite fit. Great muscle tone and seemingly strong. I filed that away in the recesses of my seventy-six years old mind.
One of the points of canal boat etiquette is that if the opportunity comes along, two boats should share the lock (these are “narrow boats” remember). That way labor is saved and water is not wasted. Lucky for us, these friendly guys offered to go through the first several locks together.
At this point I should cut in on the narrative and say that as soon as we hit the water (so to speak) a division of labor was established between Mariam and me. She was very certain she didn’t want the responsibility of steering, something I felt quite secure about. Mariam would work alongside the young men, learning how to use the windlass to crank open the sluices and opening the gates. The guys and ourselves were all first-timers on the canal so the arrangement would be a win-win for everyone.
All I had to do was to keep my iPhone handy for the right photo-op and keep one hand on the throttle and the other on the tiller. True, Mariam had the more physically demanding part of the job, but behind her delicate 105 pound exterior, she possess a strong core. And she is a quick study. Her learning curve would be steep but quick. Mine, on the other hand, usually is slow on all counts.
[Mariam successfully completes opening and closing a swing bridge. Alone. Photo is mine]
We soon said farewell to the fellows from India. They were shooting for a pub near the canal a little bit beyond the point where we decided to moor. This raises a whole new set of issues. The best mooring is one using bollards (something like a cleat) to secure the boat for the night. The other, much less desirable method of mooring, is to pull up close to the canal path, jump off with the center rope (line) and spike in the three lines. The bow, the stern and the center. It’s the same as pitching a tent…with a few exceptions…the spikes are about 18″ long and need a mallet that weighs about forty pounds. So, I got Mariam close by, she leaped, she landed safely and pegged us in. I later used the gang-plank to further drive the spikes in more securely.
[Canal path and the Fennec Fox stake mooring. Photo is mine]
This type of mooring has its advantages and disadvantages. Join me in sorting this bit out. The best thing is that you are often (but not always) moored away from people. This alone has its subcategories. Alone. It’s quiet, with no barking dogs or over friendly travelers. But, alone means you don’t have anyone to help you out when trouble arises. More on this later.
It’s disadvantages are that it can be difficult to find ideal places to do the leaping. On our second night, we could find no proper mooring places with sturdy bollards. The schrubbery was daunting. I decided to be the leaper on this one so I took the middle line (the middle line is the best one to start the mooring) in my right hand and stared at the distance I would have to cover. If I was successful, I would land on solid ground and Mariam would toss me the spike. If I was unsuccessful, I would land in the green/brown water of the canal. I was wearing my expensive HOKAS so there really wasn’t any room for error. I refused to get my sweet gray sneakers change into the color of some long extinct species of algae. I should note here that it was about 89º F that day and I had unzipped the lower legs of my hiking pants, converting them to shorts.
So, there I was standing with the rope in my hand balanced on the gunwale. I looked at Mariam with the expression of a young soldier going off to war.
“Mariam, there’s two outcomes here. I will land safely or I will do something to my lower back (already well into an epic spasm) that my Orthopedic Surgeon in NYC will not only disapprove of but will likely take me to court for non-compliance of medical orders.” This last thought held me back for a moment longer. Would Foxhangers air drop me a walker? Crutches? A wheelchair? In the end, I knew it didn’t matter. I was in England and I was not covered by the National Health System.
So I made the leap.
I landed hard on hard ground and I had to roll like the people who land after a parachute jump. I stood and brushed off the gravel embedded in my knees and looked around to be sure none of this was being videoed for general release on the Internet. I didn’t want to go viral this way. It was then that I felt the pain.
On my way across the small gap of water I had passed through (remember, I was wearing shorts) a large clump of nettles. Now, I grew up with nettles along the Susquehanna River bank in Owego, NY. But these were no ordinary nettles. This species came from another planet. My shins caught fire and I had no way to extinguish the blaze. It hurt like hell. I finished pounding the remaining spikes and used the gang plank to board the ship. I drank a half liter of water to replace the seven liters I had just sweated away.
Then the stinging slowly eased up on my shins…only to be replaced with numbness. You could have stuck a knitting needle in my shin bone and I would have smiled. It was a nice feeling in a way, but I didn’t think I had any legs below my knees. How was I going to walk to the bed to lay down and cool off? With Mariam’s arm, of course. I lay back on the narrow bed and wondered what had become of the cool, brisk and misty English weather? (I read later that a few heat records were broken that day.)
Enough misery. Let’s explore the boat for a moment.
[This was my tiller. My place of work. My reason for swollen feet and ankles from standing for hours. Photo is mine]
[Another view of my office. Throttle on the left. Gauge panel on the right. Dark opening led to our bedroom. Photo is mine]
Part 2 ~~ The Locks
I’m sure that this is the part of the post that you were waiting for. Unfortunately, I am going to skip over all the details of how the engineering works. I will include a diagram that will be helpful in understanding how you can go up or down hill using locks. Nor will I go into any deep history of how this technology developed. But, here are the basics:
England has hundreds of miles of canals, ranging from Sussex in the south to Scotland. Ireland has canals as well. They were built to haul such commodities as wool, coal, grain, wood and other items from one place to a distant place. The watercraft are called “Longboats” because they were made to navigate along narrow waterways. The Kennet & Avon Canal is one of many located in the area near Bath and Bristol. One could, in theory, go just about anywhere in England using the canals. These days, lorries and trains carry the goods. The canal traffic is almost exclusively for tourists, hobbyists or more curiously, traveling people.
There is a whole subculture of canallers. We met one guy who was in his sixties. He owned his boat and lived on it. He said he’d been on the water for a year and three months. Some canallers moor at a location and live there until someone from the Canal & River Trust moves them along. Your permit to stay moored is good for two weeks. There have been disagreements between the people who want to travel (like us) and those who want to live rent-free. It’s a very interesting group. The vast majority are friendly and are willing to help you with the locks and offer advice about a wide range of topics. We connected with college kids, young couples, retirees and many others. A few were solo travelers. I did not meet a woman solo boater.
Here is a photo taken during the time when we passed through a lock. I had to pay very close attention to the tiller so picture taking had to be quick.
[Passing through a lock with two boats. Notice Mariam to the left with the black tee-shirt. Photo is mine]
Part 3~~ Final Thoughts
I will end this rather long post with a few thoughts, for the curious and for anyone contemplating such an adventure.
I was sorry it was over so soon. Yes, it was unusually warm which made things difficult. And, yes, we both were hit hard by our allergies. I have rarely been so nasally challenged. I sneezed. I teared. I sweated and I coughed. I also gained a new respect for nettles. But, the pace of the trip was gentle on my soul. Everything slows down. The world passes by so gently you can watch a bee pollinate a flower. You look out at the pastures at the lowing herds. Moving past the meadows you expect to catch a glimpse of Pooh Bear, the Mole, a hobbit or the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. After every turn, I wanted to jump to the path and sit on a bridge and sketch the willows, a cottage or the very old bricks I sat upon. I wanted to write poetry like Byron and Shelly. I yearned for my watercolor kit. I had the urge to read something about the churches we saw in the distance and go and remunerate about life and death among the mossy and lichen-covered tombstones. Yes, the headstones that named the interred and held carvings that spoke of faith and being reunited in a better world.
At night, the quiet was absolute. The rush of blood through your ears is all you can hear…if you are really hearing it. Venus, shining bright in the western sky…The Evening Star. I fell asleep to rocking of the boat that was so gentle you would dream of your mother.
I will miss all that and more.
Would I do it again? Yes. But not with just two seventy-something people who already had aches from muscles that had been used for your entire lifetime. I would take along two other people to help with the hard work.
I am constantly refusing to give in to my ageing aches, but I’ve had enough of pain, for awhile…until the next adventure beckons.
[The best mooring we had. Real bollards. A pub. And a little WiFi to catch up on things. Note: We didn’t eat at the pub. We had much better microwave meals. Photo is mine]
[Mariam watches the world go by from the bow. Photo is mine]
[Our final bridge before returning to Foxhangers. Photo is mine]
[It’s all over now. Returning the Kennec Fox to Foxhangers. Note: All their boats are names for different kinds of foxes. The Kennec fox has ridiculously large ears. Google it. Photo is mine]
Additional Diagram Of The Parts Of A Lock. Source: Google search:
[A typical country lane in Dorset, England. Note the lay-by on the right. Photo is mine]
THE ROADWAYS OF ENGLAND
The very first thing you need to know about British driving is that they drive on the left side of the road.! This knowledge can help to keep a casual road trip through Devonshire from becoming a fast trip to the local hospital.
~ ~ ~
The highways and byways of England come in a wide variety of types. Check any Rand McNally or AA Guide and you will find the following listings (in one form or another):
The M roads. These are similar to American Interstates. Ex. “The M3 can take you out of London.” or “I-95 is the best way to Savannah, Georgia.”
The A roads. These are similar to a State route or something like that. Ex. “The A303 will take you to Bourton, Dorset.” or “Route 17c will take you to charming small towns like Owego, NY.”
The B roads. These are a bit narrower than the A roads but still resemble drives like a County road in America. Ex. “The B3092 will take you through Gillingham.” (A note: These, as well as many A roads have the sometimes notorious “Roundabouts” that vex so many Yanks and others from countries that drive in other ways that the Brits do.) or “Be careful on Turner’s road, there are tractors there.”
Lanes. These are very often lined with hedgerows that can scratch any arm that may be hanging out of the window. Or, if you find yourself motoring in Yorkshire, the stonewalls can scratch your rented Volvo if they put just one more layer of paint at the factory in Sweden. This type of roadway is the subject of this blog post.
Mixed Use. These can be used by farm vehicles, cars, bikes and Vespa scooters. Perhaps even a walker or two might be found on these paved ways. Bridle Paths. You can hike on these, but you better watch your step.
Footpaths. Ramblers only.
? There are other byways, but I tend to avoid them. So no comment here.
THE HAND SIGNS COMMONLY USED ON THE LANES
So now we come to the central topic of this post. This begs the question: What is the proper way to pass an oncoming vehicle when you are driving down a charming country lane that is wide enough for 1 1/2 of said vehicle? I will try to make some sense of this delicate subject. Bear with me. This is not easy. But I have loads of experience in this area, so unless you get the chance to sit down with a proper Brit, I’m all you have.
Use your imagination. You’re driving along, say, on Bells Lane. The hedges are inches away from your left door (remember you’re driving on the left). Every so often, an ivy branch brushes against the left door. No problem. So far.
Suddenly you spy an oncoming Fiat. It’s heading straight toward you. There is only room for a car and a half. But you and your Volvo and the Fiat make two. What to do?
Fortunately, the British Highway Department is one step ahead of you. They’ve thought this thing through. They provide a pull-over lay-by every ten meters or so. Who slows first? Who pulls over and let’s the other person pass?
That’s where the legendary British etiquette comes in. Variations exist but a general guideline rules in these situations. The term is called “Whatever”.
Once the pass-by is nearly over, the drivers of the two vehicles usually acknowledge what has just transpired between these two moving objects that have found themselves in the same place at the same time in this very large world. It’s all a bit existential, really.
I have studied this issue in detail. I look. I observe. I make notes. And, here is what I have found:
#1—Do nothing. This usually means that the other driver is a bit annoyed at you (or you at them).
#2–One Finger Wave. This can be dicey. It can mean a slightly polite indication of the aforementioned passing event, or, it can mean something altogether different. The latter is very common in America. It can stem from mild road rage, or it can be an indication of a homicidal intention. Best to move to the next option.
#3–Four Finger Wave. (I rarely, if ever, have encountered a two finger wave or even the more rare three finger wave). This usually means: “All is okay, mate. Cheerio.”
#4–Five Finger Wave. “You’re doing very well, mate. Thanks tons.”
#5–The Full Palm Wave. “I think I love you. Call me.”
There you have it. Now you are ready to take on the Adventure of Driving in England. Your next step is to see a bank officer to take out a mortgage on your Grandma’s farm to pay for your rented Volvo.
[Sally and me at The White Hart Inn, Wimborne, Dorset. Date: June 7, 2023. Photo is mine]
This afternoon, Sally took time out of her life to make the trip to Wimborne and meet with me and Mariam. We talked of that year (Mostly I talked). And I finally had a chance to thank her for the help she and her friend gave me. They told me where my classes were. Where to keep my schedule card (I laminated it), and how to avoid certain administrators.
They sang “Born in the USA” to me one afternoon. They made a homesick 40-something terrified teacher feel quite at home. They took me under their wings and checked in with me when they saw that I was feeling low.
And, they giggled when I showed up on a Monday with a haircut.
Thank you, Sally, for being such a help to a lost and confused Yank trying to make sense of a complicated educational system in a foreign country.
I miss those days. I miss the friends I had made. But the only student who still talks to me is…Sally.
And to think, its only been 38 years…
[Sally (R) and friend on the last day of school. July, 1985. I’m in the middle. Photo is mine]
[Ernest Hemingway’s typewriter. Located at the Hemingway House Museum, Key West, Florida. Photo is mine.]
Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.
~~Ernest Hemingway
I am sitting in the air-conditioned Monroe Country Public Library (Key West Branch). It’s quiet, cool and has a WiFi that takes no prisoners. I chose this place to celebrate the posting of my 600th blog. (Confused? See Title.)
So I posted my first real blog on July 18, 2012. It was an excerpt from my first published novel Standing Stone (2012). I was totally unsure as to whether I had the energy and ability to write real content. In truth, only a year before I had very little idea what a “blog” was. I’m still learning. If my math is correct, that’s close to eleven years ago. I was sixty-four years old. When I’m sixty-four, I probably thought at the time, where will I be in eleven years from now? It wouldn’t be telling lies if I said that in my most dazzling dreams, I’d still be pounding on the keys of my laptop (actually, today I’m using my iPad) and trying hard to amuse and inform and entertain. Time will tell if I’ve succeeded.
What follows is a short list of the various places and topics I’ve written about in the years after 2012. They are scatter-shot…in no particular order. Just a quick look back:
I’ve told you stories of Adirondack Trolls, my frustration with snow, ice and sub-zero weather, thermometers that never run a battery down. You’ve heard of the joys and hardships of living in Big Bad New York City. I’ve reposted a true story of my father’s youth, “Coal for Christmas” every December (does that throw my count of posts off??).
I shared my joys of visiting my daughter, Erin and her husband and my only grandchild, Elias from Orting, WA. You’ve read numerous complaints about my bad back and the health issues I’ve had (including my diagnosis of leukemia).
I wrote of my love for the desert and our wandering in Death Valley and the Mojave. Numerous tales were written from England, Ireland, Portugal and Paris. I told you how I celebrated several birthdays in recent year (i.e., when I turned sixty-eight, Mariam and I walked sixty-eight steps along the nave of Wells Cathedral and paused to kiss).
Sadly, I wrote too many posts of sad farewells of my family…and my very best friend of over sixty years, Greg Stella who passed in July, 2022. Rereading those posts still make me cry.
I’ve concocted outrageously silly stories of the demise of or moral failure of our favorite cartoon characters like Popeye, Dennis the Menace and Mr. Peanut.
I’ve shared ghost stories and posted ghost photographs (leaving you to be the judge of the real and the fanciful).
I wrote numerous recollections of my childhood sweetheart, my family home in Owego and my time-warping walks down Front Street in my aforementioned home town.
I described how, on a beautiful autumn afternoon (or was it in the spring?) of helping a cemetery caretaker dig a grave for a woman I never met.
There are many posts that told you of my love of the poetry of Bob Dylan. I even wrote a pre-death eulogy for him.
I’ve tried to celebrate my love for my wife, my children and my grandson. I told you how sad I got in Bruges, Belgium, Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and along a footpath in England.
I have played with different writing styles like noir and meta fiction. I’ve written short short stories.
And I did it all for you, my readers. I never wrote anything cruel, hateful or boastful. I was honest with you. I respect those of you who took a few moments out of your busy lives to read my efforts. Scrolling this page, I see that there are too many “I’s” and not enough “you”. I apologize.
I will close this rambling post with a photo and a microscopic story:
[The famous Key West Kapok Tree. Photo is mine. Taken by Mariam Voutsis.]
Legends about about the Kapok (native to Indonesia) Tree. One belief: The Devil entrapped a unwary carpenter inside the tree because he had the temerity to carve out rooms in the ginormous trunk. Another: The Tree is said to grow into the heavens (it is known to grow up to ten feet a year).
The Tree has many uses. It is soft so artists use the wood for carvings. It is used for dugout canoes and…caskets.
Good-bye for now. The beach beckons.
Be kind and never let anyone to be lonely or forgotten or be invisible.
[Illustration source: Google search. Artist Erik Johansson.]
Why did Van Gogh become a painter?
–Because he didn’t have ear for music.
~~
Whenever my artistic girlfriend is sad, I let her draw on my body…
–I gave her a shoulder to crayon.
~~
I used to do fine arts, until I decided I didn’t like arts.
–Now I’m doing just fine.
~~
When you’re colorblind in an art gallery, every thing is a pigment of your imagination.
~~~
So, as I was saying, I came close to being arrested by the Art Police (Security) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET) about two weeks ago. What, you may very well ask, were you doing? Trying to find a cavity in Mary Magdalene’s molar in the Medieval Hall? Did you haggle over the $17.00 glass of wine in the Balcony Lounge? Unwrapping a mummy? Or did you try to slip a halter top on Andromeda in the Sculpture Hall?
Actually it was none of the above.
I had spent more time admiring the newly restored and painted statuary in the Greek and Roman Art Gallery. It was awesome to see the statues in living color. I felt like Marcus Aurelius in flannel-lined jeans. We lingered until Mariam pointed out that she thought there was another exhibition I had mentioned. Yes, I said. There is something about Cubism and something or other on the second floor. I checked my Apple Watch. We had forty-five minutes before we were due at the Balcony Lounge for S. Pellegrino, Chardonnay and Hummus with Pita. We had time. The walk would be good for me. I needed the exercise. We headed for the escalator.
On the way, Mariam pulled out the exhibition folder and said: Here, is this it? It’s called Cubism and the Tromp…I stopped on a dime. Wait, I said. Trump? I’m done here. Let’s go home…No, wait, she said. It’s called Cubism and the Trompe-l’oeil Tradition.
I told her the only French I knew was to say “Zwei bier, bitte”. I had so find a bench to sit. I was shaking. I thought it you said…C’mon, she said. It’s not anything political. I felt relieved. A few minutes later we entered Gallery 199. We walked slowly through the rooms, absorbing the ambience of artistic…art when I spotted something on the wall. I walked over. It was framed (!). But something wasn’t right. There was a nail sticking out. I stared. No, there are several nails sticking out. I glanced around for the Security to alert them to the danger of someone snagging a sweater or a Polo Golf Shirt on those dangerous nails.
[Notice the nails. Photo is mine.]
Upon closer inspection I was astonished to see that it was only a painting of a nail. My tension eased. Besides, the Security Guard, whose name tag read: Richard, was chatting up the red-head Security Guard from Gallery 201, (name tag read: Amber. He was making headway.) I stood back. This was something else indeed. I walked back the first room and read the writing on the wall. Whoa. This was Trompe l’Oeil. I scratched through my fanny pack for my French Phrase Book. It meant the eye deceives. Suddenly, a memory flashed before me. I remember a poster I had back in the early ’70’s. It was M. C. Escher, perhaps one of the most famous graphic artists in a long time. It was all coming back to me…
I returned to Gallery 199 and looked for more. I saw a painting from half-way across the room. I swear it looked like something was painted on wood. Wait, I thought. I assumed that artists used stretched canvas to paint on. Moving closer I was amazed to see that it was a painting of wood on canvas. I was feeling dizzy. This was awesome. This was really fun to look at.
[Indeed. Wood painted on canvas. Photo is mine.]
This was heady stuff. And there was more:
[I wanted to open the curtain a little more. Boy, was I fooled. Photo is mine.]
I felt Mariam pull on my sleeve. Look at that one, she said. I looked. Whoa. I’d better get over there and keep all that stuff from falling on the nicely polished hard-wood floor.
[Fooled again…Photo is mine.]
The painting above impressed me the most. Notice the comb interacting with the leather strap. This was not an exhibit I will easily forget. We walked through a few more rooms. I checked my Apple Watch. Time for hummus at the Balcony Lounge. After paying the bill (large enough to choke a horse) we made for the main exit doors and. There’s a yellow, Mariam said, let’s hurry and get it. I slowly descended the grey granite steps and walked to the cab, passing a saxophone playing the blues…in the rain…on glorious 5th Avenue…under a leaden sky…in the Greatest City in the World.
I was secretly hoping that cab was really there…and not just painted on the pavement.
~ ~ ~
I am sad to say that I lost my M. C. Escher book sometime in the last forty years. (I think it was a Tuesday). In the meantime, I’ve been busy trolling the Internet. Talented street artists have done some mind-blowing work with 3-D visual arts. Here are just a few examples: Enjoy…
[A common theme in this genre, fear of heights. Source: Google search. Bored Panda.com]
[Source: Google search.]
[Source: Google search. Artist: Erik Johansson]
[Source: Google search. Paste magazine]
[A living room rug to die from for. An advertisment from Tempu.]
[The shower is especially dangerous. Tempu]
A final word to my friends and readers: I apologize for not providing a full description of the artists at the MET. I don’t think I ever forgot my Moleskin notebook before that day in the Museum. The two ads were photos of iPad images. Tough to do. If you’ve enjoyed this post, ‘like’ it and move on with your life…which is, I’m sure, far more interesting than the musing of someone who can barely paint a brick with a brush from Ace Hardware. I never had an art class until I moved to NYC in the early ’90’s. Well, actually I took a six-week Screenprint and Etching course in Poole, England during my year in the UK. Full disclosure: My etching of Durdle Door in Dorset…I did it the way I saw it. But, it will print in the reverse.
Oops, I’ve done it again.
I will leave you with Escher’s most famous pieces. I believe it’s called Waterfall. Find a book about all this. You’ll love it.
Some of you will be reading this post late on Sunday afternoon…after several Alka-Seltzer tablets. Some will be reading this tonight, before the Ball Drops in Times Square. Some of you will see who the blog is from and move on without a glance. “Oh, him again.” Some will see my name and say: “Patrick Egan, oooh he’s good. Another gem of unparalleled literary brillance.”
I’m thinking back on many December 31 nights. My brothers and I would have Dick Clark’s New Years Rocking Eve. My father, perhaps in his fifties or sixties would go to bed around 9:30 pm. Now, here I am at 75 and waiting for 11:30 or so to watch Anderson Cooper in the fog and rain. Hopefully Lady Ga Ga will perform. Maybe Bob Dylan will pop a few confetti-filled balloons after getting the thousands of people in Times Square all excited and elated by singing Desolation Row.
Yes. It’s finally over. 2022 was a, let’s say, interesting year. My best friend passed away and we moved to Manhattan. That’s a lot to deal with.
[Photo is mine.]
I love metaphors (and similes), even when I sometimes can’t tell the difference. I know the rule: Like vs Is, but I’m easily confused about a lot of things. So, I offer this simple metaphor to you, my wonderful readers:
This is a once-a-year event and a chance to reinvent yourself. But you have a rare gift in your lap right now. You have been given a crisp new map, neatly folded and sharply creased. When you open the map and spread it out on a table you will be alarmed for a second. This map has so many trails, paths and byways you’re confused. That’s the point. You can choose any path now. It’s all going to be new. It’s your choice how 2023 will go. But it takes a first step. There may be sadness in the months to come. Perhaps unlimited joy. You may cry but when the tears ebb, laugh your beautiful heart out.
[Photo is mine. Taken somewhere in England.]
Remember to close the gate behind you and keep your eye on the distant and beautiful hills.
patrickjegan 