Edinburgh

Update:
We arrived. Not all at once, nor really in any sort of timely fashion, but in small groups from the airport or various previous hostels we slowly trickled into the lobby of the hostel. Some, like Bentley, showed up by themselves after a full day of exploring, and others arrived in cabs from the airport, harried and jet-lagged and laying all our luggage in a giant pile, with Christopher watching over it all, periodically opening the box to his brand new guitar to peer in at it.
Many of us went on a first trek—to the Scott Monument and to read poetry on Calton hill—but many of us made small wandering groups of our own to keep mobile and fight off jetlag, as well as exploring our brand new city. We all finally coalesced for dinner and had our first meeting with all members present, accompanied by fine ramen made by Karla. Most of us were too tired to do much after this, but a fine few trekked up to St. Giles’ to hear a concert of Italian baroque music in benefit of the earthquake victims, and came back home around 10:30, dead and crashing into our bunks.
posted by Christian S.

Scott Monment to Castle, photo by Chris B

Matt, photo by Roxanne:

Ladies at the Scott Monument, photo by Roxanne:

Bess and Whitney on the monument, photo by Roxanne:

Rick, photo by Jon:

Lauren, photo by Roxanne:

Monument gargoyle, photo by Sydney:

Jon photo by Roxanne:

Edinburgh, photo by Whitney:

Bess, photo by Whitney (Photo of the Week in the Portrait category):

Arthur's Seat from Scott Monument, Jon's photo:

Fake Parthenon on Calton Hill, photo by Jon:

Dinner at the Youth Hostel, Photo of the Day by Jon:

Our youth hostel is on Leith Street. Also on the street is the birthplace of Arthur Conan Doyle.Everywhere on Leith Street and Princes Street (and probably elsewhere) is construction, as they are putting in a tram system. As far as I can tell, everyone hates the idea. James McDonald Reid, who told stories and played the bagpipes for us, said that it is the Liberal Democratic Party's fault, as a minority party needed for the majority coalition in the Scottish Parliament, the trams are their pet project, and they hold the rest of the government hostage--trams for their cooperation. Politics everywhere! The Scott Monument:

Walter Scott:

The National Gallery and the Castle:

Tinturn Abbey

Walking along the Wye River Valley:

We spent some time at Tinturn Abbey–again, the only group there. The abbey and nearby cathedral were ruined during the dissolution, when Henry VIII took over the Catholic Church's property and gave the abbeys and convents to his favored nobles. (I decided that I also wanted a ruined abbey in my garden, but in moonlight or a thunderstorm, not on a bird-chirping spring afternoon). The Abbey is maybe most famous for the Wordsworth poem about the Wye valley, and nature, and God--the manifesto of the Romantics. John read the group the poem in the abbey kitchen, which is kind of funny, as the poem is about mountains, wind, and clouds, not Gothic ruins, but oh well. [1997]

Thomas Hardy

I write this with a bright yellow pen because it has been a bright yellow day, and to counteract Hardy’s pessimism and despair. Many years ago when I was determined to read all the classics and so improve myself (probably age 10-14—an ambition somewhat like Hardy’s), I read “Return of the Native” and “Jude the Obscure.” I didn’t particularly understand or enjoy them. John loves “Tess.” I liked “Far From the Madding Crowd,” I think because against all probability, it has a happy ending. John says Hardy was much more pessimistic and despairing after the death of his friend, which occurred as he was writing this book.

I like Hardy, and dislike him, I think for the same reason—his psychological bones are showing through. He reveals his own primary processes more than most, perhaps.

On our walk to Max Gate we passed an old man working in his garden who said Hardy bicycled past that very spot when the gardener was a child. “He was a mean old gentleman,” he said. “But his people stayed with him all his life. That says something, it does.” [2003]

TH seems like a sour old guy, but maybe he was just depressed. And really good writers are allowed deplorable personal lives. I wonder how grumpy I will be as I get older, and how grumpy I would be if I were famous and people tried to follow me around and look in my windows. Thank goodness there’s no danger. Being a largely female group, there is skepticism among us as to TH’s poetical romantic protestations. It sounds like he was more in love with his own inventions than with any real people in his life. Again, maybe that’s what it takes to be a convincing writer with convincing characters. [2005]

Tennyson Down 2003

We went up to Tennyson Down after dinner. It rained steadily the entire time, soaking through my shawl and backpack (here called a rucksack). I took flash photos, which was a little silly, except that it showed the sky ruinous with the fall of night. Raindrops shine in the flash like little comets. John and the students played Frisbee against the wind, the red sun setting in clouds behind them.

I wish I knew more of the poets. I probably wouldn’t recognize a Tennyson poem. He too had the limitations of his time, but his simple, evocative poetry—at least what I’ve heard from the students—is a pleasure. I think of him as the “Dirty Monk” who made Guinevere bow abjectly before a priggish Arthur, but I may be influenced by the illustration. He was a Victorian, good and bad.

Winchester Cathedral

We stopped at Winchester to visit the cathedral. It was the day before Easter, and the parish ladies were busy arranging the flowers. John talked with two deaf and gravel-voiced old English gentlewomen who bring a new arrangement to the tomb of Jane Austen every fortnight. They decried the current batch of Austen movies. "They kissed like this--'mmmmumph!'" said one. "Nobody kissed like that in Jane Austen's time! 'Mmmmmumph! Mmmmmumph!' Ridiculous! Why my mother didn't know until her wedding night that babies didn't spring from the navel!" "It's a wonder you were born at all!" cried the other. (1997)

The Austen monument: On the roof:The Gormley statue in the crypt:

The most dramatic moment in the cathedral tour was the turn into the north transept from the gothic style to the Romanesque. Heavy round pillars and arches mount higher and higher, up as far as the perpendicular walls (but of course they didn’t hold up, but tumbled down and were redone in the Gothic mode). God is there, in those arches. God was intended to be there, if he is not now. (2003)

11th C St. Nicholas baptismal font:

Cathedral nave:

There was a fair and Morris dancing competition after our tour of the cathedral (2007):

Jane Austen (2003)

If I am envious, Jane Austen was not, at least not in her letters or her other writing. She seems to be perfectly happy being single, middle class (or lower gentry, I suppose—I don’t understand the class gradations).

I think it is great that young women enjoy her writing still. Maybe because of the excellent films, but also because she still speaks to young women, in her clever, kind, engaging voice. How could one be anything but sensible about romance (but romantic as well) after reading her stories? We read them and wish that we had friends or sisters like that, and then we realize that we do.

What can I learn as a writer and as a woman from Jane Austen? That people around me are interesting, eccentric, different from each other and from my stereotypes and expectations. That accuracy and light and willingness to see detail create good art. That I should write what I’m interested in and what I know. Also that charity and clarity can go together and both are better for it—are transcended by the combination. That Jane was a genius, is my sister. That I am sister to all women, and to all men. (And eventually, auntie to them, perhaps).

Care with detail, caring about detail, is important for her type of art. She was probably more social than I am, more interested in society—but maybe not. I like to think that I am like her, but that may also be evidence of her genius, that everyone who reads her feels connected. The other thing I can learn is method. She wrote a little at a time when she was able, and didn’t impose her work on her household. She was not an artiste (nothing wrong with them, just not her or my style). She was both direct and disarming.

Oxford (1997)

Yesterday John, Chris and I went to Oxford. We missed the trip last time because Amy was in the hospital. We ate a fine pub lunch at the "Wig and Pen" and then headed around town while John took pictures of places from Hardy's book "Jude the Obscure." Oxford is a collection of separate colleges, each with its walled and gated courtyards, its spires and chapels. Their names are very evocative--St. John's, Christchurch, Balliol, Magdalen--ancient places that were old in the thirteenth century when Chaucer wrote of the "clerks of Oxford" in Canterbury Tales. I started off melancholy, thinking of Virginia Woolf, longing and envious of her brothers' education. My mood was not ameliorated by Christopher, screaming in the tower of St. Mary's (completely disrespectful of melancholy anyway) because he couldn't climb the ladder by himself--20 tourists waited below for him to finish his tantrum and descend. And where in fifteen seconds do you find a place for a four year old to pee--because fifteen seconds is all you've got. At least then we were closer to the river and there was a tree to stand behind.

At any rate, interrupted in this way by Christopher, I remembered the recurring dream I had years ago in which after a long journey I came to just such a place--a monastery, school, home--the Oxford colleges were accurate to my dream right down to the walled gardens and overtones of religion. It was graduation day for at least one college, and the graduates were dashing about with their black robes edged in ermine, their well-dressed parents trailing them with cameras. Then I felt envious and excluded, not just because of the gates across the gardens and the signs at the courtyards saying "no visitors", but because I had to go to Oxford on a bus and buy my own meal in a pub and I wasn't and never will be invited to lunch by an Oxford don--and as fine as BYU is it isn't Oxford.

Haworth Parsonage

Andrew, our guide, explained not only about the personalities and physical surroundings but about the appalling conditions in the village below—contaminated water, constant cholera. He said 45.000 people are estimated to have been buried in the church yard.

Last time we were at Haworth was cold, dark, and foggy—great for ghosts—but this time was breezy, sunny, lovely, not at all ghostly. The ravens were calling (or rooks or crows), through the tall old trees, above the mossy gravestones—but the atmosphere remained determinedly cheerful. Whereas in previous visits I thought of the Brontes as oppressed and poor, they had much better lives up on top at the parsonage, with access to the clean air of the moor, than did those down in the village. No wonder they turned away from the squalor to their own Gondal world and their own society. (2003)

Wycoller Manor (2005)

Sara had a bad knee today, so she rode with me in the luggage van to see Wycoller Manor, a ruined house which was supposedly the inspiration for Ferndean. If it was a ruin in her era, it must also have been the inspiration for the end of Thornfield Hall, Mr. Rochester’s original house, a burned and blackened shell. I thought I could imagine this hall burned and broken, but it was quite a stretch on a bright sunny morning.

Ruskin and The Ages of Man

Has religion always had an ethical side? Does worshipping God always mean caring for or acting justly toward others? I don’t know of a religious system that doesn’t have such an emphasis. I wonder if the embedded injustice (patriarchy) exists mostly because it/they are simply so old. Religion is deeply conservative, in the best and worst senses of the word—after the initial burst of prophetic, creative innovation. We (people, conservators, women, maintaining tradition, keeping families together, caring for children) make it conservative, turn the wild, mind-blowing innovations into traditions as soon as we can. But I think it’s OK—it’s good. I guess often any continuity—even that based on the wild-eyed revelations of a half-mad prophet—is better than chaos, disruption, disorder, war, starvation, dying children. A dying child is the worst evil. We can put up with lesser evils to prevent that—even our own oppression. Safety is a powerful motivator, one that I appreciate more the older and in some ways more fragile I get. Or more recognizing of the tenuousness, perilousness, fragility of human life.

I was thinking all this as I talked with Mike H. about Ruskin. Ruskin was a reformer, not a revolutionary. Revolution has glamour and cachet for the young, who feel invulnerable and see no hope in slow change. The revolutionary Wordsworth’s children die and he becomes conservative.

Somehow as I get older and more conservative in reality (I think a lot of my revolutionary ideas when very young were only abstract) I should still remember that impulse to overturn everything and make it new. Reform is boring—if safer and ultimately more likely to succeed. Ruskin died depressed, but many of his ideas are embodied now in Britain. Maybe all—revolutionaries, reformers, and conservative (and maybe they are natural phases/ progressions of the life span)—should be considered positive contributors to the benefit of humanity. (2005)

Brantwood

Journal, 2007: Everybody says they're in love with Ruskin. He was a sweetie, with the courage of his convictions and a dire mental illness. Why do the very good people so often have such painful private lives? Or they're unhappy in love or their chldren hate them or whatever. I wonder if depression has something to do with both goodness and a painful private life. We are only good if we have a keen sense of guilt? I don't believe that--in general I think happy people are more kind than unhappy people.

Maybe being good leads to an awareness of what needs to be different. If one is self-aware enough to be good and do good, and aware enough of others, perhaps then one is also aware of how limited one's own efforts are. As a person who is not often guilt-ridden and not especially good, but who is related to a lot of guilty, good people--I hope they're not doomed to a bitter old age.

Ruskin Museum and Grave, Conniston

Rush write assignment--"defend something" (2007):

Talking with Mike H., I remembered again (with delight) that in Britain, socialism is not a dirty word--in fact, it's a patriotic attitude. Ruskin's ideals of the duty we have to take care of each other and improve the world we leave behind are too often lost or ignored by American First Worlders in the 21st Century. We have more advantages than nearly anyone else who has ever lived on earth, and with those advantages come responsibilities. We're too eager to embrace the Gospel of Wealth, trickle-down economies, or the generally mistaken idea that a rising tide lifts all boats, and forget that improving the lot of our fellow creatures requires smart thoughtful work and resources--including money. We as professed Christians betray our Christian heritage when we look out only for ourselves.