** Disclaimer: There are unfortunately no pictures with this blog because it’s 3:45AM and I need to sleep before I catch my early bus out of town tomorrow. Give a man a break.

The weather in Oxford the past few days can best be described, with the aid of my good friend alliteration, as a symphony of sensationally sumptuous sunshine. Finally, after a long, unseasonably cool, cloudy spring, we have had a prolonged period of sun and blue skies. Oxford on a sunny day is a sight to behold. And so, for parts of this entry of my bloggery, I have taken to the University Botanic Gardens (one of my very favourite places here) to compose in the shade of an apple tree and allow the glorious explosion of floral beauty to work its magic on me.

This will be my final Oxford blog. Later this morning I leave this most wonderful of cities and depart for my final adventure abroad through Scotland. My trip will take me to Oban, Tobermory, Glencoe, Cannich, Inverness and finally to Edinburgh. I have been looking forward to Scotland all semester, and I figure it is as fitting an end as any to this magical experience. Stay tuned for what will inevitably be another very lengthy bit of prose documenting my Scottish ramblings. But back to Oxford. I have thought for a while about how to write my final Oxonian entry and I finally settled on a format whose inspiration comes from the Sound of Music. Here are a few of my favourite things about Oxford. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens not included.

1) Blackwell’s

As I have said on a number of occasions, I can not come downtown without being subconsciously lured into the sweet-smelling, creaky-floored warehouse of knowledge that is Blackwell’s bookshop. Today was no exception but since I have begun the depressing and arduous task of packing I decided to resist any purchases (a great feat if I do say so) in the interests of my baggage allowance. My initial impression of Blackwell’s (see earlier blog) has not changed at all. I still can’t help but feel content as I wander inside, away from the hustle and bustle and slowly browse through my favourite sections: nature and wildlife, gardening, environmental issues/geography, the “3 for 2” tables, and of course the walls of Ordnance Survey maps. I acknowledge the fact that Blackwell’s is a chain, but there is something different about the original store – it feels like an independent bookstore. The building has character, the staff are knowledgeable and eager to chat, and the chairs are comfy and plentiful. Three things which are unfortunately lacking in Chapters and Indigo. Basically Blackwell’s feels like a bigger, more academic version of Books and Company in Picton. And that is high praise indeed.

2) The Ashmolean

The world’s first university museum lives up to the hype and is truly one of the most magnificent museums I have visited here. Its collections are staggering, featuring an amazing assortment of artefacts and artworks. Mummies, ancient Greek sculptures, Chinese ceramics, Roman coins, a pristine Stradivarius violin, drawings by Michaelangelo and da Vinci, paintings by Turner, Monet, Van Gogh, Pissarro and Picasso, and I could go on. It’s a wonderful resource that can only be found in a city so imbued with academia. Its collections are rivaled only by the British Museum and just like the British Museum, the Ashmolean is free. It is going to be a major adjustment to pay to enter museums when I go home, and not an adjustment I am looking forward to. I understand the negative effects of free museums (ie overcrowding, too many annoying kids who don’t want to be there, the fact that free museums still don’t really appeal to lower class people as was intended, and the fact that free museums require great government spending), BUT some of the indispensable things that governments should be spending money on, are the arts, culture, and education; three things that are central to the mandate of any good museum. Furthermore, museums offer enormous economic benefits to their city through tourism (the Ashmolean draws a million visitors a year), they are a canvas for unique, contemporary architectural expression (good and bad, read: ROM crystal), and the fact that free museums are, speaking from a landscape architect’s perspective, one of the few purely democratic public spaces in a city. Evidently I have enjoyed my “Museums and Society” course, and just as I have learned to really appreciate museums, I have to return to the land of admission fees. What an unfortunate irony. But no matter, I will still go knowing that at least my admission allows for the museums to keep running in the face of government cuts. Back to the Ashmolean though, I have found a few particularly favoured places within the massive expanse of galleries and none gives me more pleasure than the Chambers Hall Room. This room was the subject of one of my essays this semester, and I may have mentioned it before. I really only chose the room for the essay because it gave me an excuse to spend some more time sitting on a bench getting lost in the brushstrokes of Pissarro, Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir. I have found a similar room at the National Gallery in London full of even more exemplary pieces by the aforementioned artists as well as Sisley, Cezanne, and Degas, but it is far too crowded and noisy to really soak up a painting. The Chambers Hall Room gets sort of lost within the architecture of the museum and doesn’t get as much foot traffic as some of the others, and although its scope is not as great as the National Gallery, the room offers a much more personal connection to the art. Just as I am drawn to Blackwell’s every time I come downtown, so I am drawn to the room full of Impressionist art every time I come to the Ashmolean (which is nearly every time I’m downtown also).

I have discovered so much in my short time in this city laden with knowledge, and one of these discoveries – facilitated by the Ashmolean – is that I love Impressionist art. When I go to a gallery I like to look at things that are beautiful, yes, but also things that make me feel good. Some types of modern art are indeed very beautiful and striking, but I have encountered startlingly few that make me feel good when I look at them. I understand that that is the point of some of them. Modern art is often used to make us think, and make us uncomfortable, and send a message, and that’s fine. But I much prefer art that sends a nice message, art that captures the fleeting, luxurious, atmospheric qualities of the outdoor landscape. A rainy street in Paris, an apple orchard at dusk, or a windswept beach on a sunny Autumn day are all subjects that the Impressionists and I both find quite captivating. Those are the things I can look at for hours, and I think that should be the goal of artists. Not to create something offensive, and disturbing, but create something welcoming and uplifting. I feel a sort of spiritual connection to Impressionist art, it calms me. In many ways I feel the same thing when it comes to parks and gardens, they should be welcoming places that uplift and inspire people. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I identify so closely with both the subject and style of the Impressionists. Anyway, the point is that I have the Ashmolean to thank for this epiphany. Epiphanies are hard to avoid here.

3) The Green Places

Seeing as I’ve already unsurprisingly drifted toward parks and gardens, that may as well be the next thing on my list of favourites. Oxford boasts green spaces that would be, and probably are, the envy of much larger cities in England. Problematically, some of the areas of green space are on college properties which require payment to access (a foreign concept to me since Guelph’s fantastic Arboretum is free to the citizens of Guelph even though it is University land), but leaving that aside, most big green spaces are freely accessible. The University Botanic Gardens, thankfully free for me as a Brookes student, is another place that requires admission. The distinction between the two green spaces that require admission is that at the colleges, the cost is meant really as a deterrent for crowds of tourists bothering the students. They pass it off as “maintenance of the buildings” but I’m pretty sure tuition and corporate/government funding covers that pretty adequately. Let’s call a spade a spade Oxford, it’s because of the tourists. And really I can’t blame them. If I were studying in one of the colleges I would tire quickly of people snooping around and looking at their quadrangles full of boring, characterless, lifeless lawns. But we’ve been there and done that and I’m digressing again. The University Parks is a wonderful expanse of green on the edge of the city. There are immaculately groomed lawn tennis courts, cricket and football pitches and circuitous trails for walking and running engulfed by majestic old beeches and oaks. The entire thing is quite English looking. Green lawns, duck ponds, and prim and proper flowerbeds stuffed with fragrant viburnums and magnolias, tulips and daffodils, yews and hollies. 

As nice as the University Parks are, my favourite green place in Oxford is the University Botanic Garden. Especially at this warm, sunny time of year when the lawns are populated with loungers and the paths come alive with strolling horticulture connoisseurs. The place (as any good botanical garden ought to be) is an explosion of diverse and strange plant life. Colours abound regardless of season and it has been especially fun to visit it every week and see what is popping up and what is in bloom. In a way, it has become the substitute for my garden at home. My favourite feature is one that is not typical to the botanic garden archetype. Across one of the lawns at the back is a band of planting that looks markedly different from the surrounding borders. The soil is gravelly, there is a mesh fabric covering the ground, and the plants look robust and happy, but strangely foreign. And that’s because they are. It is a garden that has been designed around the future English climate if climate change continues as anticipated. Gone are the peonies and lupines and instead there are Mediterranean grasses, poppies, flax, and other drought tolerant species from southern Europe. The composition is quite striking and on one particularly warm day, I noticed that the new planting looked content and vigorous while the traditional borders (carefully irrigated with drip hoses) had already begun to wilt in the sun. This is obviously a crude example – one hot day does not global warming make – but the problem is that hot days are becoming the norm even in mild, damp England, and that is something that can’t be ignored, even in something as simple as designing a garden. Although it is depressing to see the huge change that may be coming in the world’s climate, illustrated starkly in the new border, it is encouraging to know that not only can we respond, but that the response can be beautiful too. I like this element of the botanical gardens, it pushes the envelope of the botanic garden archetype while at the same time providing the traditional, colourful joys of English horticulture. Basically I’m a sucker for plants, which is why, over the past few weeks, if the sky is clear, you would have found me among the flower beds and apple trees in Europe’s oldest university botanical garden.

4) The Pubs and Cafés

I wrote in the Yorkshire blog about the smaller the town the better the pub. This is for the most part completely true. The Green Dragon in Hardraw, the Lister Arms in Malham, and the Church House Inn in Torver in the Lake District are without doubt the most atmospheric and memorable dining/drinking establishments I have ever had the good fortune to discover. Cities have proven to offer a few decent pubs but most are of the chain variety and although they would be considered pretty nice places by Canadian pub standards, they are nothing compared to their counterparts in the countryside. However, I have found Oxford to be an exception to the rule. Though no pubs are quite as good as the three I’ve mentioned, Oxford’s pubs are very close and blow the pubs of London, York, etc. out of the water. This is partly aided by their history (it’s hard to dispute the merits of a pub that was favoured by the likes of Tolkein and C.S. Lewis among others), partly because Oxford is a town populated by students (who, even on a Monday night, don’t mind a pint or four), but even if you strip away the Oxford context they would be renowned institutions. The names alone make the pubs worth visiting. Names like “The Eagle and Child”, “The Angel and Greyhound”, “The Turf Tavern”, “The Cape of Good Hope”, and “The Lamb and Flag” are hard to resist. Turf Tavern, one of the most hidden of Oxford’s pubs, is one of my favourites. It is Oxford’s oldest pub, a Medieval building set next to a segment of the old city wall and tucked in among a crowd of other taller buildings, and is only reachable by narrow back alleys. There is a wonderful, hidden-treasure, sort of air about this pub and it is frequented mostly by students and the wise locals who know where to look. You’re more likely to overhear a discussion about Darwin or Jung or Quantum Theory between a few immaculately dressed students than you are to overhear a pair of Americans in “Oxford University” sweaters talking about which sites to see next. I like that a lot. Add the fact that the pub was a favourite of Bill Clinton when he studied in Oxford, and you have one of the best pubs in the city, which – as their slogan boasts – provides an “education in intoxication”. Other worthy places to be educated are the aforementioned pubs with fun names, as well as the intimate and atmospheric Half Moon pub on St Clement’s St. This became a popular place with us internationals, and this past Sunday’s live Irish folk music only reaffirmed this. The pub was filled to bursting (at one point we had to wait for our Guinnesses because they had run out of glasses) and in one corner was a circle of raggedy, folksy looking Brits singing, wouldn’t you know it, folk music. It was a wonderful mix of lively instrumental romps and quiet, crooning ballads. The bartenders made sure we were quiet for the songs, and everyone was respectful, with most chiming in at least for the chorus. We were such an enthusiastic bunch of backup vocalists that at the end of one song, one of the men singing acknowledged us with a smile, saying “well sung by the company!” It was a magical night, and another addition into the long list of perfect moments that seem to come along so freely in Oxford.

I will give a brief nod here to the cafés of Oxford, which hold their own quite well when compared to the pubs. The News Café, Heroes, and The Turl Street Kitchen are all excellent establishments although each are very different. But the real gem of the Oxford café scene is the Vaults and Gardens, a café inside the church of St Mary the Virgin. It is one great open room, with rows of old wooden tables and mismatched chairs arranged in a cafeteria style setup. Only this is no ordinary cafeteria. For one thing, the food is gourmet, locally sourced and very very tasty. The English breakfast at the Vaults and Gardens may be the best I’ve had, and that’s saying something. Another reason this isn’t your average everyday café, is that the room it occupies just so happens to be pushing 700 years old. The room was the Congregation House of the church and, according to the writing on the walls, dates from the 1320s. Welcome to Oxford. I’ve lived here for five months and I still can’t quite come to grips with the history of it all. A 700 year old building in Canada would be a National Historic Site, roped off, encased in glass, and requiring admission to get in. In Oxford it’s a café. Needless to say, once I discovered the Vaults and Gardens, which by some miracle was only about a month ago, I haven’t gone anywhere else when I am in need of tea, maybe some scones, and a newspaper to read.

5) The People

Of course I would be remiss if I did not briefly mention the great group of friends I have encountered. Clive Booth Hall has been populated with a rowdy, incredibly friendly, and genuinely good bunch of people. I now have contacts all over Europe, and have been told (in some cases ordered) that I am to come visit whenever I am in the neighbourhood. My roommates were all amazing, and we have already hatched a plan in which Devin and I (the North Americans) will fly to Madrid and find Victor before continuing as three on to Nice to find Ben and ending up in Milan with Pietro. I’m excited already.

I won’t say much more, because at this point I am starting to realize that it may be quite a long time before I see many of these great people again. Hopefully shorter rather than longer, but it’s a strange thing to say goodbye to someone and realistically not know when in the hell you may be reunited. I’m going to have to confront this again at graduation in Guelph, but until then let me live in blissful ignorance.

Oxford is a place with an uncanny ability to provide completely perfect moments. Some I have described in these blogs (listening to the fan-boys chanting vulgarities at the Oxford elites, or my encounter with the chatty Englishman near the river, for instance) but to be honest, there is usually a moment every time I am downtown where I am overcome with a feeling of complete and utter bliss. To describe them all would be exhausting, nearly impossible and would, I’m sure, inevitably reduce their magic. Just the other day I was wandering the botanical gardens and happened upon some fellow internationals from residence. As we sat and chatted on the lawn, sheltered from the brilliant sun by a small cherry tree, listening to the birds and the merrily ringing bells of Oxford’s various college chapels (which operate completely outside the conventional bell-ringing rules by chiming at odd intervals like, in this case, 5:23), it struck me just how frequent these great little moments are in this wonderful place.

And now, after happily distracting myself by recalling a few of my favourite things about this place, I should return to packing my bags as I prepare to leave it. You see, unlike the Sound of Music, this blog doesn’t have a totally happy ending. Also unlike the Sound of Music, there are no Nazis and I don’t have to flee the country. So there’s some consolation I suppose.

I may never again live as a resident of Oxford, but living here once has been every bit as magical as I had anticipated, and I don’t foresee the magic ever wearing off. And I know for certain, it will not be long before I’m back. I have been to some great places in England. The Lake District, Yorkshire, London, and others are all magnificent in their own respective ways, but the magnet that will pull me inevitably back to this little green island nation is the “City of Dreaming Spires” that I have had the privilege to call home for the past five months.

I’m sorry for the delay (I should just make this the default intro for all these blogs), but the past week has been so beautifully sunny and springy in Oxford I have had very little desire to sit at a laptop and look out the window as spring passes me by. But at long last, here is the Yorkshire blog.

I picked up Aunt Boo and Uncle Jim at the bus station and after exchanging welcome hugs and receiving all the hugs that I had been sent from home, we dropped the bags at the guest house on the edge of town and began the abbreviated, jet-lag version of the Oxford tour. How badly I had wanted to show off this great city to my family and at last I had my chance. We wandered through my favourite streets, stopping in Blackwell’s of course before adjourning for a nap. We had a lovely dinner that night (the beginning of a delicious trend) at the Royal Oak pub. The next day was our Cotswolds day as we drove to Burford before heading on to Stratford-on-Avon (two places I had visited in the spring but was delighted to return to) to see the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet that evening. I must take this time to express my sincere admiration for Uncle Jim. For the next week he had bravely committed to be our driver, in a country whose roads are backwards and in a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side. We made it through the day just fine, with the play the unquestioned highlight. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed watching Shakespeare, I even managed to remember a few intermittent lines in the “to be or not to be” soliloquy. Tuesday was Aunt Boo’s birthday and although the weather was hardly celebratory we managed to have a nice indoors day at two of Oxford’s most prestigious institutions: the Ashmolean Museum and Bodleian Libraries. I had a great time showing my visitors all my favourite haunts, but ultimately Yorkshire was the reason for the trip, so that’s what I’ll devote the most time to. Fair warning, this is another long one. Take me on a week-long trip and you get a week-long blog. You reap what you sow.

We set off for Yorkshire early on the morning of the 15^th. I have been quite immune to the workings of the English road network, and since all of my travel has either been by rail or bus I really had no cause to pay any attention to it. That said, after a week of playing navigator in the passenger seat of our rental car (a spacious, zippy little specimen if I do say so), I am now more than qualified to make some observations. The most obvious difference between Canadian highways and their English counterparts is the prevalence of roundabouts. My God how the Brits love driving their cars around circles. There were quite a variety of shapes and sizes, some only had one exit option (apparently the thought of the road continuing on straight seemed too boring to the road surveyors working that day), some were simply painted circles in the middle of an otherwise normal intersection, some were figure-eight like messes that while hellish for a driver probably look lovely from the air, and still others, with multiple lanes and exits, did their best impression of the French death-trap that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Needless to say we were all a little dizzy by the time we finally got on the M1 out of Oxford, but we had emerged unscathed thanks to the masterful driving of our chauffeur. Another distinction between English and Canadian roads is the size. The 401 is an albatross, apparently the largest highway in North America which seems to be growing by the year, and I think I know why. A highway is like a vein through which the vehicular life of the city courses, except in Toronto the vein has a massive clot. Rather than deal with the problem though, the powers that be have decided to expand the vein in the vain (sorry, couldn’t resist) attempt to delay the inevitable heart attack. In England, thanks to their extensive rail network (however incompetent it can be at times), the vehicular blood flows freely on major highways that are often only four lanes wide. I have heard stories in the British media of traffic jams on the M1 that could make your head spin, but this is also the same media that foresees massive spring flooding after a centimeter of snow falls. They really need to come to Canada, home of real snow and real traffic jams. Anyway, thanks to the clot-free highways we made great time during the morning and were in Leeds by mid-afternoon. And that’s when things got tricky.

I’m sure Leeds has many endearing qualities if you stay and get to know it. I’ve heard its park is very nice and that its downtown is quite presentable by English post-industrial city standards. However, after our extended encounter with its ring roads I have to confess that any desire I had to spend time there has permanently evaporated. To be fair, we didn’t have the best equipment for navigating through Leeds on our way to the Yorkshire Dales, but even after we had acquired a good road map we realized that it wouldn’t have been much help anyway. To put it in the most polite possible way, Leeds’ road system can best be described as a clusterfuck. It didn’t help that roads suddenly become other roads. We were in pursuit of one particularly elusive A road and in the chaotic hunt that ensued, the ring road that exists to take traffic around the downtown ended up dropping us right in the middle of it. This exchange tested the patience of all of us, and by the time we had finally figured Leeds out and were mercifully on our way north through the burbs, we were bitter, still somewhat confused, but victorious. We had unravelled and successfully defeated the great clusterfuck of Leeds.

Leaving the city, the scenery became progressively more Yorkshire-looking. Flattened fields gave way to rolling hills, hedges ended and stone fences began to spring up, houses and parking lots were replaced with fields of sheep, and the effect was truly a sight for sore eyes. We sped through the valleys and over the hills until we eventually found the town of Skipton. By now it was late in the afternoon and lunch was in order and we found a pleasant little café for some sandwiches. As we sat and began to strategize, a cheery local woman in the corner piped up and told us that we simply had to visit Skipton Castle. Later, as we tossed around possible destinations, the city of Richmond came up and again the lady exclaimed that “Richmond has a castle!” Evidently we had found ourselves the crazy castle lady of Yorkshire. We thanked her for her help, which was genuinely friendly, but in the end we didn’t see either one. Instead we decided to head for a different kind of stone ruin, Bolton Abbey, and have a walk since the weather was beginning to clear and we had been stuck in a car for the whole day. Bolton Abbey is quite beautiful. Set on the banks of a river valley it is a fairly small ruin, a remnant of one of the many grand abbeys that Henry VIII had so reasonably decided to trash. The sun came out for the first time all day and we took advantage of the lovely trails surrounding the abbey. One of the great differences I noticed between the Yorkshire parks and the Lake District is the quality of the footpaths. In the Lakes you would be foolish to go anywhere in anything less than a sturdy hiking shoe, but in Yorkshire you could go for a substantial wander through hills and valleys in stiletto heels if you felt so inclined. It must be the commitment of the locals to keep their trails accessible that makes them so fine, and those at Bolton Abbey were no exception. Revitalized by our walk we returned to the car and set off for Malham where we would spend the night. The drive was fantastic – for the passengers at least. The road to Malham was a narrow, winding single-track road adorned with signs warming that it was “unsuitable for buses and lorries” and, as in the Lakes, beautifully edged with rustic limestone walls. As I said, this made for quite spectacular views for the passengers, as the fields and hills glowed brilliantly yellow in the early evening light, but an altogether different experience for the driver charged with returning the rental car free of scratches. Eventually we found the tiny town of Malham that would be our base for walking the next day.

The happy vacationers!

Bolton Abbey

Bluebells in the woods

Bill Bryson (whom I have frequently referenced in these blogs and whose hilariously accurate “Notes From a Small Island” book has been endless source of amusement) once called Malham home. He has described it as heaven on Earth and I find it hard to argue. Malham is one of those classic English villages that I have grown to love. Like the villages in the Cotswolds or the Lake District, it is a charming collection of stone cottages clustered haphazardly around a river and nestled snugly in a valley that effectively eliminates any distraction from that ugly, busy and boring “outside world”. The town has few traditional amenities (grocery store, gas station) which is one of the reasons it is so lovely, and in its very heart has an exceedingly welcoming pub. This is yet another reason why I have become so fond of rural England. There are vast expanses of open country which are explored easily (especially so in Yorkshire) by footpath, but in the event that your feet have grown sore and you are in desperate need of a certain bubbly beverage and perhaps some Yorkshire pudding drowning in gravy, you need look no further than the nearest cluster of houses on the map. Every little hole-in-the-wall village (some can barely be called villages) has a pub and I have found that the smaller the town, the better the pub. Such is the case in Malham at the Lister Arms. Dinner was surprisingly upscale pub food in a distinctly pub atmosphere (stone floors, low ceilings propped up by crooked wooden beams, creaky chairs) which is quite a nice combination to enjoy after a long day of travelling. And not just travelling, mind you, but travelling … through Leeds.

The Lister Arms

One of the other great joys of the English countryside is the plethora of dogs, and for my two travel companions this was a welcome sight as they went through doggy withdrawal. Walks were routinely and happily interrupted throughout our trip to pet the next dog we had encountered along the path and in every instance the owners were as friendly as their pets. We met an especially chatty lady outside the hostel in Malham. She was out for an evening walk with a sheepdog which had become a house dog since it suffered from epilepsy. This was a rare case where the dog was more shy than the owner because as the dog hid behind her owner’s leg, unsure what to make of the foreigners with the funny accents, we proceeded to get the life’s story of this delightful woman. She was a resident of Malham and had a sheep farm with her husband just outside of town. She told us of the harsh winter and the sheep she had unfortunately lost and then told a rousing tale of saving a newborn from sure death by climbing over snowdrifts that were too high for the little 4-wheeler she owned. She was an animated and amicable lady, and I think it was safe to say that even if her stories had proven uninteresting we all would have stayed and listened to her talk anyway simply because of her fantastically thick Yorkshire accent. The most important tidbit we took from the supremely enjoyable encounter was her recommendation for walking. She told us we could easily see Janet’s Foss and Malham Cove in a day and, back in the hostel, after consulting the trusty maps, we found it was quite true and decided that was to be our plan of attack.

We were not led astray. I think our delightful ramble through the hills and valleys around Malham was the best of the trip. We awoke early (every day was a full day, which is something I quite enjoyed) and began trundling out of town following the meandering river. We soon found ourselves walking through rolling farm fields full of bleating dim-looking sheep hemmed in by picturesque stone walls. Here we were treated to the spectacle of watching a farmer and sheepdog at work, and spectacle really is the best word for it. I had seen a similar display during my adventure in the Lake District, but watching a sheepdog stalk a herd of dim-witted bleating balls of fluff is always a source of great amusement so we stopped. The farmer looked to be in his late seventies but he was herding the sheep and yelling instructions to the dog like a man half his age, it was an impressive sight. Finally the sheep were in the right place, and the farmer approached us. I love these sorts of chance encounters with English people. So far every one I have had has been immensely pleasing and the farmer we met was no different. He told us of the toils of being a farmer in the Dales (not an easy life by any means) and said how he had been training the sheepdog he was using, since she was new. Bess was her name. As we spoke with the farmer, he, without raising his voice, mumbled “That’ll do Bess”, and the dog came bolting back to his side like a shot. The intelligence of sheepdogs has always amazed me and it is even more impressive to watch them at work, doing what they are born and bred to do. I think I’ll have to have one.

We kept walking through a lovely wooded valley carpeted with a lush crop of wild onions. The smell was glorious and combined with the babbling water of the nearby creek and the singing birds to create quite a tranquil mood in the wooded valley. The tranquility was soon replaced with the falling water at Janet’s Foss. Waterfalls really are hypnotic things. I easily get lost in another world as I stand and watch the crashing torrent, immersed in the roar and clouds of spray, and that’s just what we did here for a few minutes as a light rain began to fall. We moved on to another site of spectacular beauty at Gordale Scar. Set amid the gentle hills of the Dales, the same hills covered in green grass and sheep, is one of the most spectacular geological constructions I have seen in my English travels. Gordale Scar is a cavernous gorge that cuts a jagged line through the otherwise diminutive hills. There is another waterfall here as Gordale Beck plunges through the rock, slowly carving the gorge away even more. Apparently there is a footpath that climbs the waterfall and carries on through the scar. Indeed there was a school group ahead of us with some incredibly ambitious teachers coaxing some uneasy, very poorly dressed children up the rocky falls and onward. All made it without incident, a true testament to the teachers. We again stood and soaked up this wonderful place, figuratively and in my case, literally as I wandered up to the falls and breathed in the lovely mist. We then followed the stone walls through more fields on our way to Malham Cove. Malham Cove is another amazing geological feature. The “cove” is a sheer cliff capped by stone formations known as pavements, due to their even surface. Clambering over these and peering, with no shortage of anxiety, over the edge of the cliff was exhilirating. I’m not quite sure why, but there is no barrier at the edge of the cliff, and it is a steep drop. A passing walker, in typical English style, shouted to his wife that there was “just a bit of a drop”, and really it is amazing that it is unblocked considering it is in a National Park. I had expected fences set well back from the cliff face and all sorts of signs warning of imminent danger and how falling off a cliff can be rather harmful to your health. I think the lack of fences is a good thing, you can see the place as it was meant to be seen. We laboured down the stepped path from the cove and wandered our way back into sunny Malham where again we found ourselves at the Lister Arms, this time accompanied by other walkers (and even their dogs), and again tired, only this time it was a welcome tiredness.

The valley

Janet's Foss

Approaching Gordale Scar

Gordale Scar

The pavements

Malham Cove

A stream emerging from nothingness

The next day we were bound for Hawes. Again the drive was spectacular, and again I’m sure the passengers got the better part of the deal as we negotiated a narrow, zig-zagging road following stone walls. We crossed over exposed hills covered in sheep and stone walls and little else before plunging down into a neighbouring valley. Once on the main road we could both tell that our chauffeur was beginning to enjoy himself. With wider lanes, lots of elevation changes, and a few good hairpin turns, the road went from death-trap to driver’s playground. We crossed more starkly desolate hills, spotting the beautiful Ribblehead viaduct in the distance, the only sign of man for miles. After a while the town of Hawes came into view. Though we didn’t spend much time in Hawes it appeared to be another very pretty town, but not as small or charming as Malham. We continued a little way outside Hawes to the Green Dragon Inn where we would spend the night. We stayed in an apartment in a row of accommodation blocks at the rear of the pub. The rooms were lovely and a noticeable improvement over the hostels to which I have become accustomed. Any place where the bed is already made for me, and I have a whole room to myself is a place of great luxury indeed. The pub was the piece de resistance though. We dined that night in the dim light of the pub, again under low ceilings, next to a small wonderfully cluttered bar decorated with all sorts of enticing local beer taps. The old worn stone floors were covered in patches by equally old rag rugs whose vibrant colours had long since faded, and in the dividing wall was a cozy little open log fire, flanked on both sides by creaky old wooden rocking chairs. More people began to amble in around 8:30 as we were eating. I could overhear the barmaid musing that “It’s half 8 and Paul’s not here yet” and then catching up on all the gossip with the regulars, and all in that lovely Yorkshire accent. Oh, and the food, mustn’t forget the food. I decided that, given where we were, I would like some sausage and mash in a giant Yorkshire pudding. No joke, the menu read “giant” Yorkshire pudding. And it was, and it was delicious. Yorkshire pudding filled with sausages on a pillow of mashed potatoes and cooked veggies, and then liberally bathed in gravy. It’s the kind of food that goes straight to your arteries, but I’m young and I have a fast metabolism so this bothered me little (although when I think of it, if I was a red-faced fat old fart I would probably make the same decision – you only live once). Anyhow, all things considered (food, atmosphere, company) The Green Dragon was, and I’m not exaggerating here, the perfect pub.

The Green Dragon

The next morning we again visited Hardraw Force waterfall which was located near the pub. We had seen it the evening before and decided that it was worth a second look before we departed. It was a captivating sight, apparently the “largest single-drop waterfall in England”. There is something about the English where there has to be something remarkable about nearly everything (“The Third-Best Laptop Repair Shop on the East Side of London” for example). This is another Bryson-ism that has proven true. So we gazed at the largest single-drop waterfall in England for a while before leaving. As we did we noticed the sign on the Green Dragon. It had gone unnoticed before. It read (and I know because I kept the card): “D. Mark Thompson, Innkeeper and Waterfall Provider, invites you to the legendary Green Dragon Inn”. Innkeeper and waterfall provider. For people so preoccupied with being the best at something, I’m surprised they haven’t added, “England’s most curious business model” to their sign.

Hardraw Force, the waterfall we were so graciously provided

Some friends

We left Hardraw that morning, bound eventually for Scarborough on the east coast. The drive was lovely, and at a farm was interrupted for some in-car entertainment as a different farmer herded his sheep across the road, aided by three of his dogs. A few stragglers made a break for it, circling a minivan, before being rounded up and pointed in the right direction by the toe of the farmer’s boot. Our stopping point to break up the drive to the coast was Fountains Abbey. Another National Trust property, Fountains Abbey is set in the countryside just outside the Dales. Although the landscape may not be as dramatic, the building more than makes up for it. Fountains is a massive ruin, a remnant of a Cistercian monastery of incomprehensible age, that again had fallen victim to Henry (he was nothing if not efficient in his destruction). The guy who did Henry’s demo though thankfully wasn’t the most thorough, and much of the abbey remains in pristine condition. We took a guided tour with an extremely knowledgeable and entertaining guide, learning the great stories of the abbey as well as the odd little anecdotes that only a guide can tell. We spent most of the day here before continuing on to Scarborough. The drive to Scarborough seemed to go through just about every little town in England, and through every little roundabout for good measure, but we managed to reach our destination in time for supper. A marked shift from pub food, we had an Indian feast that night, and a delicious one at that.

Fountains Abbey

Fountains Abbey with some ferns

The next morning we ambled around Scarborough’s castle, another of England’s many ruins steeped in so much history it becomes almost impossible to take in, before returning to our room for a picnic lunch featuring some of the delicious Wensleydale cheese (of Wallace and Gromit fame) that we had bought in Hawes the previous morning. That afternoon Aunt Boo and I took a stroll along the coast path, following the cliffs along the sea. We had a wonderful long chat, the kind of chat that has been few and far between for me with no family members around. I love hearing fun old family stories, and even just speaking about everyone back home made them seem a bit closer, which was special.

The view from our guest house

Scarborough Castle

The coast walk

That night by the Scarborough coast we had some fish and chips for (miraculously) the first time on the trip, although Uncle Jim cheated and had a more gourmet version in Malham. The food was great and the portions were excessive so all-in-all, a wonderful dinner. To work off the beer batter we walked along the beach as night fell. The city was alight in all sorts of blinking colours and flashing lights. Much like other English towns, Scarborough is stuck in a time warp, the only difference is that Scarborough is stuck in the 50s while the other towns are stuck in some time period hundreds of years ago. I found it quite fascinating to see people my age taking girls on dates down to the amusement halls to play arcade games and eat cotton candy (not a bad sounding night if you ask me). It was tacky beyond words, but there was an air of genuineness about it. Scarborough knows what it is, and it embraces that identity. It makes no effort to reinvent itself (at least not by the looks of it) and I rather like that. The amusement halls, casinos, bowling alleys, and theatres that line the ocean all shone with the glow of a bygone era, there was even a fortune teller machine straight out of “Big” but a young Tom Hanks was nowhere to be seen.

Scarborough harbour

The next morning, in a shroud of fog we left the nostalgia of Scarborough behind, bound for Whitby then Goathland (aka Aidensfield for those Heartbeat watchers out there). Whitby is a typical seaside town. And in England, being considered a “typical” seaside town is no insult. Undoubtedly its heyday as a fishing port has long since passed, but the town that remains is a pretty one that still centres on the harbour filled with colourful fishing boats and traps. We climbed the “199 Steps” (nobody managed to successfully count them all) to the top of the ridge on one side of town and ambled around the ancient church perched high above the foggy harbour. But alas, Whitby was not our destination for the day, that lay a little further inland in the heart of the North York Moors National Park.

Whitby harbour

Nice pedestrian streets

Technically Aidensfield is called Goathland in real life, but since the three of us much preferred the Heartbeat alternative, that is what we called it for the rest of the day. Aidensfield is understandably popular with the TV show crowd (of which we were part), but if you took that away, there really isn’t much to keep you in the village. There is a string of shops along the sheep-patrolled village green, but each is filled with so much gifty kitsch and utter crap that it doesn’t take long before you have exhausted the possibilities of the town. This is not to say I was disappointed, far from it. We all expected the tour buses and gift shops filled with junk, that was unavoidable, but the real joys were seeing the Aidensfield Arms, Scripps Garage and Funeral Home, and the train station just as they appeared in the show. It was great fun. Thankfully though, once we had had our fill of the town, we were treated to another lovely walk in the nearby hills and valleys. We found another majestic waterfall tucked away in a rocky ravine – Yorkshire seems to have a surplus of pretty waterfalls – and followed the river valley before heading back to town by way of an abandoned railway path. Again the day was made all the more special thanks to the cooperative weather. We really got pretty lucky considering you can apparently count on one hand the sunny days in a Yorkshire year. As we drove toward Pickering, where we would spend the night, we found the windswept moors so appealing that we pulled off at a roadside parking lot for another impromptu wander. We couldn’t pass up the combination of stunning scenery and glorious sunshine.

Aidensfield train station

Aidensfield Arms

The village green

Mallyan Spout

Words to live by

The moors

That night we stayed at without doubt the nicest place of the trip, the Blacksmith’s Country Inn. Again it was accommodation attached to a pub (or vice versa, not sure which). The rooms were wonderfully bright, clean and cozy and the cherry on top was an added balcony for our trouble. In the moors, above a pub, in a cozy bed. Not bad. The food was excellent too and as we finished our breakfasts we planned our drive to York. Yet again I had found myself feasting on the full English breakfast every day, which, along with the Yorkshire pudding and gravy, is another reason my heart will be relieved to see the end of England. Again we opted to break up the drive by stopping en route. This time our stop was the grand Castle Howard, which I like to think of as the Yorkshire version of Blenheim Palace. I prefer Castle Howard to Blenheim I think. The great mansion was designed by John Vanbrugh as his first foray into architecture – not a bad effort for a beginner – and is beautifully set amid woodlands and lakes. Unlike Blenheim, Castle Howard is sited based on the conditions set by the landscape, not the other way round, and I found that quite refreshing. There are of course the traditional elements from the time period (clipped hedges, formal boulevards, lots of lawns, sculptural and ornamental overload throughout the grounds) which are not my favourite, but there were also redeeming features like the ancient woodland, the pretty mausoleum designed by Hawksmoor, and a magnificent walled garden. The interior matches the exterior’s affinity for monumental grandeur. The central hall is particularly awe-inspiring. An interesting thing to consider as we walked through the palatial house was that it is very much still a functioning family home for the Hon. Simon Howard and his family. Picturing a pair of kids running through the halls and inevitably crashing into priceless heirlooms was a fun thought and took away the stuffy, museum air that some of these grand homes have. It’s nice to think that the china in the display cases is still used, and that it wears its stains and scratches proudly. There were of course rooms with large sections roped off and you couldn’t exactly walk through the place picking up things or flipping through the books, but the human element of the place was noticeable and refreshing. It’s a difficult feat to make a palace feel like a real human home, but Castle Howard manages to do that, and I liked it all the more for it.

My palace at the Blacksmith's Inn

Castle Howard

The mausoleum

The great hall

The walled garden

That afternoon we drove into York, our final destination. After getting settled at our guest house, which was nice, but a definite step down from our lavish comforts at the Blacksmith’s Inn, we set out for dinner. The pub we found was, again, nice enough but not especially memorable. As I said, city pubs just aren’t quite the same as country pubs. The next morning we awoke with only a partial day before us since the car had to be back in Oxford by late afternoon so we decided that the one, important thing to do in York is see the world famous York Minster Cathedral. Unlike the pub, the cathedral did not disappoint. It is a towering testament to the faith of the people of York and the immensity of the structure, yet the fine detail of the stained glass, sculptures, and plaster work is truly a sight to behold. Like at Fountains Abbey we had an incredibly engaging, witty, and knowledgeable guide. It is one thing to see the cathedral, but it is quite another to be escorted and educated so expertly by a volunteer. They are marvels, and I’m sure the donations to the minster (which surprisingly receives no government funding) owe a great deal to the skill of their volunteers. Although it was a pity that the great east window was undergoing a lengthy restoration, a happy side effect was that some of the original Medieval stained glass that had been removed and restored was displayed in a small exhibition space at the base of the wall. It was a very special, once in a lifetime chance to see these exquisite works of art up close and we were all awestruck by their beauty. I really love stained glass, and church buildings in general. I am not a deeply religious person, but I enjoy going to churches and looking at the spectacularly beautiful things that deeply religious people have created as a result of their faith. I don’t share their zeal for Christianity, but I have the greatest admiration for the things they create. You can’t help but feel inspired by the idea of people constructing such a massive monument to God without the aid of any machinery, buoyed on, year after toilsome year, by their undying faith.

Outside

Inside

And last but not least, some Medieval stained glass showing Jesus wearing a snappy purple robe

We spent the entire morning gawking at the cathedral before reluctantly withdrawing and beginning the long drive back to Oxford. We were home around supper time with the trusty Kia back in the lot unscathed and with a full tank for the next happy users. That night, since we were back in the international city of Oxford, we opted for some Lebanese food. The chef prepared a selection of things for us since we had no earthly idea where to start on the menu, and it was a delicious feast to cap a delightful trip.

The next morning we said our goodbyes. I had never been able to spend so much one-on-one time with my aunt and uncle. It was a wonderful experience to wake up every day and share their vacation with them. I am incredibly grateful for each little moment, and I hope it was as special for them. Thank you Aunt Boo and Uncle Jim for helping me write another great chapter in the ever-growing volume that is my English adventure. It was a real treat.

So I have been regrettably slow at keeping up the accounts of my travels, so I will attempt to catch up this week now that most of the bothersome school work is over (which is quite startling). First, I will recount my wonderful trip to the Netherlands from the 20^th to 23^rd of April.

After months of talk, the group of Guelph BLAs on exchange finally managed to coordinate a reunion in Holland. Six of us exchangers met in Amsterdam on April 20^th for four days of Dutch fun. The timing of flights was rather unfortunate since I wanted to arrive in Amsterdam early in the morning to get the most out of the day on Saturday and as a result, I found myself in transit through the night. I caught the bus at 1AM from Oxford and was at Luton Airport by 2:50. Luton is a tiny little speck of an airport, maybe a little bigger than the Toronto Island airport, but nonetheless it was well furnished with stores and restaurants for the weary night travellers to sleep in. It really is an interesting spectacle to walk into an airport in the middle of the night and see a bunch of well-dressed hobos with luggage curled up in closed restaurants, sprawled over the floor, or even cramped in the luggage ramps of the check-in desks. I am in awe of these people, not just for their ability to colonize and nest in the most undignified and uncomfortable of places, but also because they could actually sleep. I found an armchair at Starbucks which was comfortable enough but sleep eluded me, partly I think because of the automated voice on the PA system shrilly chirping directions about how to proceed through security. I am now well-versed in airport security protocol, but this newfound knowledge came at the expense of my sleep cycle.

No matter though, I was in Amsterdam early, and although I hadn’t slept a wink, I was surprisingly energetic and excited to see everyone after half a year apart. By lunch that day we had all safely landed and found ourselves together wandering the famous canals under clear blue skies. Amsterdam is spectacularly beautiful, at each corner was another glinting canal edged with charismatic – if a little crooked – houses with finely crafted gables adorning the roof line. Perhaps my favourite quality of Amsterdam was the vitality of the street life. Maybe it was just the typical Saturday crowds that descend on cities, but the streets were full of people either walking or on bikes (the stereotype that bicycles outnumber cars in the Netherlands is no joke). There were street marketers boisterously peddling their wares, which included cheap tulips by the bushel, flea market-style merchandise, and of course a wide selection of wooden clogs. There were patios full of people basking in the sun, eating and watching the theatrical spectacle of the street life play out in front of them, street musicians (some invariably stricken with droopy eyelids thanks to the city’s thriving marijuana industry), and of course hordes of tourists. We wandered this wonderful chaos for a while before deciding, as we LA students are wont to do, to find a park and have a picnic. After acquiring some cheap wine, Heineken, bread, cheese, and fruit we wandered into Vondelpark, which was just as joyously alive as the streets around it, and sat under one of the many trees tinged with the pure green glow of new leaves to have our lunch. I can’t say how long we stayed there, catching up as each person shared stories from their country, discussing the various cultural idiosyncrasies they had encountered, and thinking about the final year of school that lies ominously before us. Needless to say, when we finally got up to leave we were much louder, and much less stable on our feet. We fit right in. That night we had a delicious Indian feast before heading out for some evening wanderings through the sights, sounds, and strangely potent smells of the city.

Amsterdam

Some of the droopy-eyed musicians

The flower/clog market

Who needs subtlety?

Vondelpark

Our lovely hosts, Kate and Zen provided out accommodation that night, and our breakfast the next morning before we left for the day to walk along the Rhine. The city life in Wageningen on Sunday was a marked contrast to the bustle and life of Amsterdam. Most places were closed, and the city had a rather sleepy feel when compared to its more raucous counterpart. It was a nice change of pace and we spent a lazy afternoon on the banks of the Rhine where again we indulged in a delicious smorgasbord picnic. The weather was also pristine, as it would prove to be for the entire trip. That night we were treated to authentic home-made pizzas at the residence and we ate until the sauce and toppings were exhausted, chatting again late into the night.

The third day we operated with more conviction, getting up much earlier, determined to catch the morning train to Haarlem, near the coast. After crossing the country in about an hour, we reached our destination and checked into the hostel where we would spend the night. Perhaps the wisest move of the whole trip was the choice to rent bikes from the hostel. We set out in our fleet of matching, bright orange cruising bikes and made our way into the town centre to walk and find somewhere for lunch. Biking in the Netherlands is amazingly easy. Drivers are genuinely courteous to cyclists and quite ably share the road, often yielding to the bikes. Even though it was an adjustment for me, coming from Britain where the roads are backwards and nothing makes sense, I never felt unsafe on the bike because the bike lanes are so well-defined and because cars are so infrequent. When it comes to bicycle culture, Haarlem (and the Netherlands in general) is a model of cooperation and coexistence, and it makes Toronto’s befuddling and contentious political battles over bike lanes look positively juvenile.

Haarlem

Our sandwich place

We ate a fantastic lunch in Haarlem at a little sandwich shop tucked away in one of the side alleys. These are always the places where you find the jewels of cities. The chains and the big stores can afford the prime real estate on the main streets, but from a character perspective are about as interesting or stimulating as, well, a chain store. This place also featured two wonderfully friendly waitresses (apparently a rarity in the Netherlands) who gave us all sorts of ideas for the day. We settled on finding the ocean, since it was another sunny day and we were equipped to travel a farther distance now that we had our neon orange, two-wheeled transport machines. Our journey was slightly longer than planned thanks to a small (large) detour, but it was a pleasant addition to the ride and we carried on through the Zuid-Kennemerland National Park, bound for the ocean. The National Park was an interesting place as we left behind the green suburbs of Haarlem and were thrust into rolling sand dunes, scrubby shrubs and windswept pine trees. I have never been to Africa, but the landscape reminded me of some sort of savannah and I would not have been surprised at all to see an elephant come lumbering over the dunes. But, there were no elephants, and eventually the ocean overtook the dunes on the horizon. The beach was fairly quiet as it was a Monday afternoon, and that worked in our favour as there was no line for the trampolines. Yes, trampolines on the beach. Even after our extended bike ride into the wind, our vigour was renewed once we caught a glimpse of those enticing beacons of fun in the sand. We paid the attendant 2.50, and it may have been the best 2.50 I have spent on this trip. We bounced for a while, and left to look for a restaurant jelly-legged and happy. Fortunately a seaside restaurant was open and we had a nice, cheap dinner before sitting out on the beach as the afternoon waned.

Biking through Africa

The sea

Our fleet

After the night in the hostel, where again our chatting and carousing in the hostel bar kept us up far past our bedtimes, we spent a lazy morning/afternoon the next day back in Amsterdam, visiting the Van Gogh museum and taking a boat tour through the canals as we awaited our respective flights back “home” (still a wonderful thought). It was an altogether perfect adventure, with great friends who travelled at the same pace, with the same goals and wanted to see the same things. It’s hard to leave people like that.

The crew