Bath

We went to Bath on one of our class field trips (only three more left now). 

If you didn't know, large parts of two of Austen's novels are set in Bath. In Northanger Abbey, one enjoys Bath from the visitor's perspective, spending a great deal of time in the Assembly Rooms and Pump Room. Seeing. Being seen. The protagonist, suitably, is an ingenue on the cusp of maturity.

 In Persuasion, one enjoys Bath from the resident's, learning the socio-economic undercurrent of a city that focuses on fashion and wealth. The protagonist is an older woman, one who has made mistakes and lived with the regret of them.

 Austen herself visited Bath, staying with her Aunt Leigh-Perrot. Aunt Leigh-Perrot was a bit of a character-- she knew and traced the Perrot lineage for anyone that would listen from an ancient Anglo-Saxon tribe who took their name from a river, then migrated to Normandy to give their name to a river there, but returned to Enland with the Conqueror, down through the blood of Henry VIII, and into the relatively poor Austen family. (Fabrications. By the way.)

She, Austen, was forced to move there for several years in her late 20s, as her father's health faded. She didn't write while she lived in Bath, but her experiences and observations shaped her writing. Directly after leaving Bath, over a period of roughly six years, she finished and published the majority of her works.

(On a side note, I like to think of her not-writing in her 20s. It gives me hope for myself; all hope is not lost. Austin is my version of Bath, that's all.)

Austen did not like Bath, in case you wondered-- especially in the sunlight. The brilliance of the sun rebounding from white stone bothered her eyes-- well, she did live before sunglasses. She said that she saw the city better through the rain-- figuratively as well, I'm sure.

Okay, background-- check. You're up to speed on the city of Bath.

Now-- for my experience. The bus driver first took us to Prior Park, where the entire program hiked about for nearly an hour. After what is becoming the usual, which is to say, after climbing rocky precipices like a mountain goat, all attention trained on the ground and the delicacy of my ankles, I stumbled upon a sudden grassy plateau, looked up, and was overawed by-- this.

The city in the background is Bath. I couldn't believe there were even cows-- couldn't ask for a more 18th century setting, really.

We half-skidded down the hill to the little bridge you see in the picture above-- one of the four surviving Palladian bridges in the entire world according to the National Heritage woman (3 in England, 1 in Russia). Amy, Alisa, and Rachel grace the bridge with further beauty.
I look so proud, as though I had something to do with the bridge, or the setting-- well, I did skid successfully down a stony, uneven cliff on flip-flops, so that is something to be proud of, if not something particularly monumental.
After our walk, the bus picked us up and moved us to Bath proper. First things first: a couple of us went to tour the Roman Baths.

And, when they say "Roman Baths," they mean Roman. This building (given there have been restorations and renovations over the millenia) survives from that brief period in time when the Romans bathed in Britain. They were civilized, you know. A quote from a Roman emperor on why he bathes once a day reflects a sentiment held by many an American: "Because I haven't the time to bathe twice."

The clashing contrast of the Roman bath with a medieval abbey (Bath Abbey) rising behind, caught by yours truly: a combination as delicious and impractical as peanut butter and jelly.
One of the Roman bath areas. Kathleen and Prithi, two of the girls I wandered about with, actually drank some of it, and came away with twisted expressions. Evidently it has a metallic tang, though it's also supposed to have healing powers. Of course, leeches and letting blood were also supposed to have healing effects, back in the day.
A sign that I shall graciously allow to explain itself.
The west baths; now a wishing pool. 
After lunch, at my persistent demand, we went to the Jane Austen Centre.  Do we look alike, do you think? No? 

The tour was actually a bit of a disappointment-- we sat in a stifling room and listened to our guide speak. Furthermore, I knew the majority of what the guide shared already, having read a 400 page biography earlier in the summer. 

Given a) I was determined to enjoy this. and b) I'd never heard the information in a British accent before, and that adds something elemental to the story.

There were painted pigs all over the city-- everywhere. It reminded all of us of the painted cows that appear (around Livestock Show & Rodeo time is it? Periodically, anyway) in Houston. Someone said there are "Pigs of Bath," and this painted pig parade plays off the phrase-- When I asked what that meant, no one had an answer. 

If you know, please tell me. In the meantime, there are painted pigs all over the city.
Piccadilly Circus: where the rich live. Significantly, none of Austen's characters live in this part of town, not a one.
The Assembly Rooms and, tellingly, now a Museum of Fashion. Notice how the sky begins to grow a trifle threatening.
One of the Assembly Rooms. Up to a 1000 people in evening dress would gather here to play cards, gossip, dance, etc. I believe this is one of Catherine Morland's first stops when she arrives in Bath in Northanger Abbey, and the passage describes a claustrophobic crowd of people. It's not like the rooms, beautifully appointed as they are, had AC.
When we left to hunt for the parking lot and our Jeffs bus, it was pouring rain. We got soaking wet and dashed back into the Jane Austen Centre-- given that, this time, there was a man in period costume standing in the doorway and advising us to be careful and not to slip.
As we left on the bus, I saw a fire station! This is the Avon Station in the Bath District, according to the sign.

Sorry if this entry is rather garbled. Bath is such a confusion of connotations for me-- stories from Austen's life, scenes from two of her books, and now my own memories-- And not enough time to get around everywhere and see everything! Really, I wouldn't be satisfied in leaving until I had remained in Bath a month. At least.

But we had dinner waiting for us at Brasenose, and even with the bus driver running yellow lights and threatening pedestrians as she careened down the main streets of Oxford, we all had to scamper to the dining hall to make it in time for the starter (tonight, cheese and asparagus wrapped in thin slices of ham. Twas followed by the main course, a delightful chicken and potato dish trumping anything that I could make myself-- and a dessert-- sticky toffee pudding, according to Liz, which I should have refused, not having walked that much-- and yet... and yet ate the whole thing. They feed us well here, that is for sure).

Blenheim Palace

I'm going to begin working with this entry despite the fact there are other, earlier posts that need to be updated and fleshed out. There is a method to my madness; I'm working on a paper about Blenheim Palace that's due in the middle of the week. Technically the entire program is scheduled to go to Blenheim in the latter part of the week, but I NEEDED TO GO almost as badly as you need to breathe. I couldn't let this amazing opportunity-- to go and tour the object of my paper-- pass me by. I think of all the papers I have written to date-- on things so far away or so long gone-- Never have I been able to do this.

Now, as to whether my paper will impress my professor, I couldn't say. I'm cracking my knuckles with this post before jumping in. There supposedly exists a link between Pemberley (Mr. Darcy's estates) and Blenheim-- it has been suggested that I use all the new information I have acquired through research to apply interpretative pressure on the scene where Elizabeth Bennet first tours Pemberley-- but, I must say, that I didn't see the link myself before touring the estates, and after having toured them am even further away from understanding that assertion.

As I tiptoed through grand, elegant room after grand, elegant room, I tried to imagine Elizabeth Bennet of the pseudo-gentry, Elizabeth Bennet of comfortable little Longbourne, being mistress of a similar Palace and could not. Well, I could, I forced the image, and it seemed very awkward.

Point being, my paper is far from having a thesis-- but it will be so much better, I assure you, for my having toured this estate.

Blenheim was hosting some sort of a fair on a section of its grounds-- Never hunted before? Let us teach you how to shoot! Let us teach you archery! Fishing! Horseback riding! cried the pamphlet-- and there were rumors of ridiculous crowding that kept anyone else from wanting to go, but Liz, Kathleen and I decided to chance it. (Given we planned on giving the beginner shooters a wide berth.)

We were richly rewarded for our enterprise. The fair was actually limited to a distant part of the grounds, and the crowds were over yonder enjoying it. All we had to deal with was the incessant crackle of rifle fire. A completely fair trade, as we had the Palace and its gardens almost completely to ourselves (in comparison with the other estates and museums I've toured in the past two weeks).

It was a half mile walk up the long, graveled driveway to reach a gateway into the main courtyard.

This? This is just the gate. Just an accessory. Glorious, right? There was actually a lot of controversy about the architect John Churchill, the first Duke of Marlborough, employed to build his palace. Churchill chose John Vanbrugh, who, in Blenheim, built the premiere example of English Baroque. He wanted something huge, "massy" as contemporary reviewers term it, because this Palace was commissioned by Queen Anne as a reward for his military victories in Germany. The Palace was supposed to be a memorial, a national monument for his heroism. He wanted to go big, bigger than anything anyone had ever seen.

His wife, on the other hand, wanted to employ Sir Christopher Wren, whose style was lighter, more elegant. She wanted a home, a place that could be lived in and loved.
In the end, the Duke won, and with his Duchess' support. Anne was supposed to financially back the construction of Blenheim, as it was her gift, but due to political strife the Marlboroughs fell out of her good favor and she quit paying. Work ground to a halt, craftsmen went without pay and starved, Vanbrugh quit, and the Marlboroughs left England.

When the first Hanoverian king, George I, acceded to the the throne, the Marlboroughs came back and the Duke continued the construction at his own expense. He and his wife disagreed as to what, precisely, was within their price range and there are tales about how hard and pennypinching a taskmistress she was. After the Duke's death, his Duchess would supervise the completion of Blenheim entirely in the style he preferred-- her gift to him. 

The official tour heavily stressed her devotion to him throughout her lifetime. The Duke and Duchess had a son, though he died, and four daughters. The eldest, Henrietta, gained the title upon her father's death. The name Churchill disappeared when she married, however, and was only brought back several generations later when the fifth Duke requested the right to hyphenate his last name.
I couldn't take pictures in the house, the rooms of which were amazing-- on a level with Versailles, but somehow more-- tasteful. Not so determinedly overdone. Because I couldn't take any pictures, I bought a guidebook. I think you should ask to look at it the next time you see me; you won't be disappointed.

In the meantime, I COULD photograph the lovely gardens, which are famous. And they've been famous since 1705, when a man named Henry Wise first coordinated them. His style was formal, artificial, as was in vogue at the time-- the carefully trimmed topiaries, placed just so around the square lake, for example. The formal gardens around the Palace have been maintained.
A bank of fountains facing away from the house.

Magically, considering the fact I wear my huge sunglasses every time I go outside (sunglasses that fit comfortably: one of the best investments I made for this trip), there isn't a totally distinctive raccoon pattern around my eyes. I deem this sorcerous because the necklines and sleeves of the shirts that I wear get tattooed into my skin by the sun. I have several different gradations of sunburn decorating my neck and upper arms.
In contrast with the 1705 formal gardens near the Palace, in the 1760s, the super famous gardening genius, Capability Brown, redesigned the further gardens. He wished to create a nature more natural. He was nicknamed "Earthmover" because he transplanted fully grown trees from who-knows-where into the gardens of those nobility who could afford his services.

There was a little rose garden about a mile from the Palace, surrounded by trellises. We entered through a little gate. The smell was so, so good.
The garden had one statue in the center, and rose beds radiating out in a circle around it.
Brown created this lake. It was so beautiful-- How many times have I said that now?-- I didn't want to move! I just wanted to pace its banks, staring out across its surface. From every angle it looked like a painting, a painting, moreover, that I want in my bedroom. 

I know they look a little like algae, but the plants floating on the lake surface are lily pads with lotus blossoms blooming.

London

This sally to London was not program-affiliated. Kathleen and I were just tourists for a day, traveling on our own. It has been surprisingly painless to plot out itineraries because everything is accessible via the comprehensive rail system. Making it home in time for dinner at 7, however, is not always quite so easy-- but that's what pubs are for.

So the two of us went to London with the idea of strolling leisurely through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Because I'd forgotten my metro pass, however, I made that walking idea a little less optional. We walked from the train station to the gardens, and then spent a lot of time wandering through them.

Later in the afternoon, we hit up two museums. One was the Victoria and Albert museum, which has a wonderful fashion collection. Almost the entire ground floor of the Museum traces the evolution of dress in the West. An exhibit down the hall focused on Asia, and an exhibit beyond that focused on the Middle East. Everything was laid out tastefully; the rooms were spacious; the crowds were at a minimum.
At Kathleen's request, we also stopped by the Museum of Natural History, which was literally across the street. This museum aims at a younger audience, with interactive exhibits and dinosaur skeletons, but was fun all the same. It was way more crowded than the other museum, however, with screaming toddlers pulling at their mother's hands, and stroller-traffic congesting the hallways.
The furthest point our walk reached was the Wellington Arch. We spent a while on a park bench, rallying our aching feet for a return walk as we enjoyed a most British view.

Hampton Court & King Lear

King Lear was our second play, but the first attended at the Globe. The theatre building is famous because it is a recreation of the English theatre in Shakespeare's day (i.e. open air and a courtyard of uncomfortably shifting groundlings). 

The program director at the last minute decided she was going to make it feasible for us to enjoy a pit stop at Hampton Court on the way to the play. 

Hampton Court? What is that? I certainly had no clue at the time, as we walked up the long graveled pathway to the squat, spreading red brick monstrosity. Hampton Court... is not associated with Jane Austen, so I was at a loss.

Of course, over the intervening weeks, I've done my homework and watched the TV show "The Tudors," which gets history all WRONG, but does make it very sparkly and attractive.

The reason our entire program went to Hampton was because the architecture is Tudor. Shakespeare is Tudor. Voila.

As for the construction of the building, Cardinal Wolsey began building it with the intention of copying the Renaissance ideal of a cardinal's palace. Unfortunately, he made it just a tad too sumptuous, and as he began falling out of favor with Henry VIII, Wolsey was forced to sign the deed over to the king. Henry added a Great Hall and a tennis court. A couple centuries later, James I commissioned his bible here.
We didn't have the time to take a tour; the group just wandered off in all directions. Right off the bat, I got lost in the kitchens and dead-ended into the wine cellar. Obviously, Wolsey and Henry took wine seriously. I'm pretty sure that my entire apartment complex would fit in here.
Parts of The Other Boleyn Girl were shot here, so National Trust got to keep the actors' costumes for an exhibit. That wasn't a very good movie-- but then, I could be partial, being a fan of Eric Bana. His portrayal of Henry VIII... was depressing. But this was his outfit, so I took a picture despite that disappointment.
Hampton Court was just so big and confusing. I'd go in one wing, wind up in a courtyard, go in another wing, end up in another-- there are only a couple of stories, but the complex spreads out for miles.
I hate reading maps, so I tagged along with Beth and Jenna. We did manage to find the king and queen's quarters, but ran out of time to do the maze in the garden. Because yes, there is a maze in the Hampton Court gardens, and, yes, it is possible to get lost in it.
A life size cardboard cutout of the famous portrait of Henry VIII? Amazing! He's become a part of pop culture, for all that he had to have been addled in the head to do the things he did. His psychology, with the bonus of Anne Boleyn's tragic life-- most understandably the stuff of legend and Hollywood.
The gardens, in a passing glance, as we walked with decorous haste towards the coach park.
We arrived in London with enough time to eat a meal and show up for the play. I went with several others in search of a pizza place-- which we couldn't find-- so we settled on The Slug and the Lettuce, mainly so that we could have the pleasure of telling people that we ate someplace called The Slug and the Lettuce. It turned out to be a trendy bar for yuppy 30-somethings; as 20 year olds in casual attire, we stood out like a handful of thumbs. Our waitress had a strong accent-- Cockney, is it?-- and there was a DJ at the bar, so there was some difficulty in getting orders placed, and a lot of gesticulating, but things fell out alright.

We finished up just in time to go to The Globe and shop for a bit in their very cool gift shop. Didn't know Shakespeare could be cool, did you? Well, I didn't, I'm afraid, but now I know.
We had good seats (albeit the Globe's seats are backless wooden benches) for King Lear, which is very long. Three or three and a half hours, maybe even four. I couldn't understand the actor playing King Lear, though I got that he was ranting and insane. But, yes, three hours of old man ranting and running in circles is not entertainment at its best. (Critics liked it, though. I read some of the reviews afterwards.)

In the plot, there's a scene where one of his daughters plucks out the eyes of the Duke of Gloucester. A bit of violence, right? That should have taken my mind off my sore bum, at least, right? 

Yeah, the view was blocked. There was a pole, perfectly placed so as to be between me and the eyeball plucking. Everyone in the theatre breathed in and gasped at the same moment-- all I saw was a pole. I'm not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

Of the French Metro

Of the French metro-- firstly, I must give them kudos for organizing an accessible, efficient system. I could not understand a bit of their language beyond ham, crepe, good morning and thank you, and I could still navigate the metro with relative ease.

There my praise must end. The cars were dirty, with graffiti and chewing gum all over.

It was hot. They don't do air conditioning, because you don't need it-- when you're above ground and there's ventilation. On the metro, in your jacket and jeans, you are H.O.T.

It was crowded. The fact that I did not generally achieve a seat, and the fact that I don't have good balance, both lead me to some anecdotes.

Once I completely fell over as the metro came to a stop, and slammed into a middle aged plump woman, and felt awful-- she was French, we couldn't understand each other's language-- but she was very kind and cheerful. I imagine she was saying "Aren't you cute? Oh, no, dearie, it's fine."

Another time I needed a pole-- it was the pole or the ground, and I preferred the pole option-- and I grabbed the closest one. Turns out my desperate arm had flung itself between two lovers. 

I have never felt so awkward in my life. They say the French are lovers not fighters, and my arm can attest to that. When once I had withdrawn it (as soon as I felt the slightest bit of balance might have been achieved maybe), the two were becoming one and that pole was no longer an option. No gaps, even for a desperate arm. They must have been taking a breather when my arm first broke through to the pole. 

When it comes to falling on the ground or clinging to a pole in between two young, self-absorbed foreign lovers, I'll take the ground.

My favorite thing that happened while on the metro was when a skinny, unkempt man hopped onto the metro a few feet from me (only a few of us were standing that particular trip), took up his equally unkempt violin and began to play. He was really good; it made the trip for me.

Tintern Abbey and Chepstow

There were three classes offered on this program, with corresponding field trips. Everyone had the option of going on every field trip (as I did), though the significance of the site was much greater if you were in the class as you had been discussing poetry or prose and history beforehand.

Jane Austen. Shakespeare. The Romantics. Those were the classes.

As we all learned to our chagrin, the Romantics field trips always involved hikes. Not just a long walk-- I mean real, arduous, sweaty, painful hikes up sheer cliffs. 

This was the first such trip, and it was originally supposed to be six miles. I can do six miles, I thought, six miles? Psh. After Paris, this will be a breeze.

Six miles up a cliff, I can now tell you, is not at all the same as six miles of reasonably level, civilized pavement.

Before we began the hike, we first took the time to walk around the ruined site of Tintern Abbey. Before we began to walk, we took posed photos of our fresh, smiling faces. These two are Laura (Shakespeare) and Prithi (Romantics), with the soaring Wales countryside rising behind them.

Tintern Abbey has inspired a couple of poems, I gather. One by Sir Walter Scott, and another by... well, I'm not sure. Poetry is not my forte. All I know is that my neighbor in staircase no. 12 had an assignment to write about Tintern, the poem, and she somehow chose the WRONG ONE. She found out at one of our amazing three course dinners, from someone else in the class, that there was another Tintern Abbey poem that they had been assigned, and THAT was the one they were supposed to have close read, and pondered on, and kept in mind as we toured the site.
After Tintern and a light lunch of oranges and baguettes, we took off for the hills. This is the view that awarded us after dues fully paid in blood, sweat, and tears by all of us except ex-boy and girl scouts. 

Every birds eye view that I have photographed in England comes at a premium cost, a labor of love-- these are all like that special moment in Rocky, with the pumping fists and the twisted expression of manic glee and the twirling around in dizzy circles-- sans the triumphal background music.

After the hike, we got back on the bus and went to tour Chepstow Castle, another medieval ruin. I have to say, it, too, was pretty awesome.  William the Conqueror built this castle in 1067 because the area was strategic, right on the Wales-England border. The castle began losing its importance as a defensive stronghold in the 140os, was remodeled into a great house in the 1600s, and in 1793 was first included in a guidebook of picturesque ruins for tourists. Both Tintern and Chepstow were ruins, true ruins, and preserved in that state of ruin. No chambers of state available anywhere in these places.

British Museum

It had been a long weekend. Although I struggle with train travel in general-- I can't stay awake. Something about all that pastoral scenery sweeping quietly past-- after such a weekend, a little naplet was a must. Kathleen felt the same way.

We had met Liz up when we returned to London, but I was not in the mood for the rigors of another museum. I had seen the Louvre, which is to say I had seen the world-- what is left? The moon, with its empty craters and lack of oxygen? The museum's facade, a lovely Colosseum aspect, breathed its hidden secrets of challenge and antiquity, and my half-closed eyes crossed.
Then we entered this amazing lobby, and my knees buckled.
I did manage to get seen that which necessarily needed to be seen, that which no London tourist could rightfully call themselves London tourist without seeing.  The Rosetta Stone was that thing.
The rest of the exhibits passed in a blur of worn marble. I was not clear headed; weary and travel worn, we left Liz to conquer London and returned to Oxford. One capital city per weekend, thank you. 

Jest aside, this was an amazing way to cap a once in a lifetime weekend. :)