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 15th. 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.
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| The happy vacationers! |
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| Bolton Abbey |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| The valley |
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| Janet's Foss |
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| Approaching Gordale Scar |
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| Gordale Scar |
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| The pavements |
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| Malham Cove |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Hardraw Force, the waterfall we were so graciously provided |
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| 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.
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| Fountains Abbey |
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| 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.
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| The view from our guest house |
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| Scarborough Castle |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Whitby harbour |
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| 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.
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| Aidensfield train station |
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| Aidensfield Arms |
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| The village green |
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| Mallyan Spout |
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| Words to live by |
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| 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.
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| My palace at the Blacksmith's Inn |
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| Castle Howard |
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| The mausoleum |
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| The great hall |
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| 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.
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| Outside |
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| Inside |
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| 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.
