My three long weeks in London and England’s North was about to close. I had covered a lot, experienced much and my education was well rewarded.

My choice for the grand finale was easy. It was a place, like many dreamers before me had dreamed and visited; and now, a few miles from Carlisle, Cumbria, my dream was fulfilled.

The Lake District is England’s largest National Park and UNESCO World Heritage Site. Covering 912 square miles, it is home to more than 200 spectacular mountains and fells (hills), along with lakes, rivers and small tarns, surrounded by thriving towns and historic monuments. It is landscape that has inspired numerous great works of art.

Below you’ll see a collection of photographs and a video by T-Boy photographer, Deb Roskamp, set to the poetry and prose of what has become loosely known as the Romantic Lake District Movement.

Poetry is composed of the best words in the best order. When we write, we string words together like beads, ever mindful of color and shape, the powerful nuances of meaning each word conveys. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1827.

We have hills which, seen from a distance almost take the character of mountains, some cultivated nearly to their summits, others in their wild state covered with furze and broom. These delight me the most as they remind me of our native wilds. – Dorothy Wordsworth, the sister of William Wordsworth.

Tintern Abbey

By William Wordsworth

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. – Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs

William Wordsworth (1770 -1850) was an English Romantic poet who, along with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, launched the Romantic Age in English literature with their joint publication Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems. His life were dominated by his experiences of the countryside around the Lake District. Throughout this period many of Wordsworth’s poems revolved around themes of endurance, separation and grief – but written in a vernacular that the common man used each day. Wordsworth was Britain’s Poet Laurate from 1843 until his death.

Daffodils

By William Wordsworth

I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze

(Also called I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud)

Ernst Behler, author of The Origins of the Romantic Literary Theory, wrote that Wordsworth’s poetic philosophy invoked the basic feeling that a human heart possesses and expresses. He had reversed the philosophical standpoint by “creating the characters in such an environment so that the public feels them belonging to the distant place and time.”

Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, BART

By William Wordsworth

Far from our home by Grasmere’s quiet Lake,
From the Vale’s peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria’s shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean’s ceaseless roar

William Wordsworth used conversational language in his poetry to let the poet ‘I’ merge into ‘We’. This conversational tone persists throughout his poetic journey where he speaks in a communion with mass society, whose purpose will ultimately serve humanity.

The Cataract of Lodore

By Robert Southey

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.

Robert Southey (1774 -1843) was an English poet of the Romantic School, and Britain’s Poet Laurate from 1813 until his death. Like the other Lake Poets, Southey began as a radical but became steadily more conservative as he gained respect for Britain and its institutions.

Give me a map to look at, and I am content. Give me a map of country I know, and I am comforted: I live my travels over again; step by step, I recall the journeys I have made; half-forgotten incidents spring vividly to mind, and again I can suffer and rejoice at experiences which are once more made very real. Old maps are old friends, understood only by the man with whom they have traveled the miles. – Alfred Wainwright

Alfred Wainwright (1907-1991) was a British fellwalker, mapmaker, guidebook author and illustrator. His seven-volume Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells, published between 1955 and 1966, consisted entirely of reproductions of his manuscript, has become the standard reference work for 214 of the fells of the Lake District.

Scarce images of life, one here, one there,/Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque/Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor…

– John Keats. Taken from Hyperion, a passage believed to be about Castlerigg Stone Circle or perhaps a Druid Stone Circle a mile apart.

On the Road to Castlerigg

A turn on a small dirt road led us to Castlerigg Stone Circle. It was close to twilight and a long stretch of parked cars, vans and campers were already waiting, perhaps for hours, to witness that magic moment when the sun sets above the Stone Circle. Soon, people rushed from their parked vehicles, where they had been speaking on mobile phones, watching TV and cooking dinner, and we joined along with them, basking in the euphoric splendor.

Deb Roskamp’s videographic experiment taken for the center of Castlerigg Stone Circle.

Castlerigg Stone Circle is situated on a prominent hill to the east of Keswick, and is believed to be one of 1,300 stone circles in the British Isle and in Britanny, France. It was constructed in the late Neolithic to early Bronze Age around 3200 BCE, a period that lasted approximately from 3,200 to 2500 BCE, and is considered one of earliest stone circles in Britain and Western Europe. Many historians believe that the Castlerigg Stone Circle predates the better-known Stonehenge prehistoric stone circle by 500 years.
Much of our knowledge comes from18th-century antiquarians, who have assumed that the reason for its construction is its link to the Neolithic Langdale axe industry in the nearby Langdale fells, where Castlerigg was a place for trade or exchange of axes.

Castlerigg has no discernible solar alignments, nor any pagan Druid connection or modern New-Age religious movements. Nevertheless, it remains a popular site to visit during solstice celebrations, where its plateau forms a high natural amphitheater due to the surrounding hills, and, from within the circle, you can see some of the highest peaks in Cumbria. Every year, thousands of tourists travel to the site, making it the most visited stone circle in Cumbria.

Post Script: Where to stay in the Lake District

Securing an electric rental in Carlisle was akin to stepping into a computer with four wheels in comparison to our own hybrids back in the states. Our California education of the rules of the British road led to confusion, in particular trying to access roundabouts, and then meet with rushing traffic. But soon the road transitioned into a leafy one lane highway, with rivers, lakes, mountains and small villages on each side. We had informed many of our new Carlisle friends our plans to lodge in Lake District’s village of Keswick at a boutique hotel known as The Hazeldene. Our comments were meet with an enthusiastic yes! Word of mouth is always the best form of advertising, and dare I now advertise a stay at The Hazeldene, where we were meet by a charming staff who never said no.

The Hazeldene, built in 1892, is perfectly situated both on the edge and in the heart of Keswick. A five-minute stroll north and you’re within the village’s shops and restaurants, and a short walk away you can dip your toes in the refreshing waters of Derwentwater. With amazing views in every direction – the Borrowdale and Newlands fells to the south and Skiddaw to the north – The Hazeldene offered the ideal location for me to pause, rejuvenate and reflect on my three weeks in England. For further information about The Hazeldene: https://thehazeldene.co.uk.

Visit the series at:

What’s New and Old in London, Part I
What’s New and Old in London, Part 2
What’s New & Old in England’s North

Hadrian’s Wall: All Roads Really do Lead to Rome

There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing. – Alfred Wainwright

The post What’s New and Old in England’s North: Final Chapter appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The sound of the tracks was calming as my railway car glided effortlessly through Northern England’s breathtaking countryside. Watching the miles pass from a train window allows a perspective that is not offered by plane travel. And now, heading to Carlisle in Cumbria, nothing else seemed to matter besides the little farms, lakes and villages dotting the sweeping green fields of England’s North. My spell was slightly broken when an elderly gentleman beside me, offered a soft-spoken narrative of its history, a history where the gentle green fields were once soaked in the color of red. Yes, the conquerors and the conquered: the Celts, the Romans, the Angles and Saxons, the Vikings, the Normans and the Boarder Reivers; who had all shed their fair share of blood in the northern fields. But it was still difficult to imagine with Northern England’s ethereal landscape before my eyes.

It felt good to rest; after all I had packed it in for the last two weeks in London: The British Museum, the Tates, the Garden Museum; the Churchill War Rooms; The East End; Macbeth at the Globe, plays in the West End, along with a considerable amount of pub grub and pints of bitters. And, in the next three days it would be Carlisle, its city center, museums, cathedral and castle.

Carlisle, Cumbria, England – A Cathedral City

Upon my arrival at the Carlisle railway station, I noticed the towering twin drum bastions at the Citadel built by Henry VIII in 1541. The guidebooks said that it was essential to spend at least a few days at this historic Cumbrian city, and the Citadel seemed to promise that I would. Carlisle, spoken locally as ‘ka-rlail’ or ‘KAR-lyle,’ is located in the county of Cumbria, England, and has the distinction of being a cathedral city – a title granted by the monarch of the United Kingdom awarded to a town in the UK having a cathedral within its bounds.

The early history of Carlisle stems from its establishment as a Roman settlement to serve forts along Hadrian’s Wall. Carlisle – the Latin name of ‘Luguvalium’ – was the most northwestern settlement in the Roman Empire; an important frontier town on the edge of its empire.

Later, due to its proximity to the Anglo-Scottish border, Carlisle became an important military stronghold in the Middle Ages. Then new migrants from as far away as Wales and Cornwall poured into Cumbria to toil in its rich mines of iron ore and copper. Carlisle transitioned again as a bustling industrialized town of factories at the advent of WW1. The Border City took a hit with the closure of its industries. But it eventually rebounded as a mecca for tourism, a mecca which included a well-designed Downtown Historic Center with museums, antiques and art galleries; the imposing Carlisle Castle; the Tullie House Museum and the Carlisle Cathedral.

I found Carlisle’s younger set to be warm and welcoming, curious where you were from and why you chose to visit their city. My immediate reply was to spend a few days in Carlisle and then head off to Hadrian’s Wall for a full day. I couldn’t help but notice that some were not impressed about my plans: ‘That’s a lot of fuss for a bunch of rocks,’ ‘Not too tall, innit.’ It appeared that they had little interest in the history of the Wall, a UNESCO World Heritage site, just 33 miles or so up the road from where they live. I still don’t really know the reason why. Jealousy, perhaps? But how could it be jealousy when a tourist trip to Calisle also meant visiting the Wall. Yes, I still don’t really know the reason why.

Click here for Cumberland sausage recipe.

The weekend nights in Carlilse would explode with excitement, in particular when one of the local sports teams won an important match. Post-adolescent groups of men and women would charge from pub to pub, leaving only a trail of vape smoke behind them. Their selection of clothes worn served almost as if they were on a runway, illustrating the current Carlisle fashion trends of the day, which were confirmed with each style almost identical to the next.

Downtown Historic Carlisle Center

The Downtown Historic Carlisle Center was within walking distance of my lodging property, The Halston Hotel Carlisle, whose manager and staff were never too busy to point out local attractions. It was recommended that a good way to start a self-guided tour is a stop at the Cumberland Valley Visitors Center, which features maps, brochures and a very informative staff.

Next was the Carlisle Historical Society at the Heald House Museum, which also offered a wide-eyed lens on all things Carlisle. With its Old Town Hall clock tower and market cross, and the array of cafes, art and antique galleries, made it clear that history and culture defined the Downtown Carlisle Center of today. And, just a short drive outside of downtown is the Carlisle Barracks, that features more than 100 historic buildings, 22 of which are listed on the British National Historic Register. It was suggested that I should end my day-long journey by visiting the Trout Gallery at Dickinson College.

CARLISE CASTLE

Carlisle Castle, located on the edge of the downtown center, is a restored medieval fortress; the site of many sieges, public executions and political discourses throughout its 930-year-old history. Like Carlisle itself, it was built on the former Roman site of Luguvalium, during the reign of William II of England, the son of William the Norman Conqueror. The castle has been besieged ten times – more than any other place in the British Isles. Its walls were predominantly made with grey and red sandstone, and overall constructed in the Norman style of a Motte-and-Bailey castle; raised earthwork is called a ‘motte,’ and ‘bailey’ means an enclosed courtyard, all surrounded by a protective ditch and sharpened vertical stakes or palisade.

During its tumultuous history, the castle changed hands many times between the English and Scotts. It also served as protection from the Border Reivers, malicious bands of cattle rustlers who would kill anyone in their way, sometimes just for the fun of it. The last battle at the castle was the failed Jacobite rising of 1745 against George II. The battle marked the end of the castle’s years of fighting, for defending the border between England and Scotland was no longer necessary as both countries once again flew under the same British flag. But the real final act of bloodshed at the castle was the mass execution of Jacobite prisoners, with those remaining either shipped to the West Indies as slaves or banished in exile. Charles Edward Stuart, the proud Bonnie Prince Charlie, who had united the Highland Clans and orchestrated the rebellion, avoided capture by hiding in modest Highland homes, eventually sailing to safety in France, disguised as a woman.

As we parked our rental in the car park, we spent a few minutes trying to understand what a large sign meant: ‘No Fly Tipping.’ We were approached by a kind family from Houston, who were also curious to its meaning. But then I remembered that we had a small mechanical device in our pockets, and by simply accessing it found that it meant ‘no illegal garbage dumbing’: ‘Fly’ originates from ‘on the fly’, i.e., an act carried out while on the run, while ‘Tipping’ refers to dumping your rubbish at a ‘council tip.’ And these are the people who gave 25% of the world’s population the English language. Once the confusion was settled, we strolled to the castle, and the sun was out and the well-manicured lush green grass made it hard to believe that this gentle piece land was once site the of blood and carnage. The exterior of the castle, with its draw bridge, deep mott and Irish/Caldew Gate immediately grabbed my attention. Little did I know that this would be the highpoint of my tour.

Past the gate, the outer ward courtyard consisted of a large spread of unremarkable flat land which I had thought would illustrate what life was like for its occupants of the past. The guidebook stated that the courtyard was once centered on a tarmac-covered parade ground in a field of grass, and, due to its huge space gave the castle the capacity to house spectacular events of marching brigades and festivities. Yes, the garrison was still there, but I realized, like many things, this piece of history had become the history of now.

There was much restoration inside the inner walls, due to another form of besiegement: climate change. It’s a current problem in Britain today, as it is throughout the world, where historic buildings and schools are beginning to crumble. For historians, restoration is of the upmost importance, but for the fearful children and occupants inside, it is nothing less than essential. After climbing the stairway to the second floor, we had expected to explore the rooms where Richard III, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the imprisoned Mary, Queen of Scots once slept. But it turned out to be one large room, though a Great One, with another sign listing the many who had once called it home. The room, however, was in period décor with a massive fireplace, tapestries and furniture; and a smaller room upstairs featured a bed where hay, sandwiched between two coarse sheets, illustrated the makings of a comfortable medieval night of sleep.

Also on the second floor was a group of carvings entrenched into the stonework. The guide book referred to them as ‘prisoners’ carvings,’ but this area of the castle was not known to have been a prison. The carvings seem more likely to be the work of members of the castle’s garrison or household, perhaps expressing loyalty to the lord warden and great local families.

For an extra price, I toured the castle’s small Cumbria’s Museum of Military Life, which showcased the history of Cumbria’s County Infantry Regiment, the Border Regiment and the King’s Own Royal Border Regiment and local Militia. The war artifacts were stimulating, but it was the narrative at each station and a short video that made it worthwhile.

The Tullie House Museum

The Tullie House Museum and Art Gallery (circa 1893) features exhibits detailing the history of the Roman occupancy and Hadrian’s Wall. The treasures inside also include zoological, botanical and geological artifacts, stringed instruments, including a violin by Andrea Amati, an art collection with works by pre-Italian renascence artists, and post-Roman history, dedicated to the Vikings and the Border Reivers.

All Roads Really Do Lead to Rome

It was at this point of my tour, I realized that everything I had seen and everything I had done all led to the Roman Empire; which is a subject I’ll address in the next installment devoted to Hadrian’s Wall.

Carlisle Cathedral

Carlisle Cathedral made a refreshing reprieve from the death and unfound glory I had experienced at Carlisle Castle. Nestled on a peaceful gated street in the city center, it was founded as an Augustinian priory and became a cathedral in 1133. It is also the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle. Over 900 years of history is on display within its stunning mix of Norman and Gothic architecture, medieval paintings, delicate carvings, intricate stained-glass windows, and most importantly, the starlight ceiling; considered the most significant architectural feature of Carlisle Cathedral. It was difficult not to feel emotionally taken while sitting beneath it during choir and worship music.

Carlisle Cathedral also has a set of 46 carved wooden choir stalls with misericords, hinged seats, “constructed to keep the monks from falling asleep while at prayers.” The pillars supporting the canopies indicate that some portions had once been burnt, some assumed to be by raiders, but actually burnt by monks who fell asleep during their long devotions while holding lighted candles. Intricate iconographic carvings in the misericords still remain with the narratives of St. Anthony the Hermit, St. Cuthbert, St. Augustine, the twelve apostles, as well as the inverted ‘world theme’ of a Woman beating a Man, which I was told that no decent set of misericords could be without.

I noticed many of the congregation during the Sunday service wore period costumes, but were not intended to be docents, simply warming to the theme of the cathedral’s past history of dress. I also noticed that this Sunday service was almost empty of occupants. Perhaps indicative of western regions now focusing more on secular ideals. But if you’re religious or not, Carlisle Cathedral is worth a visit.

POST SCRIPT: How could I have forgotten

Yes, how could I have forgotten that a few days earlier I had taken a stroll over Westminster Bridge. The 827-foot-long road and foot traffic bridge is one of 138 bridges that stretch over London’s River Thames. On its far north side rests the Houses of Parliament where it boasts the highest number of arches among all Thames bridges. Decorative ironworks showcase the symbols of parliament and the United Kingdom: the cross of Saint George, a thistle, a shield, and a rose. Octagonal Gothic lamps line the bridge, and in the middle there is a small plaque with a William Wordsworth poem, appropriately titled ‘Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802.’

But it was at this point of the day, the day before my departure to England’s North, I remembered that I’d forgotten to write about something that most tourists to London generally have on their to-do-lists: Westminster Abbey. Its Sunday service I had attended would make an interesting comparison to my later attendance at Carlisle Cathedral, which I had scheduled the following week and had written about above.

Westminster Abbey

It was difficult not to think of historic grandeur at the Anglican Westminster Abbey, the location of 40 English and British royal coronations, the burial site for 18 English, Scottish, and British monarchs, and 16 royal weddings since 1100 ACE.

I was surprised to read that the origins of the church are obscure, where it had once housed 10th century Benedictine monks, and throughout the 21st century, non-monarchical prime ministers, poet laureates, actors, scientists, military leaders, and then, most importantly, the Unknown Warrior. Yes, may we never forget. And may we also never forget the Unknown Citizen, whose death may have come from the Unknown Universal Soldier. Their pauper gravesites are not surrounded by the grandeur of Gothic style architecture, and there are no long lines of people expressing heartfelt sympathy and admiration. History generally covers only the lives of the famous and the wealthy; the rest of us are pretty much on our own.

Dissolution and Reformation: Blame it on Henry

In the 1530s, Henry VIII left the Roman Catholic Church and anointed himself the head of England’s monasteries. It was the beginning of the English Reformation, though slightly different than the Protestant Reformation which had swept through continental Europe a few decades earlier. The German-Roman Catholic priest and theologian, Martin Luther, spearheaded the movement by attacking the Papacy due to the church’s corruption. He never officially broke from the Roman Catholic Church, but the Papacy broke with him when he was excommunicated in 1521.

It should be noted that the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century was not unprecedented where reformers within the Roman Catholic Church such as St. Francis of Assisi, Valdes (founder of the Waldensians), Jan Hus, and John Wycliffe addressed similar problems in the church in the centuries before 1517.

With Henry VIII’s eventual departure from the Roman Catholic Church, it was something a little less righteous than the Protestant Reformation, where he sought to annul, not divorce as commonly assumed, his first marriage to the Spanish Catherine of Aragon. Henry had married Catherine due to the Tudor tradition of marrying the wife of an older brother. In this case, the older brother was Arthur, Prince of Wales, the eldest son of King Henry VII of England, the heir apparent of the crown. Catherine was three years old when she was betrothed, but Arthur met an untimely death at age 15, shortly after his marriage to her, a marriage that was never consummated in the bedroom.

In 1509, after Henry VIII was crowned the King of England, Catherine never produced the desired male heir for the new king, only a daughter, who would eventually become Mary I, the first undisputed English queen regant in 1553. It is believed than Henry saw his daughter just once during his lifetime, which consisted of a distant royal bow from the courtyard of Kimbolton Castle to a castle window where she faced down upon him.

Henry remained steadfast to marry a second wife. Her name was Anne Boleyn, who had been Catherine’s maid of honor, a junior attendant of a queen in the royal household. She was also pregnant with his child. The Papacy in Rome wouldn’t recognize his request, and Henry eventually had run out of options. So he he left the Roman Catholic Church, and Catherine was banished from the Royal Court, and lived out the remainder of her life at Kimbolton Castle, dying of cancer in 1536. It was a day of mourning throughout England for Catholics or not.

Anne Boleyn would eventually become Henry’s new queen consort, his second wife out of six, and after a series of miscarriages, the mother who gave birth to another little girl, this one named Elizabeth, again not the son and heir that Henry desperately wanted. The little girl, 28-years later, became Elizabeth I, the Queen of England and Ireland, the ‘Virgin Queen,’ the last monarch of the House of Tudor. The two half-sisters: Mary, a devout Catholic, and Elizabeth, a staunch Protestant, would meet again later which would end in tragedy, a tragedy still spoken about today.

Henry was well aware that the Roman Catholic Churches throughout England were riddled with corruption and flush with gold, and didn’t hesitate in fattening his own purse by taking many relics, images of saints, and treasures from the abbeys. His lust for gold reached such a fever of intensity that he melted down the golden feretory that housed the coffin of Edward the Confessor. Many parish priests were banished without a coin in their pockets; others met death from the sword.

The circumstances regarding Henry and Boleyn’s short marriage (1533 to 1536) and Boleyn’s execution by beheading for treason, still remains a mystery today. Nevertheless, Boleyn continues to be a key figure in the political and religious upheaval that marked the start of the English Reformation.

For more on Henry, visit his life at Hampton Court Palace

The monastery was dissolved in 1559 and the church was made a royal peculiar, responsible directly to the monarchy. The Abbey received a financial grant from Parliament in 1697. Sir Christopher Wren, who ultimately designed 53 London churches, including St. Paul’s Cathedral, was appointed Surveyor of the Fabric at Westminster Abbey on 1698, which allowed him to undertake major restoration of the decayed stonework of the church and its roofs.

In 1987, the abbey, together with the Palace of Westminster and St. Margaret’s Church, was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site because of its historic and symbolic significance.

Stay tuned to Part 4: Hadrian’s Wall and the Roman Empire, and tour guide extraordinaire, Mr. Peter Carney. It would prove to be a holy day of a different order.

The post What’s New & Old in England’s North appeared first on Traveling Archive.

After my arrival at Heathrow Airport, I was whisked away in one of London’s famous Black Cabs. I was relaxed and feeling carefree, well aware that a London Black Cab driver knew every part of the city like the back of their hand. Unlike U.S. taxi or Uber drivers where the gig is often a part-time one, being a London Black Cab driver is nothing less than a proud full-time endeavor. Four-years of training and person-to-person non online tests is required to be one. By simply naming an address, establishment or even a landmark you will be transported to your place of interest without any form of hesitation. Many of the drivers have achieved such a level of success that they’ve purchased their own expensive Black Cabs, which featured unique modern amenities that seemed almost futuristic to me. The drivers can be chatty, too; interested in who you are and where you’re from, and most importantly serving as an ambassador of London.

London, England. Sept 2023.

It had been five-long years since my last trip to London, and I was interested in seeing how the city has changed. Disengaging the Black Cab by the West End’s St. Martins in the Field, I could see Trafalgar Square – still the de-facto location for swarming crowds to celebrate national events and ceremonies. In its center remained the towering 18 ft. statue of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson who had knocked out both the French and Spanish war vessels in the Battle of Trafalgar during the Napoleonic Wars. With apologies to Winston Churchill, Nelson remains Great Britain’s national hero with a population still feeding off his glories.

Charles Dickens Museum

It should come to no surprise that Charles Dickens is considered one of the greatest writers in the English language. The London author and social critic was highly regarded as a literary genius during his own lifetime, unlike other artists who had lived in obscurity, only to find an audience long after their passing. Our contemporary vernacular is endowed with words believe to be coined by Dickens, butter-fingers, the creeps, a-buzz, and for many it would not be Christmas without a stage adaptation of his novella, A Christmas Carol.

Dickens’ former three-story Georgian home is where he lived with his wife, Catherine and their eldest three children for two-years. His home is now a museum, which includes bedrooms, study, kitchen dining room, all in period decor. In the two years that Dickens lived in the house, he completed The Pickwick Papers (1836), wrote Oliver Twist  (1838) and Nicholas Nickleby (1838–39). Though Dickens’ novels are not considered autobiographical, there are many autobiographical elements in them. Mary, his wife’s 17-year-old sister, had also lived with them, and died in his arms after succumbing to an illness. She inspired many characters in his books, and her death is fictionalized in Little Nell (1837). Dickens was also deeply affected by his experiences working as a young man on the banks of the Thames to support his family, who were in debtors’ prison. This led to his goal of helping London’s poor as a true social and economic crusader, which included trying to counter the contaminated air, particularly in the East End where industrial smoke mixed with London’s infamous fog contributed to countless deaths. Sources indicated that the polluted air also stunted the growth of young children in East End, leaving them weak and malnourished.

National Portrait Gallery

At the National Portrait Gallery, you’ll get the best look of many pre-photographic famous people – though, like today’s photo shopping, you will see them looking far more attractive than they probably really were.

William Shakespeare (1563-1616) painted by John Taylor. This painting of the iconic playwright, actor and poet was the first portraiture acquired by the National Portrait Gallery upon its founding in 1856. It is considered the only known portrait of him painted while he was alive. After Shakespeare’s death, his reputation grew, and artists created portraits and narrative paintings of him, generally based on this earlier image or from their own imagination.

Celestine Edwards (about 1857-1894) painted by William Harry Horlington. Edwards was a Methodist preacher, medical student and Britain’s first black newspaper editor. At age 12, he stowed away on a ship departing Dominica, eventually settling in Britain. In the 1890s he founded the Christian newspaper, Lux, and the anti-racist magazine Fraternity, inspiring younger Black Britons with the widespread movement of solidarity among people of African heritage. His campaigns spearheaded civil rights throughout the world.

The Bronte sisters: Anne, Emily and Charlotte (about 1834) painted by their teenage brother, Branwell. The only surviving group portrait of one of Britain’s greatest literary families, discovered in 1914, folded on top of a cupboard in an Irish farmhouse. The Gallery made the decision not to restore it, retaining its paint loss and fold marks due to its remarkable history. The Bronte Sisters’ best-known novels include Anne’s Agnes Grey, Emily’s Wuthering Heights and Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, all published in 1847 under the masculine pseudonyms, ‘Action Bell,’ ‘Ellis Bell’ and ‘Currer Bell.’ In a sense, their works were intended to address their own experiences in Victorian society at a time when it was not easy to be a woman.

Sir Winston Churchill (1874-1965) painted by Sir William Orpen. The portrait shows an emotionally wounded Churchill after he had resigned as the First Lord of the Admiralty during the First World War, due to orchestrating a disastrous naval campaign in the Dardanelles Straits. By linking Turkey to Europe, he created a second front, which resulted in the deaths of 46,000 thousand soldiers, many of whom consisted of the newly formed ANZAC (Australia New Zealand Army Corp), who had made suicide charges against battle tested Ottoman Turks in Gallipoli. Orpen described Churchill as ‘a man of misery who had lost pretty well everything,’ while Churchill concluded that it was ‘not a picture of a man, but of a man’s soul.’

The Garden Museum

I was surprised to find a such a thing as a museum devoted to gardening. But, after all, this is London; one of the museum capitals of the world, with special thanks, of course, to Greece and Egypt. Nestled on the grounds of the deconsecrated church of St Mary-at-Lambeth, I could see picture-perfect views from its gardens of the British Parliament and Big Ben on the opposite banks of the Thames. My time inside was rewarding, where the museum offered easy access to the working records of leading British garden designers of the 20th and 21st century. I also discovered the narratives of great gardeners through a collection of artifacts and tools from gardening throughout history. In addition, my tour included botanical art, photography, and paintings exploring how and why we garden.

The East End

The East End lies east of the Roman and medieval walls of the Old City of London, north of the River Thames. When U.S. writer Jack London ordered a taxi in 1902 to the deprived Whitechapel district in the East End, the area was so obscure for London’s main populace that he was forced to give the driver instructions on how to find it. In his book, The People of the Abyss, he went undercover, purchasing ragged clothing to wear so that he could live among the destitute in an attempt to understand their daily routine of starvation, homelessness, disease, theft, prostitution and discrimination with no hope for a better tomorrow. The lines of people at charitable foundations were so long and time consuming that many of the weak would fall asleep while standing. Some never made it inside. It was not unusual for a single person to share a cramped one-room apartment with 18 others, making sleeping while standing a requirement. The dire conditions which Jack London experienced were the same as those endured by an estimated 500,000 of the contemporary London poor. In 1902, the life expectancy in the East End was 35-years-old; in London proper, 60-years-of-age.

I was a bit cloudy about the East End, thinking this was simply an area where the Cockneys of London lived. But what does ‘Cockney’ really mean? Research told me that Cockney is an English dialect that has a unique pronunciation, grammar, vocabulary and slang. By 1600, the definition of Cockney meant anyone who could hear the Bow Bells at St. Mary-le-Bow, which are now drowned out by modern city noise. The accent is said to be a remnant of early English London speech, influenced by the traditional Essex dialect. But it also had much to do with the area attracting the rural poor, who had their own unique dialects from other parts of England, which spread whiile working in various trades such as weaving, fishing, shipbuilding, and dock work. Even today, England remains a class-conscious nation, where hearing the dialect of a stranger can tell you all you needed to know about them. With waves upon waves of migrants pouring into the East End from outlying areas, the local citizens found themselves competing for a few casual day labor jobs among numbers that reached the hundreds. This was good for the owners, where competition allowed them to dramatically cut daily wages to obscene lows, making the pennies-for-dollars part-time-jobs hardly worth the effort. Upon exploring the East End’s dark cobblestone streets in the mid 19th century, Karl Marx spoke of knifings, bodies in rags and nine-year-old prostitutes pulling him into doorways as nightly rituals, which confirmed his own idealized economic philosophy.

The East End continued to transition with a new breed of migrants: silk weaving French Huguenot refugees, followed by the Irish of the same mode, which led to fierce competition between the two, cumulating with Spitalfield riots of 1765 and 1769. And then, between 1880 and 1914, the East End’s small Jewish community was transformed by the arrival of 150,000 East European and Russian Jewish refugees, who had faced persecution their entire lives. Together, they all helped to create new jobs and workforce. But, the later closure of docks, cutbacks in railways and loss of industry contributed to a long-term decline, removing many of the traditional sources of semi-skilled jobs, which continued during the Second World War’s Nazi Blitz, which had devastated much of the East End, when bombed for 58 consecutive nights.

Bengalis constituted the final mass migration in the 20th century, where they poured into the district to escape the unimaginable brutality, rape and genocide inflicted on them by Pakistani military in their quest for independence in the East End. The East End of Pakistan, that is. The nine-month-long war finally ended in 1971, and the People’s Republic of Bangladesh was officially finally born, but at the staggering cost of an estimated 3,000,000 civilian deaths.

Bengali musician, Ravi Shankar, and former Beatle George Harrison, whom Shankar had earlier taught to play the sitar, orchestrated two benefit concerts in 1971 at Madison Square Garden in New York City, with the intention to fund relief for refugees from East Pakistan. It soon grew to become an all-star musical event, becoming the first-ever massive benefit of its kind. Perhaps Shankar said it best: In one day, the whole world knew the name of Bangladesh.

As I stood by Algate Pump, considered the entrance to Whitechapel, I saw tenement homes mixed with modern buildings, due to fires, bombings and slum clearances. Before me was the Anglican Spitalfields Christ Church, built between 1714 and 1729, courtesy of Queen Elizabeth I, To bring God to the Godless. Steps away was the old and new of historic Spitalfields Market, where huge crowds still browse the different stalls for clothes, food and antiques; the same with Petticoat Lane’s silk weaving markets. Photographer Deb Roskamp and I walked along with life-long London friend, Trish, who added her own personal narrative, explaining that she had once purchased garments at Petticoat Lane Market. The following week we would explore Hadrian’s Wall and the Lake District in England’s North together.

Trish pointed out Toynbee Hall, the birthplace of the international settlement movement, which attracted progressive-minded young men and women to settle among the underprivileged and join programs which would help their lives. And, the Whitechapel Art Gallery, founded in 1901, showcased an array of different art for the people of the East End, with the intention of nourishing their souls.

Later, my own stomach would be nourished at Spitalfields Market, but for now I was happy to enjoy the colorful street art and murals. I noticed one of iconic Argentine futballer, Diego Maradona – the man with The hand of God. The comment stems from Maradona’s response after his controversial ‘handling’ of a goal during the Argentina v England quarter finals match of the 1986 FIFA World Cup, which Argentina went on to win. Later, he said scoring the goal was a symbolic revenge for the United Kingdom’s victory over Argentina in the Falkland’s War four years earlier. What was controversial for me was why is there a mural of him in England, the home of the English team he helped to beat. Was there still a deep seated resentiment of the London populace who had once turned their backs on the people of the East End.

On the far end of district rests the East London Mosque and London Muslim Centre, which offer traditional Sunni Islamic Calls to Prayer, as well as important things to know when arriving from a new or Muslim culture, i.e., educational courses, counseling,  advice services for birth, marriage and death. Just around the corner is Brick Lane, known as London’s curry mile, thanks to the numerous Indian, Pakastani and Bengalis restaurants that line the street.

The air was fresh and clean, no longer polluted by life altering toxic waste and chemicals. Overcrowding is also no longer a widespread problem and tourism is an important component of its infrastructure; in particular with many tours devoted to the 1888 Whitechapel Murders attributed to Jack the Ripper. The East End continues to change to the positive, a positive which helps redefine what was once considered one the most heartless places of destitution in the world.

Special thanks to Londoner and life-long friend, Trish Raffeto, who held our hands and pointed out the significance of special sites that my photographer, Deb Roskamp and I might not have even noticed as we explored the London of today with a glimpse at its past.

Further reading:

• Condition of the Working Class in England (1845) by Friedrich Engels.
• Liza of Lambeth (1897) by W. Somerset Maugham.
• The People of the Abyss (1903) by Jack London.

Stay tuned for Part II, which will include The Globe Theatre, West End plays, Churchill War Rooms, Temple London, Somerset House, London Pub Grub and Tea.

The post What’s New and Old in London, Part I appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The enduring Celtic Cross. Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland.

Richard Carroll – T-Boy writer:

Sightless Fiji

Fiji has a profound long-lasting effect on my heart and soul. An island country deep in the South Pacific where nature comes miraculously alive with cloud rain forests, a lush tropical mountainous terrain, 333 islands, hundreds of islets, and sweeping views of a dark blue crystal clear sea, all of which seem to be suspended in time. Fiji’s dramatic setting of upscale island holiday hideaways offering pollution free skies, an unrelenting sun shimmering on glistening water, and palm-lined beaches, have attracted visitors from all parts of the world.

I experienced a heart-tugging dilemma on one of numerous visits this time with Dr. Beeve, a noted eye physician and surgeon based in Glendale California and his wife Dorothy an RN, that unfortunately this ideal scenario of sun and sea is also a huge negative for the Fijian’s creating blinding cataracts affecting a huge number of Fijians of all ages along with other troubling eye difficulties.

Fijians travel from island to island in canoes and boats, fish and farm the ocean, swim before they can walk, and are living an island lifestyle which from birth seriously affects their eyesight. The stinging contrast is the Fijians might not be the happiest people on earth, but are affable and forthcoming, welcoming visitors with open arms, regardless of personal difficulties, of which are usually overlooked or ignored by tourists.

I found this distressing and heart-tugging drama unbelievably touching. Men unable to work and support their families because they are sightless, children born with eye deficiencies, a grandmother who has never seen her grandchildren, Fijians unable to leave their island because of poor eyesight, and young mothers who see their offspring as a milky blur. I noticed that even most of the dogs had cataracts too.

Joyful Fijians in recovery after a Dr. Beeve eye operation. Photo courtesy of Beeve Foundation.

Since that visit in 1991 when the Beeve’s established the Beeve Foundation, Dr. Beeve and his staff quickly realized that the Fijians were receiving very limited eye care and medication, and had no access to modern medicine. On their first mission with a small staff which included an anesthesiologist, ophthalmic surgical technologist, a dental hygienist, and an assistant who helped with pre and post op care, and patient education and vision testing, set up a makeshift eye clinic in Bure 2 on upscale Turtle Island. The word quickly spread and hundreds of sight-impaired Fijians formed a long line patiently standing in the blazing sun, some arriving via canoes days in advance, the line of canoes stretching to the horizon. Many Fijians I spoke with could not remember when they had vision and were spellbound when the day after surgery they gazed at Dr. Beeve with better than 20/40 vision. The Beeve’s said, “When we complete a cataract operation it’s like resurrecting someone from the dead. It’s an incredible feeling.”

The Beeve Foundation Team in Fiji. Photo courtesy of the Beeve Foundation.

In 2017 the Beeve’s were honored for their more than 25 years of medical missions; 28,503 eye exams, issuing 27,714 pairs of glasses, 1,756 cataract extractions with lens implants, 55 corneal transplants, and 1,005 other procedures for more than 30,000 Fijian patients, the majority of whom were legally blind. Dr. Beeve and his wife Dorothy finally retired with Loma Linda University continuing the Fiji missions. In 2018 with a team of world-renowned cataract surgeons Loma Linda performed 137 surgeries in six days.

The Fijians live in a tropical paradise but with an ironic twist, but for a writer the unpredictability of travel can often leave a lingering memory, such as the Beeve’s and their Foundation successfully treating over three percent of the entire Fiji population.

Halina Kubalski – T-Boy writer and destination photographer:

A Memory of My Father

My father, Wiktor Surmacz joined the Polish Army in 1934. After a few years he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in the Polish 179th Infantry Regiment, working closely under the command of General Franciszek Kleeberg when defending the Polish city of Kock, a town in eastern Poland about 120 kilometers southeast of Warsaw with a large Jewish population at the time.

On September 9, 1939 the German’s dropped bombs on the town and a fierce battle with the Germans took place. The Poles were badly over matched by the German 13th Motorized Corps and 60th Infantry Division, but fought gallantly lastly running short of ammunition with both sides suffering huge casualties. The final battles were fought October 2 – 5, and on October 6th after bombardment by heavy German artillery and outnumbered by the thousands, General Kleeberg surrendered.

The Germans sent my father to the infamous Mauthausen Concentration Camp located on a hill above the market town of Mauthausen located 12 miles east of Linz. The Germans never released the accurate death toll at Mauthausen but it was calculated that between 130,000 to 320,000 perished in Mauthausen during the war years. My father never spoke about his five years as a prisoner but did say to his wife, my mother, Maria, “There was no food at Mauthausen.”

Survivors at the Mauthausen concentration camp. Wikimedia Commons.

He was later sent to a sub concentration camp, a farm labor camp that was bad if not worse than Mauthausen. Possibly the transfer took place due to the fact that dad spoke German. He was liberated in 1945 at the end of the war by U.S. troops weighing all of 80 pounds.

My father’s one and only visit to the United States, he was astonished at the boundless selection of food in the supermarkets. He passed May 8, 1984, age 73, after six weeks in a Warsaw hospital, his health badly damaged by his years as a prisoner of the Germans.

Fyllis Hockman – T-Boy writer:

One of the Most Impactful Experiences in my Travel-Writing Career

First a little background. As a teenager I had my first visual exposure to the horrors of the Holocaust in some newsreel depictions of the liberation of some camps after the war – the emaciated survivors with their sunken eyes, gaunt bodies and harrowed auras. I called my mother, who had told me of the Holocaust my whole life, and said: “Mom, I finally understand.” Now six decades later, I came to understand even more.

The International Monument at the former Mauthausen concentration camp reads,
“The living learn from the fate of the deceased.” Wikimedia Commons.

Mauthausen, one of the largest of the camps, was built high upon a hill in Linz, Upper Austria, where Hitler was once a resident, near a large quarry. The rationale behind concentration camps evolved over the war years from imprisoning people, enslaving them and engendering fear among the general populace to simply one of extermination. And that was carried out in so many ways. Mauthausen was considered a Level 3 Camp where the guiding principle was that no one left – everyone was to be killed in some way or other. The SS excelled at very efficient methods of mutilation and annihilation.

The roots of genocide, according to our guide, were fostered in anti-Semitism, an us vs. them mentality, a de-humanization of others who are seen as “less.” It was hard not to draw some parallels to today’s world…

The “Stairs of Death” at the Mauthausen concentration camp. Wikimedia Commons.

Other cases involved prisoners forced outside during winter over whom cold water was poured – a particularly appealing entertainment for the SS guards who delighted in “showering” people to death – outside the actual gas chamber showers, that is…. Because any SS who shot an inmate trying to escape got extra days off, a favorite party trick was to entice prisoners into situations where they might appear to be escaping – and then shoot them. Stomach cringing continues.

Starved prisoners pose in concentration camp in Ebensee, a sub-camp of Mauthausen, used for “scientific” experiments. Wikimedia Commons.

Others, sick and beaten, simply died during daily roll call, a grueling process of standing in the heat or cold for 4-5 hours at a time, and being forced to do exercises when most of them could no longer stand. It is hard to hear all of this – and my stomach clenched and my eyes teared and I was overcome by a sense of helplessness and disbelief that these things actually happened – and no one cared.

Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler of the SS at Mauthausen. Hitler authorized Himmler to create a centralized concentration camp system. Wikimedia Commons.

In the barracks hundreds were housed in such horrendous conditions the term unsanitary does not begin to describe the degradation. On the wall is a quote depicting the “wheezing, hissing, moaning, sobbing, snoring” that filled the night-time air in 20 languages. “The noise fused into a single, terrible sound produced as if by a giant monstrous being that had holed up in the dark.” Another quote: “Anyone who hadn’t been brutal when they entered the world became brutal here.” More gut-wrenching stomach-churning.

And then we went through the gas chambers where thousands were killed and then the ovens where their remains were buried, with a side visit to the infirmary where unspeakable “experiments” were carried out.

And yet the neighbors and surrounding community ostensibly didn’t know what was happening, despite being within earshot of the thousands of prisoners suffering and screaming. In fact, some complained about the noise – but not about why it was occurring. The grandmother of our guide, who was seven at the time, said she could smell the stench of the burning bodies; she knew something bad was happening but nobody talked about it.

Survivors greeting US soldiers at Mauthausen. Wikimedia Commons.

Of the 200,000 prisoners who occupied Mauthausen from 1938-1945, about half were killed. There were only 20,000 survivors when liberation finally came on May 5, 1945, with another 80,000 already too ill to benefit from the end of the war. Not surprisingly, the liberators were shocked at the condition of the prisoners. I imagine so too were the community members when they were finally exposed to what was really happening in their backyard. At this point, my stomach was in perpetual decompression mode.
There were signs on walls from visitors in multiple languages: RIP, Never Again, and You won’t be forgotten. A simple drawing of an eye with a tear coming down was the one I most related to.

Most of the guards went home after the war suffering no consequences and little was said about what they had done. No one talked about it. According to our guide, it took Austria four decades to acknowledge its part in the Holocaust.

The Mauthausen Thought Area of today. Wikimedia Commons.

There were multiple school groups of teenagers at the camp and I felt thankful they were learning of the atrocities they otherwise would probably have no knowledge of. I wished I could understand what they were saying about their experience. History will now change as there soon will be no survivors, no one to say this is what actually happened, and the Holocaust will be relegated to the status of other historical occurrences which the young will learn about in school but will not relate to. Who really cares about the Crusades? There will be no visceral understanding. It will have nothing to do with them. There will be nothing to keep it from happening again. I only wish I could call my mother and tell her once again, that now I REALLY understand.

Stephen Brewer – T-Boy writer:

On the Lasithi Plateau

I saw Bartholomew for the first time when I was traveling around Crete twenty years ago. He was standing placidly, shyly almost, a fine long neck slightly bent beneath a mop of thick shiny black hair, sturdy legs planted firmly in the grass of a meadow on the Lasithi Plateau.

Lasithi Plateau in Crete. Photography by Stephen Brewer.

No, this was not a starry-eyed meeting with an Adonis. Bartholomew is a donkey. I have no idea what his real name is. The only other donkey I have ever known was Bartholomew, so that is what I call this one, too. I’ve been back to the Lasithi Plateau at least a dozen times since I met the Greek Bartholomew, who’s usually grazing outside a modest white house at the edge of Tzermiado, a village of just a few streets. I’ve encountered him plodding along the lanes that lace the fields, with bundles of earth-covered vegetables hanging from either side of his back. The cargo looks light and the weathered, bearded man leading him never seems to be in no hurry to get anywhere. I’ve also passed Bartholomew on the road that skirts the edge of the plateau. He’s been pulling a little cart driven by an ancient-looking woman dressed in black, a shawl around her shoulders despite the heat, and a kerchief concealing her hair. Bartholomew has been sauntering lazily and it’s always looked to me as if his companion has nodded off to sleep.

Bartholomew is a noisy animal, and I’ve become accustomed to listening for his hee-haws when I walk on the paths that skirt his pasture. If motorbikes aren’t idling in the broad intersection that passes as the village square, I can sometimes hear him when I’m sitting in the Cafe Kronio late in the evening. The homemade raki is usually taking effect by this time, and I can almost mistake Greek Bartholomew for the Bartholomew of my youth.

The first Bartholomew belonged to Franny, an artist friend of my mother’s who lived on a rose and holly farm her Dutch stepfather established back in the 1920s. Franny liked to throw parties on summer holidays. My parents and their friends would drink cocktails on the trim little lawn in front of Franny’s house as Bartholomew snorted from the other side of a hedge and my brother, sister, and I and any other children who were around ran through the fields and explored the two huge barns. Occasionally my father and a few of the other men would hitch Bartholomew up to a cart. They were unlikely farm hands in their white shirts and dress slacks, and I doubt they had any idea of what they were doing. They managed, though, probably because Bartholomew was docile and patient. We youngsters would clamor aboard and Bartholomew would pull us up and down the long gravel drive that led from the house and barns to the road.

Taverna Cafe Kronio, Tzemadio, Crete. Photograph courtesy of Christine Kargiotakis

One evening Vassilis, who runs the Kronio with his French wife, Christina, handed me a napkin on which he’d sketched a map. “Tomorrow you should make this walk,” he said. “I can’t go with you, but you should be fine.” He poured me some more raki and rummaged in a bookshelf to retrieve a reprint of a scholarly article about Karfi, a Minoan settlement in the Ditka mountains high above the village.

“It all uphill. Am I fit enough for a hike like this?” I asked Vassilis, who is a skilled mountaineer. “Probably. You are not as fat and lazy as many men your age.” I assumed he was implying American men. Over the years he and Christina have told me stories of Americans who have come into the Kronio, usually involving their size and peculiar culinary habits. An exceedingly large American woman on one of the bus tours that brings tourists up from the big resorts on the north coast made an impression when she asked Vassilis to top her baklava with ice cream. “Of course I told her ‘no.’ One does not eat ice cream with baklava,” he reported, shuddering theatrically with indignation. “Incroyable,” Christina added from the desk where she does the accounts.

A historic paved road on the edge of Tzermiado in the Lasithi Plateau. Wikimedia Commons

The next morning I walked past Bartholomew’s pasture so he could bray at me and soon I was picking my way up a steep, stone-strewn path that climbs a shoulder of the mountains. The mind wanders when you’re struggling up a hot hillside, and I thought again of the first Bartholomew. One of my early memories was being thrilled to see his picture on the front page of the newspaper when Franny lent him to the Adlai Stevenson presidential campaign for a photo-op during a whistle stop. I don’t know what became of Bartholomew. Franny sold the farm when I was still in grade school, and I remember being embarrassed because I burst into tears as my dad and I drove around the cul-de-sacs of split-level houses in Holly Hills, the subdivision that replaced the familiar fields.

I was now high enough to see the plateau spread out below me, a tidy patchwork of fields, comfortable and welcoming, enclosed within an unbroken circle of mountain peaks that keep the outside world at bay. White sails of windmills that pump water through irrigation channels moved with the wind. After leveling off a bit the path rose again to the crest of a rise. Just across a gully was a jumble of rocks that are the remains of Karfi, cradled in a fold of barren terrain and indistinguishable from the gray landscape. Far below, the Sea of Crete appeared as a bright blue expanse on the horizon.

Karfi was a sanctuary for the last of the Minoans, who took refuge in these heights about 3,000 years ago, and the civilization that built vast palaces and painted fanciful frescoes of dancing ladies died out on these barren slopes. I could make out faint traces of their single-story houses and gridlike streets, and I could almost see the phantoms of Minoans among the rocks. It was easy to imagine the mountainside humming with the chatter of human souls who no doubt laughed, told stories, shared meals, fought and made peace with one another. Residents out for an evening stroll must have scrambled up to the knoll where I was standing and gazed out to sea.

The return was on a longer route, across a high ridge then a gradual descent on a stone-littered track that herders use to goad goats up and down the mountainside. I’d been picking my way across the rocks for at least half an hour when I began to hear the tinkling of bells and bleats that grew louder as I neared a tall, wide tree. My thoughts of resting in the shade were dashed when I came close enough to see a large herd of goats crowded beneath the branches, sheltering from the sun.

The stunning landscape of the Lasithi Plateau.  Photograph by Stephen Brewer.

A little farther along the scrub gave way to dense, unkempt olive groves. I heard him before I saw him, a loud hee-haw from the overgrowth. Then Bartholomew appeared, grazing in grass almost as tall as him. I noticed he was saddled, and the bearded man I’d seen with him before was working a neatly plowed patch of earth tucked away among the trees. I sat down against a gnarly trunk, not far from Bartholomew, who raised his head to acknowledge my presence. There I soon dozed off, thinking about donkeys and those Minoan ghosts floating around on the mountainside above me.

Tammy Skinner – T-Boy writer:

Rediscovering my Heart and Soul

Expectation burnout. Oh, it’s a thing my friends. A very real one. Which is why when I was asked to ponder the theme of Heart and Soul travel and what that means to me, I instantly knew where I had to go to rediscover my heart and soul which has most definitely been squeezed out of me like a tired dirty mop that has barely any drips of water hanging from its threads. Point blank. I was slightly… just a little teensy OKAY a whole lot depleted. I know I’m not the only one by any means. Who of all of us hasn’t found themselves stretched with oh too many expectations over the past year and counting? Whether it was the expectation of pulling internet connectivity out of thin air when in midst of a zoom call that goes dead or the 40th call from your kids’ teacher that they were falling behind on their fractions and division… we were ALL in some way, shape or form in survival mode. And all of that on top of playing the game of KEEP AWAY with a deadly virus.

For more than 80 years the Little River Inn has been welcoming guests to experience the beauty of the Mendocino Coast. Photograph courtesy of Tamara Skinner.

As my husband and I drove up the Mendonoma Coast after dropping off the kids at their grandparents at Sea Ranch, I could feel a little bit of an exhale coming on. Then we got to Mendocino and the azure blue ocean waters started to cry out my name. TAMMY it called…YOU’RE FREE LIKE THE SEA. Soon we caught glimpse of the spot we had picked for our refuge from incessant expectations – the Little River Inn which is an inviting 80-year-old hotel that has a restaurant (with a full bar) on site and hospitality like no other. It’s been in the family over five generations and the warmth of the owners trickles down to every single employee who seem intent on doing only one thing-to nurture you back to well-being.

Central Californian coastline looking south, with the McWay Rocks in the foreground, and McWay Cove in the center. Photograph courtesy of Diliff.

We also specifically picked Little River Inn for its’ special rooms that come with a hot tub on the deck along with a built-in special back rolling massager (I can’t even talk about this without rolling my eyes to the top of my head). Because of the covid craze, I hadn’t been comfortable getting a human massage so I couldn’t wait to get in the tub and get my machine massage. Oh boy! I don’t know how to describe the pure bliss of sitting in a hot tub overlooking the deepest blue majestic water, soaking in the negative ions and having my muscles pounded releasing the tension which felt like a thousand rocks settled into the river inside my body. As I sat in the tub longer and felt more and more of the rocks dissipate, slowly my own flow started coming through as I was able to hear my intuition again. It had been a while! I missed that trusty guide of mine that I used to be able to access so easily. Turns out over a year of incessant snack demands and frustration tantrum sighs coming from my “zoombies” from their “bedrooms/classrooms” had drowned out that melodic voice of guidance.

Mendocino, California. Photograph courtesy of Jef Poskanzer.

Mother’s Day upon us, newly restored and with exploration vibes drawing us out of our heavenly room, my hubby and I got in the car and drove to the picturesque Mendocino village to see what my heart had in store for me there – revelation wise. Found in the backdrop of many films due to it being established in the 1850s and filled with New England styled Victorian homes (which have been restored into shops, inns and restaurants), we lazily strolled up and down the streets of this peninsula/bluffs surrounded land and wandered into the shops that called to us.

There was one in particular that summoned me in by its décor alone. I seemingly floated into Loot & Lore and found myself instantly surrounded by my favorite things-jewelry, tarot decks and books. I glanced at a beautiful Saints and Mystics deck that begged me to pick a card and picked a message from St. Paul who (according to this deck) was the Patron Saint of writers and spiritual searchers! The synchronicity was not ignored by me who had just told my husband that I’d like to get an intentional sign of a way to release my writer’s block. Finding two intriguing little zines (one on making vision boards and the other entitled GETTING OVER IT: Move on from the Bullshit That is Holding you Back) I decided to buy them along with a pen that had a quartz attached to the end of it with “Be the Light” etched on the side of it. At check out, I befriended the lovely store owner, Cynthia, working the register who told me this pen would cure my writer’s block. Yes please! And thank you! Enchanted by the flow and feeling of effortlessness languishing type roaming my soul told me I was healed.

Animals on display at the Little River Inn. Photography courtesy of Tamara Skinner.

I have often pondered on the fact that like machines we as Americans specifically are programmed to produce. Produce results. Produce good grades. Produce promotions. Produce babies. Produce retirement funds. But what if all of that is just one really really long inhale? What if the answer involves us also concentrating just as much on the exhale? For our waves to recede back in the waters after thy maniacally crash onto the shore? What if we just want to talk? To laugh? To have fun? Be known and understood? Feel the sun on our bare legs, drink champagne, embrace for too long? Mendocino healed me and it didn’t take much. Okay maybe it did. Ocean view+hot tub+negative ions from the waves crashing+genuinely caring employees concerned with my needs+magical stores offering guidance and hope. Most important, this stunning coastal wonder found me in the silence and without interruptions long enough to sneak its guidance in, and voila just like that I find myself back on California’s Highway 1 heading south to pick up our children, eager to practice this new mantra of “producing” less while “allowing” more.

Weave Cleveland – Travel Guys cinematographer:

Super Cool York

It’s surely timing and serendipity that set any particular place in our reverie forever. For me I will forever say that York, England is the most fascinating and enchanting place I have ever visited. You can instantly get lost in history at the walled city of York, and I mean instantly!

York’s city walls (circa 1890 and 1900). Wikimedia Commons.

You can stand in one spot and see Medieval, Gothic, Roman, and Edwardian architecture each direction your eyes are drawn… and more. Not the oldest part of town but the most compelling part is ‘the Shambles.’ Named so for the meat shelves and hooks where butchers and sellers displayed their meats for sale. Those were days long ago. Nowadays it is the ‘must see’ area of the city. It looks like a movie set. You can even spot Turkish architecture mixing in with the Tudor stylings. These narrow, tangled cobblestone streets also have something unique which I have never seen or heard of before – Snickleways. A Snickleway is a narrow tunnel-like passage to get you over to another street without having to walk around the block. An ‘enchanting’ short cut. I think there’s five of them.

Five Snickelways lead off the Shambles in York. Wikimedia Commons.

York has some serious Viking history and I learned something there that now makes sense even in my own city. The Viking word for road is gata. In English, gata gets translated to gate. So, even though I have spent my life imagining a garden gate or front yard gate, etcetera, in this case it actually means road. Bathgate, Helmsgate, Fossgate, Coppergate, Newgate, etcetera. I think that’s cool.

Another fascinating fact was how much time the Romans spent there and all the work they did. Constantine the Great was in York when he became a Roman emperor in 306 A.D. and started his rule from there. He was pretty great, he had a city named for himself – Constantinople (now Istanbul). The magnificent York Minster Cathedral has underground excavation of Roman ruins going on right now since workers in the 1960’s discovered them when trying to shore up the foundation of the Minster.

Bronze statue of Constantine the Great outside York Minster, looking down upon his broken sword, which forms the shape of a cross. Wikimedia Commons.

Now, here’s something really special, especially because I am Canadian and have grown up with these: KitKat, Rolo, Aero, Smarties, York Peppermint Patty… and the list goes on – they all came from York. Terry’s and The Rowntree Family and a few others all started in York. In fact. Mr. Rowntree even helped MacIntosh financially to keep his toffee business going. MacIntosh is still on store shelves today. Not to be confused with the MacIntosh raincoat maker or the Glaswegian designer/architect. The giant firm Nestlé may own them now but these candy bars all came from York.

If you visit York you can see the National Railroad Museum or the birthplace of Guy Faux or visit an old English pub smaller than your current bedroom and even learn all about the horse thief and notorious criminal Dick Turpin… but most of all it will be tangling your way through town that will steal your heart. What a super cool place York is.

Brom Wikstrom – T-Boy writer and mouth painter:

The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. – Proust

It was a revelation to me when visitors to our Seattle home would marvel at our views of Mt. Rainier, the Olympic Mountain Range and Puget Sound. Likewise, guests from other parts of the country would delight in the majesty of towering cedar trees or the red flash of a robin’s breast. These are common sights to us and register appreciation but not the awe-inspiring experience that we have witnessed in others.

View of Mount Rainier National Park from Dege Peak Spur Trail. Wikimedia Commons.

The abundant natural beauty along our shorelines, in our national forests and even the arid portions on the eastern side of Washington State have always moved my spirit in ways that are renewing and I’ve always considered myself fortunate to live in the Pacific Northwest for that reason.

With that in mind, my wife and I began taking winter trips to be with family in St. Petersburg, Florida several years ago and were equally inspired by what to us is exotic wildlife and natural beauty. Because of my wheelchair, I am always in search of accessible trails, promenades and boardwalks where I can engage with nature and Florida offers many such opportunities. We stayed near two local parks that became regular destinations and offered wheelchair accessible trails that highlighted nature and native history in unique settings.

Weedon Island Preserve. Wikimedia Commons.

Sawgrass Lake Park and Weedon Island Park have miles of accessible boardwalks and trails and kayaking options and are treasures of natural wonder. I have enjoyed many peaceful hours in rapt wonder watching the diverse wildlife that call them home. Alligators ply the placid waterways along with turtles, lizards egrets, herons, and pelicans and though these are relatively common sights for residents, I am continuously amazed at the diversity and abundance present at these and other public parks in St. Petersburg.

Salvador Dalí Museum at St. Petersburg, Florida. Wikimedia Commons.

St. Petersburg is equally renowned for its beautiful beaches and the iconic Salvador Dali Museum along with the newly reopened pier and those are surprising, beautiful and culturally dynamic, but give me a few tranquil hours among mangrove swamps and leaping mullets and my heart will sing.

James Boitano – T-Boy writer:

Slovenia

As a geography buff, I’d always wanted to go to Slovenia. Its relative obscurity made vis-à-vis its better-known and more war-torn former constituent republics of the former Yugoslavia made it all the more appealing. I like obscure even more than well known Why go to France when you can go to Luxembourg or better yet, Andorra? And what was this little country of 2 million people like there tucked at the crossroads of the Germanic, Italic and Slavic worlds? I just had to wait for my chance.

Slovenia’s capital city of Ljubljana. Wikimedia Commons.

So, in 2002 while attending the Eurovision music event in Riga Latvia, I met Samo. He was a rumpled, brilliant, and kind high school teacher, a fellow Eurovision fan, and the first Slovenian I’d ever met. We so hit it off as friends, spending hours until late at night, engrossed in conversation at the hotel bar after the events and day’s rehearsals. We met again at Eurovision in 2005 in Kiev and again at Eurovision in 2007 in Helsinki. And each time, he invited me to stay at his home in Slovenia’s little capital city of Ljubljana. I finally took him up on his offer in 2011 for a 10-day visit. And you know what? I returned for another 10-day visit in 2012, And another in 2014 and my 4th x 10-day visit in 2017 (Covid prevented my last trip in 2020). Needless to say, Slovenia won my heart. During my 40 days of visits, Samo showed me every corner of the small country: from the mighty Alpine valleys to the Venetian Adriatic Coast, the rolling hills of the wine region, the little villages of the Pannonian Plain. For a small country, you can reach any region within 2 hours of Ljubljana. But most of all I met Samos friends and family.

Lake Bled, Slovenia. Wikimedia Commons.

Every night we would sit at a café and a crowd of a dozen would join us. The bar we went to was one owned by the father of the most famous Slovene, the father of Melanija Trump and they ironically called it the ‘First Lady Café’. I felt like so accepted by the people, the opposite of a tourist. Small countries so appreciate the attention, they are so often overlooked. And in small country, even a high school teacher is bound to know many people.

A traditional double straight-line hayrack in Slovenia. Wikimedia Commons.

During my visits I was a guest on Slovenian National Radio (during the coveted 1:00 am to 2:00 am spot!). Samo just knew the guy there and when he heard there was captive foreigner, I was invited. And during my 4 visits I attended several birthday parties held by his relatives and a wedding, at each being made to feel like a guest of honor. One day, I got to go on rounds with his friend who picked up produce at local farms and delivered them to grocery stores. We spent all day and crossed half the country. Imagine doing that as a ‘tourist’? And so, after all this, Slovenia has a big place in my heart…and I will return as soon as this post-Covid world allows.

Ed Boitano – T-Boy editor:

Ireland’s Romantic West Coast

My wife and I woke up to the smell of rich morning coffee. It was to be part of our breakfast on our first day in Ireland’s wild west coast. It has been said that all Irish homes become a bed and breakfast during the summer, and this Donegal County cottage with one spare room was no exception.

Full Irish breakfast. Wikimedia Commons.

The owners fussed over us at the table as we enjoyed a full Irish Breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausages, black and white pudding, fried potatoes and homemade rolls with marmalade. They told us of the area’s attractions and educated us on the Irish Potato Famine, that began in 1845 and lasted for six years, killing over a million men, women and children and caused another million to flee the country. The owner explained, the Irish in the countryside began to live off wild blackberries, nettles, turnips, old cabbage leaves, seaweed, roadside weeds and, towards the end of the Famine, green grass. The owner added you could always identify a Famine victim by the green grass stains around their mouth. He suggested that we read his favorite book about the Famine, The Silent People by Walter Macken.

To this day no one knows who these people were and how they were able to move such mammoth rocks. Photo courtesy of Nicolas Raymond & Brin Kennedy Weins, Wikimedia Commons.

We followed his instructions and found a Famine Pot in the middle of a forest, where some locals placed food for the displaced victims. It felt like we were walking through history.

We had already anticipated a trip to Slieve League Cliffs on the far west coast of Donegal, and were not disappointed once we arrived. Towering over 2,000 feet from the Atlantic Ocean, it is one of the highest sea cliffs in Europe. Its visual splendor gets my vote for the most striking site in Ireland.

We headed down the road to County Sligo for a pilgrimage to the gravesite of our favorite poet, W.B. Yeats (1865-1939), and soon found ourselves stuck in the car, avoiding a heavy downpour. We didn’t mind, we read Yeats and listened to an Altan CD, our favorite traditional Donegal music group, while basking in awe at the stunning green countryside. We read where the lyrical name “Emerald Isle” arrived from William Dennan, an Irish physician, poet and liberal political radical, in his poem When Erin First Rose in 1795.

Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery. Wikimedia Commons.

Once the weather cleared, we stumbled upon Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery, the largest burial site of Megalithic tombs in Ireland, built around 4600-3900 B.C. To this day no one knows who these people were and how they were able to move such mammoth rocks. We both could feel the power of the setting and something came over us; before we knew it, we were renewing our wedding vows. After a Sunday pub meal of  Irish fjord lamb, potatoes and Guinness we found another B&B, where (once again) we were the only guests. We wanted to take the owner home with us, and to this day remain in contact. From her window we could see cattle swimming across a river.

The striking ‘terrible’ beauty of the Connemara. Photo courtesy of Chris Hood, via Wikimedia Commons.

The next day, it was a drive through the sweeping Connemara in County Galway, a stunning landscape where author Charles Dicken once described as a place of “terrible beauty.” We pulled off the road to study a Famine Trail named for the Doolough Tragedy of 1849. Scores of destitute and starving people staggered through horrendous weather for 15 miles to a manor’s house in the hope of food, only to be turned away. Apparently, the owner was too busy having lunch to be bothered. Later, corpses were found by the side of the road with grass in their mouth, while others desperately crawled to a local church where they could die on consecrated ground.

The annual Doolough Famine Walk. Photo courtesy Tourism Ireland.

Once a year a famine walk takes place on the trail to commemorate the victims. As we departed down the road, we both commented that we had not seen a single car for over half an hour. A second later there was a rumbling on the road. We had a flat, not unusual on these rock-strewn Irish roads, but faced with having to unpack our little rental’s cram packed trunk just to find the spare tire was a daunting thought. Before we knew it, two cars, each arriving from the opposite direction, appeared out of nowhere. The drivers both hopped out and quickly changed our tire. They barely stuck around for a handshake. Such is the hospitality of the Irish.

It was pitch black when we arrived at our next bed and breakfast accommodations, and laughed in wonder on how the owners managed to get the bed into our little room. But where were we? In the morning, with the blazing sun illuminating this piece of paradise, we realized our B&B was nestled on the banks of a breathtaking fjord. We were in the town of Liane, where the film, The Field was made. In one of the local pubs a huge painting of the film’s star, Richard Harris, hangs above the fireplace. On our dinner plates was lobster caught that very day in the fjord. A tablemate explained to us that in pre-EU Ireland there were no taxes on food, books and children’s clothing. Upon hearing this, my wife literally held back tears.

A traditional music session at the Gus O’Connor Pub in Doolin.
Photo courtesy of Chris Hood, via Wikimedia Commons.

Eventually we made it down to the musical town of Doolin, a coastal fishing village in County Clare on the Atlantic coast. Coined the traditional music capital of Ireland, this was an adult Disneyland for us where a number of pubs specialized in Irish session music each night. We joined in with locals and like-minded tourists, had big pub meals of more lamb and potatoes, bacon (think ham) and cabbage, then nursed pints of Guinness as we listened to reels, jigs and haunting ballads, many about the Famine and emigration.

Our daytimes were spent on trips to the Aran Islands, a landscape once so cruel and unforgiving that it consisted solely of solid limestone rock, where rugged locals actually had to produce their own soil, made of seaweed and smashed rocks to grow potatoes, their only source of subsidence; then the windy, yet curiously tranquil Cliffs of Moher, standing 702 feet with a stretch of five miles, featuring panoramic views of the Atlantic as far as the eye can see; a massive Dolomite burial site located on a livestock farm (its only explanation, a note from the farmer, “Mind the Gate”); exploring additional archaeological wonders in the Burren as well as its castles, some now converted to private residences. We carry the memories with us wherever we go. Yes, Erin Go Bragh!

Postscript:

The Hand of Human Kindness: The Irish and American Indian Tribal Nations

In 1847, the Choctaw People in the U.S. collected $170 – the equivalent of several thousand dollars today – to send to the people in Ireland who were starving during the Potato Famine. The senseless deaths and struggles  experienced by the Irish was familiar to the tribal nation: Just 16 years earlier the Choctaw had embarked on the forced 5,043 mile-long Trail Of Tears, due to tyrant and American President Andrew Jackson’s illegal Indian Relocation Act. Thousands of their own succumbed to death from starvation, disease and freezing temperatures. Though the Choctaw People had meager resources, they gave on behalf of others in greater need.

A dignified Choctaw family. Photographer unknown. Wikimedia Commons

The Irish have long felt a debt of gratitude to American Indians. When current news broke that the Navajo and Hopi tribes were being ravaged by the coronavirus, Irish journalist Naomi O’Leary tweeted that now would be a good time to return the favor. That tweet went viral, and soon donations were pouring in from the Irish people, along with messages of gratitude and support.

In 2017, the Choctaw Native American Monument was erected in Midleton, Ireland, to honor the American Indian tribe that aided the Irish during the Great Potato Famine in 1847.

Kindred Spirits sculpture in Ireland, dedicated to the Choctaw Nation for their aid during the Great Irish Famine.
Credit: Photograph courtesy of ChoctawNation.com.

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The rippled river, a distinguished passageway exploited by the Romans, Saxons, Vikings, and Normans alike, though not one of them with a hint of good thoughts, is where during the construction of the County Hall, a 38-foot Roman boat, circa 296 CE, was found buried in the muddy banks, a refining cleansing omen for the indefatigable Thames.

From the outside terrace of the six-story London Marriott County Hall located near the foot of Westminster Bridge, visitors soak in the view of shredded clouds gilded with saffron brilliance that hover above the river boats riding low in the water like sluggish ants just awakened from a deep sleep, while tour vessels crowned with camera-laden visitors move to and fro. The police boat like a toy removed from a bath tub slips pass as indifferent pigeons in chirring flight ruffle their wings.

Renowned throughout Europe, County Hall has been greeting guests since 1922 when King George V and Queen Mary first waved their batons to mark its grand opening as the London County Council headquarters. Designed with a Portland stone facade, floors of teak and oak, heavy bronze doors, and elaborate paneling in the floor-to-ceiling English Renaissance style, the County Hall inspired a grand reawakening on the South Bank.

The Edwardian Baroque-style edifice quickly became a symbol of London government comparable to the palace of Westminster. In World War II, the already historical monument was hit by a German bomb, yet in true stiff upper lip fashion continued greeting the notables of the era, including Heads of State and Winston Churchill cigar dangling.

Serving for 60 years as the headquarters of the Metropolitan government in London, County Hall was purchased by Marriott in 1998, and then carefully retained the significant exterior and ambiance of the building, preserving much of the original flooring, the wide corridors, Block Belgian Marble fireplaces, and wood paneled chambers. The building was skillfully decorated with art deco detailing, notable black and white photos, Coats of Arms, and glorious large format paintings depicting the building’s original era.

A London Spectacle

The architects back in the day cleverly used its prime location to accentuate the building’s splendor and design. The 206-room hotel with 12 exclusive suites, seven boasting private balconies, represents the ultimate in five-star retreats and offers the best views in London, if not all of England.

The suites embrace 180-degree vistas of London’s cityscape, encompassing the busy Thames, The Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Bridge, The London Eye, Golden Jubilee Bridge, and the Jubilee Walkway. The suites were planned for those on the road who appreciate good taste and comfort and are a favorite among Cunard transatlantic cruisers. High thread-count bedding, loos with early 20^th century style mosaic flooring, walls decorated with London maps from the era of the building’s infancy, and a large orange armchair, a tribute to the orange and red leather upholstered seating used in the London Council Chambers, are in place.

Dining with a View

Respected Chef Jamie Welch from South Hampton oversees County Hall’s popular Gillray’s Steakhouse & Bar. Welch partnered with O’Shea’s, a farm in Northern England producing organic, pasture-fed, Aberdeen Angus beef aged for a minimum of 35 days, and Spatchcock Chicken, prepared with a glaze of honey and mustard. The extensive menu also lists a Vegetable Patch Vegan entrée, and for starters offers an appetizing roasted garlic soup, scallop and lime ceviche, and garden-fresh smoked asparagus.

High Tea

Afternoon High Tea in the Library is a Marriott County Hall tradition served by a collection of attractive and articulate ladies from Spain, High Tea is an elegant refined service that includes a selection of twelve teas, French Champagne, London-cured salmon, freshly baked scones with County Hall strawberry jam, pastries, and cakes. The romantic setting is a County Hall exclusive every afternoon while beyond the Thames, Westminster City awaits.

Westminster Wow

Stepping out into the heart of Westminster, clouds are often hanging low over the Thames while drivers with great skills negotiate the narrow streets designed for horse and carriages. Occasional buskers playing Chopin on weather-worn violins bring an aura of romance and elegance to the city streets. With its roots in the 11^th century, Westminster has England’s greatest variety of architecture and an abundance of buildings with historical significance including Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London dating back to the time of the Norman conquest of 1066. Surprisingly, Westminster is also home to more than 100 green spaces, as well as Whitehall Gardens, just steps from Marriott’s County Hall.

When You Go

The Victorians struggled with traffic congestion in 1897 and Westminster and London are continuing the pattern. For an intriguing overview, hook up with Golden Tours and their Hop-On Hop-Off open-top buses, or use the world’s finest cab drivers who have no need for GPS and can often even sing a little Sinatra.

For further information, visit Marriott County Hall; Cunard; Golden Tours.

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Okay, is there anyone who actually made it through childhood without at least a cursory introduction to Peter Rabbit, Flopsy and Mopsy and that mean old farmer McGregor? Well, this is where they lived until Beatrix caught them and immortalized them forever in little 5” by 4”-sized books.

Her books sold more than any other children’s stories ever although I suspect Pat the Bunny, Peter’s more tactile cousin, has since given him a run for his money…

So first, something about that Lake District which Beatrix Potter so loved. The countryside is so tantalizingly green the color needs a new more enchanting name.

Quintessentially English replete with requisite sheep, rolling hedgerows, low slung stone walls criss-crossing the landscape into checkerboard squares, slate-roofed stone houses, and hot pink, orange-gold and deep purple explosions of color so vibrant as to rival the most brightly lit of neon Nikes so popular today. And by contrast, in the middle of the district, craggy mountainous regions lend an even more dramatic flair. And, oh yes, then there are the lakes — 16 of them; ergo, the District’s name.

A world so clichely picturesque, with OMG moments at every turn, which serves to explain the many artists who flocked here to replicate its beauty on canvas. An entire expanse of visual wonderment extending for miles in every direction that makes scenic overlook signs ridiculously redundant. All of which is a walker’s wonderland with public footpaths as plentiful on every country road as Starbucks are on every street corner in the U.S. No wonder Beatrix Potter fell in love.

I saw so many rabbits scampering about as we hiked the countryside, I felt this was an open invitation — as it must have been for Beatrix — to follow them further into their world, even if that turned out to be a very commercial but wonderfully inventive, creative, interactive enterprise appropriately nicknamed The World of Peter Rabbit. But more on that later.

And splattered throughout the countryside are hilly historic towns with cobblestone streets and hidden alleyways that now sport shops, pubs and curbside cafes, with such lyrical names as Branthwaite Brow, All Hollows and Beast Bank Lane. And a lot more stone, this time on buildings, many from the 16th-18th centuries, evoking memories of Renaissance–era maidens and merchants plying their trade, oblivious to the KFC establishment right across the street.

But there is nothing modern about a visit to Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home for 38 years and the site of many of her creations’ adventures. Many homes reflect the personalities of their owners — and sometimes even their pets. But rarely is a home so filled with the immediacy of its owner’s creations as is Hill Top, first purchased in 1905, that they appear so alive as to permeate not only the house but the surrounding village and countryside, all of which became additional characters in what were soon to become a series of beloved children’s books. And once you enter the grounds and garden of Hill Top, with all its original furnishings, you are transported back to the world as it was until the day she died. Except for the occasional young visitor who has been known to ask the guides, “So is she Harry Potter’s granny?”

Pick up “A Tale of Samuel Whiskers” lying about as you walk in and follow the book’s tale as you see the holes where the mice lived that threatened Tom Kitten! You can accompany Pigland Bland as he wanders thru the village and seek to protect Jemima Puddle-Duck’s egg as it lays hidden in the rhubarb patch. You can almost hear the Two Bad Mice discussing the ham and cheese that don’t seem quite edible because they are, of course, from Beatrix’s doll house which is right in front of you in the parlor.

And not only her stories — but her life. Her desks contain letters she wrote, often illustrated with little cartoons and drawings; the first edition of Peter Rabbit, which started simply as a story written in letter form in September 1893 to cheer up a sick son of her former governess, is available for viewing.

The whole house becomes alive through the illustrations in her stories — or is it that the illustrations become alive because they re-create the reality of her home? The parlor contains a table with some partially eaten biscuits and some correspondence Beatrix was evidently in the process of completing — clearly she is expected to return at any moment…

So much of the house, the grounds and the village reflected in the books remain unchanged, you can relive the delightful tales of your youth in a way no perfunctory read in your own living room can provide.

And indeed every area shop seemingly sells some version of Peter Rabbit memorabilia. Emblematic of how much he invades the neighborhood, when my husband and I stopped at a local pub for some requisite fish and chips, he asked about the soup of the day. When told by the bartender that it was carrot, he quipped: “How appropriate. No doubt Peter Rabbit’s favorite…”

And remember the rabbits cavorting in the countryside? Well, here’s where their namesake really comes alive. In the downtown section of Bowness-on-Windermere there stands a very different testimonial to the creations of Beatrix Potter. More commercial perhaps but no less intriguing.  The World of Beatrix Potter Attractions, unconnected with the National Trust preservation of Hill Top, offers an animated version of all 23 of Potter’s tales brought to life in an indoor re-creation of the Lake District countryside she loved and her lovable characters inhabited  complete with sights, sounds and smells.

I mean how thrilling is it to find that Jemima Puddle-Duck was a real duck that lived at Hill Top whose efforts to hatch her own eggs, thwarted by a conniving fox nearby, were protected by Kep the collie, Beatrix’s favorite sheepdog. You can’t get more real life than that — and we’re talking cartoon characters!

Throughout the attraction are life-size dioramas of scenes from her books, sometimes comprising an entire forest, that it’s hard to imagine that they were once only illustrations in a book the size of 4×5 inches???  The whole exhibit replicates a stroll through Beatrix Potter’s home and garden.

Each exhibit entreats the viewer to press a “Find out more” button which provides an explanation of what inspired Beatrix to write that particular story and how she developed those particular characters. Each larger-than-life display lifts the characters from the page to inhabit your consciousness in a way few fairy-tales — or for that matter, adult literary protagonists — ever will. There is so much background information about each character — and there are dozens — that it is almost impossible to absorb it all unless you are a very devoted Beatrix Potter aficionado. It’s a journey through a lifetime of literature.

Adele Wilson from Scotland, with nary a kid in tow was so obviously enthralled by the exhibits that I couldn’t resist asking why. “My granny used to read these books to me at night, and seeing these presentations brings it all back to life. I had forgotten how much I had loved all those stories.” She isn’t alone.

For more information, visit National Trust, The World of Beatrix Potter and Go Lakes.

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If I told you one of the most romantic ways to get to one of Britain’s most spectacular resorts is by cruise ship, you might think I’d gone — as the British might say — a little batty. Then again consider it serves up a typically Upper Crust, very High Society drink called Pimms Number One. Believe me, it’s the most refreshing drink this side of London. Suppose on top of all this, I said the best local sightseeing is a forest with over 3,000 cuddly, charming and loveable ponies? Of all the luxurious places in which I’ve stayed around the world, Chewton Glen ranks among the very best. While the name Chewton Glen possibly sounds Scottish, it is uniquely British, croquet and all! This gorgeous, romantic and one of a kind hotel, spa and country club is located 90 minutes South of London’s Heathrow airport, in the county of Hampshire, and just 35 minutes from the historic port of Southampton, home of British liners the Queen Mary 2 and the Queen Victoria.

Traveling the world as much as I have, it’s a challenge to pinpoint one destination as being better than any other. Yet after I’d spent two nights at Chewton Glen, I knew it is Nirvana. This quintessential 5 star resort is the type of destination you’re convinced exists only in your imagination. Set on the edge of the 145 square mile New Forest, home of the above ponies, Chewton provides guests total comfort and luxury. Then again if you want river fishing as fishing should be, how about doing it in Timsbury on the River Test? As I quickly found out after I’d arrived at Chewton Glen, staying there is the epitome of what a much slower, much more relaxed lifestyle is all about.

Climb aboard a tour bus organized by Chewton Glen’s concierge, for a fascinating tour of the New Forest, and if you’re a WW2 buff you’ll probably be surprised to see a very old US Air Force runway from WW2 — decaying and crumbling in places, but still a reminder of where US fighters and bombers took off on their bombing missions over Europe. I found the word “New” somewhat disingenuous, because the New Forest was created by none other than William the Conqueror back in the year 1079! Take the tour, as it’s like taking a trip back in time, with a landscape mostly unchanged since medieval times.

There are almost countless options regarding the time honored question of “What are we going to do today? Consider; Golf on Chewton’s 9 hole course; having real fun playing the very British game of croquet on their British Home and Gardens’ type lawn; relishing the tasteful delights of a scrumptious afternoon tea on the patio; or finding complete relaxation in their Hydrotherapy Pool, Chewton Glen is totally captivating.

Leading travel publications constantly vote it as the best hotel in the British Isles, and every one of its 72 charming bedrooms are so comfortable you’ll probably want to spend more time there than you imagined. Especially as most accommodations have their own terrace, balcony or, now get this, private garden. If, among the fragrant aromas that waft around this 130 acre property from the profusion of multi colored flowers, you also notice a whiff of fresh sea breezes, you’d be correct. Taking a wonderful trail called “The Chewton Bunny” it’s only a 20 minute walk to the English Channel!

Whether it’s the heated towel rack in your mini suite, the fluffy towels that envelop you after your shower or bath, or soaking up the ambience in one of the resort’s lounges (that made me feel I was in the home of some English Lord or Lady) Chewton Glen should be on your list of places to enjoy in Great Britain.

While you’re there be sure you ask for a Pimms Number One Cup. This drink is as British as a cup of tea, and harkens back to a London Oyster Bar in 1840. The owner, James Pimm, wanted a drink that was a real thirst quencher, and created a mixture of gin, quince, and a secret mixture of herbs. It became an instant hit. The Pimms No 1 Cup served by Chewton Glen is the best ever, and uses the following for each Pimms served — a slice of orange, lemon, apple and — now get this — cucumber and one sprig of mint — then add two parts lemonade to one part Pimms. And hey Presto you’ve got the best Pimms in all of the United Kingdom.

Many websites are often difficult to navigate, but when you go to the Chewton Glen website  you’ll be captivated by its harmonious simplicity, and the wealth of worthwhile and intriguing information.

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When one invokes images of English King Henry VIII they’re generally of an obese and egoistical king, who was no stranger to the royal casting couch, despite his marrying a number of his conquests. But this is not the Henry of early years; an avid hunter and sportsman, a helpless romantic, sublime dancer, and highly educated man who composed his own songs and played numerous musical instruments. Henry was in born in 1491, the second son of King Henry VII. He was once a tall and slender man, considered physically attractive and charismatic.  But a tragic jousting accident led to a life-long, unhealed wound on his leg, ending his physical days of sport, dancing, and hunting. Plus, he was confronted with daily excruciating pain that added greatly to his discomfort in walking and gruff demeanor.

The world’s best surgeons could find no solution. His metabolism changed too, and with his preference of feasting on wild game, generally served in fattening pies, then washed down with gallons of wine to help subside the pain, he became a whale of a man, best known today by his royal portraitures. Henry was also a man who never ate his vegetables, dismissing anything dug from the ground as suitable to only the common man. No English King, though, was more responsible for laying the groundwork for making the British Empire the world’s greatest power, lasting for two-hundred years.

Henry VIII is considered the ‘father of the Royal Navy,’ building up the fleet to 50 or so vessels, despite the embarrassing premier of his first vessel sinking in the River Thames  due to the extra weight of heavy armament

He also instituted new weaponry, armor and longbow archery competitions, which he would incorporate into his army, making the archers a highly-skilled and terrifying adversary to their enemies.

Henry’s third marriage was to lady-in-waiting, Jane Seymour, who finally produced the son he desperately desired, Edward, in 1537. Sadly, Jane Seymour died after childbirth. Henry ordered a queen’s funeral, and is buried next to her in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. As part of the Tudor dynasty, King Henry VIII ruled England from 1509 to 1547.

Henry VIII & Hampton Court Palace

With the death of his Henry’s elder brother, he became heir to the English throne, but was considered unfit to rule at the age of 10. Cardinal Thomas Wolsey was awarded the title of Lord Chancellor, and stepped in to rule the nation and amassed a considerable fortune. Sparing no expense, Wolsey built the original Tudor palace, Hampton Court Palace, along the Thames, then on the outskirts of London. It was considered the finest palace in England. Henry was soon anointed king, and, in the Tudor tradition, married the widow of his brother, Katharine of Aragon from Spain. When Katharine, now in her 40s, was unable to produce a male heir, he turned his eyes on one of Katharine’s ladies-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn. He instructed Wolsey to ask Pope Leo X to annul his first marriage, but when Wolsey failed to succeed in this impossible task, Henry broke with the church and married the now pregnant Anne Boleyn. Henry was excommunicated from the church, and the English reformation began where he appointed himself as head of the Church of England.

Hampton Court attracted Henry’s attention, and Woolsey, who had fallen out of his favour, wisely gifted him the palace. Henry was a lavish spender, always in need of income, so he ordered that 800 well-funded monasteries be disbanded and their lands and treasures taken for the crown. No expense was too much for Henry as he began to enlarge Hampton Court. He already owned over sixty houses and palaces, yet few were large enough to hold or feed his assembled court of 1,000 subjects. A vast kitchen was built, quadrupling the original size. The renovation of the palace followed the design by Wolsey’s Gothic Tudor and Baroque architectural-style, adorned with Renaissance ornaments.

Henry used Hampton Court to demonstrate magnificence and power through lavish banquets, extravagant court life and expensive art. By the 1530s, Hampton Court became a palace, a hotel, a theatre and a vast leisure complex. It was Henry’s favorite royal residence, and only two of his surviving ones.

The palace was once again renovated and enlarged by architect, Christopher Wren, when King William III and Mary II (1689-1702) took the throne in 1689. A highpoint is the formal Baroque landscape with its radiating avenues, fountains and gardens.

Once iiside, I was confronted with the lavish use of half-timber, rectangular and bay windows, carved wood paneled walls, lavish moldings and design. Two staircases   lead to the 106 ft. long and 40 ft. wide Great Hall banquet room where Henry would ‘play’ the role of a Renaissance monarch. The hall features a spectacularly decorated hammer-beam, and walls covered by Henry’s most treasured tapestries. I was pleasantly surprised to find everything so accessible, making it easy to become part of the experience. I felt like a monarch by literally sitting at Henry’s place at the grand table, or laying down in a large sleeping room, which I assumed was for less distinguished guests, for there was only straw on the floor as bedding.

Not to be missed are the royal tennis courts where Henry would play, and the Chapel Royal, with its magnificent vaulted ceiling, where he would pray. Also on display are works of art from the Royal  Collection. Was King Henry VIII the king of consumption? You can join the guided King’s cook tours to find out, as well as be part of many other tours. Hampton Court is easy to get to, just 12 miles southwest and upstream of central London It’s also fairly inexpensive for what you receive, plus the very essential London Pass is accepted, the only way to see London.

For further information, visit the Hampton Court web page.

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1. Question: What are some of the “ fun things” that passengers enjoy on the Lynton & Lynmouth Funicular Cliff Railway?

Answer:

The famous Lynton & Lynmouth funicular Cliff Railway is the most exciting way to travel between these two historic towns and will be the highlight of any visit. Passengers enjoy stunning views of the North Devon Coastline as they ride the steepest totally water powered railway in the world! Perched on the cliff top is our “grade I” listed historic cafe offering perhaps the best views and location for a Cream Tea in the Westcountry.

2. Question: What’s one thing the public probably does NOT know about the Lynton & Lynmouth Funicular Cliff Railway?

Answer:

During a busy year the Cliff Railway can carry up to 400,000 passengers.

3. Question: Share some aspect of what is unique about Lynton & Lynmouth Funicular Cliff Railway.

Answer:

During really hot weather of 86 degrees (F) the 262 metre track expands by up to 10mm an hour until the sun goes off the track at 1300 hrs.

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What makes this so exceptional is that the Lynton and Lynmouth Cliff Railway is powered entirely by water! Yes, you read that right. Built originally to bring cargoes and produce from Lynmouth up the hardy, steep cliffs to Lynton at the top in 1887, passenger and freight service began in 1888. The railway has 2 cars, or carriages, with each able to carry 40 people. They’re connected by steel wire ropes, which go around a 5 ft, 6 inch pulley at each end of the incline. But here’s where you get the most ingenious and, I think, truly unique aspect of this extraordinary “Must Ride” railway.

The car at the bottom in pulled to the top by the fact that the one at the top is heavier. That’s because under each car is a huge 700 Imperial gallon tank filled with – are you ready – WATER! Water is discharged from the car at the bottom, until the heavier top car begins to descend – the departure and speed of each car is coordinated by a “Brakeman” or engineer, in each car. The 3 ft 9 in gauge track is 862 feet in length, with the top station at Lynton being 500 feet away – so giving the track an incline of 1:1.75.  They “Bend” in the middle part of track allowing both cars to pass one another.

The water comes in an endless supply from the West Lyn River (about a mile away) and is discharged from/by the “Bottom car” onto the nearby Lynmouth beach. Another fact I found equally intriguing, is that they’re allowed by law, to extract 60,000 gallons of water a day from the nearby river.

As someone who loooooooves (!) Devon cream teas, you absolutely must have one of the famous Cream teas at the railway’s Cliff Top Café  where you’ll not only get a spectacular view of Lynmouth Bay and the  gorgeous scenery that surrounds you, but also enjoy homemade cakes, tasty sandwiches and, of course, their  mouthwatering cream tea. Aaah, wish I was there now.

I’m always on the lookout for classic, truly unique trains to tell you about. 4 miles from the Cliff Railway you’ll find “an adorable, timeless steam train.” Regular bus service is every day except Sunday. The steam engines? Well, you’ve got “AXE” and “ISAAC” built in 1952. They traverse gorgeous wild moorland, with super views of the picturesque coastline.  A replica of one of the lines original locomotives “LYN,” and built by Baldwin in Philadelphia, is nearing completion and she’ll bring a memory involving taste of the American West to the landscape of North Devon.

The engines, carriages and rolling stock and entire operation are one of the finest examples anywhere of narrow gauge railways, and I urge to see the Lynton & Barnstaple Railway at www.lynton-rail.co.uk Then relish a memorable trip back in time aboard this classic train of yesteryear.  I know you’ll love it!

Next month, UNDER the Oceans. Would YOU go in one?

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