Lindisfarne: The Holy Island of Anger

 Last Thursday we grabbed sack lunches and filed onto another coach, this time traveling two hours to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne to visit the Lindisfarne Priory. Built in 635 A.D., it’s known as the oldest Anglo-Saxon Northumbrian Christian monastery, and for its most famous bishop, St. Cuthbert. During a Viking raid in the late 10^th Century, monks moved the saint’s remains to Durham where they built the Durham Cathedral. Since Durham has been our home for the last three weeks, that’s pretty darn neat. Lindisfarne also had some exciting happenings. I’m afraid to put any premature value judgments on the trip, so I’ll tell you the story and then just let you decide for yourself how it went.

A few of the ancient stones at Lindisfarne Priory. 

 Anyway, I got on the coach and nabbed a seat in the row where the cool kids would’ve sat on a normal school bus, but there were still about five rows behind me. The bus was huge. I tried reading on the way there and I thought was working well until I woke up about 20 minutes shy of our destination. At certain times, Lindisfarne is truly an Island because the tide comes in and covers the road, stranding everyone bound by wheels for at least four hours (us until 5 p.m.). When we got there we grabbed our lunches – fruit, Kit-Kat, juice, and a ham and butter sandwich – and headed for the ruins off to the right. There were no signs leading to the Lindisfarne Priory Ruins, so we followed our eyes, as the stonework rose high above the local houses. The two guys in our group were leading the way, and they led us to an inn and open area where the ruins were just across a garden. It looked like an entrance until we got closer and realized that the wall was more like a three and a half foot drop instead of a little stone staircase.  However, we didn’t see any better entrance, so we decided to make do. Somebody suggested wearing dresses that day so we could have a group picture day, which naturally led to a bit of a problem finding the most ladylike way to fling ourselves over the rock wall. Most of us had made the leap with varying degrees of success when an angry lady ran over to us screaming all the while. She said we were breaking the rules of common courtesy by climbing over walls and insinuating we were all raised in something of a barbaric manner. Next she lashed out at us for climbing over an ancient rock wall, because obviously ancient stones are not for climbing. Then in all her infallible logic she demanded we retrace our path and clamber back over the delicate, ancient stones that got her so bent out of shape in the first place. It took a good 20 seconds of silently blinking at her tirade before Dr. Quinn started defending our actions, explaining that we simply took a wrong turn. A little man from the museum also scurried over at that point, so Dr. Quinn turned and repeated our logic. Meanwhile, the lady continued her half rant/half squawk at the rest of us, broken intermittently by Dr. Quinn’s shouted explanations to her during pauses in his discussion with the museum guy. Finally the guy was satisfied that we’d made an honest mistake. Either that or he realized the impossibility of forcing about a dozen young women in knee-length dresses to climb a wall more than half their heights. Perhaps he just realized the liability in the scenario, since he said his insurance policy took a strict anti-rock-wall-hopping stance. However, even after he left, the badgery hotel worker (who had absolutely zero affiliation with the ruins, mind you) renewed her verbal attack. I didn’t move during the showdown, both trusting a now-feisty Dr. Quinn to work it out and doubting my ability to gracefully ascend the wall without giving the rest of the group a first-class show. Because of our apparent heathen-like disregard for common courtesy, the lady maintained we should assault the ancient rock wall and retrace our steps for a proper entrance, even after Dr. Quinn explained we lost our way but had it okayed. Eventually, with a final acerbic “sorry,” our professor turned to us and told us to go look at ruins. The ruins were in worse shape than those in Rievaulx, but we looked extra hard at them after suffering through that verbal onslaught. Dr. Quinn occasionally took breaks from staring at the ground and sidestepping a further offence on ancient ruins to point out little historical bits of information that we missed while replaying his fight from memory. I think we all felt a little better when we left the place and headed to eat our lunch along the sea.

Along the way to our lunch break I stopped to look at a harbor that was filled with boats and tiny ships.  There was also a dad with his little son and a darling shaggy dog all playing on the shoreline.  I turned to my friend and said something along the lines of, “That’s the cutest dog ever; I just want to steal it!”

It takes mad skills (that I don't have)
to build towers like this.

Almost immediately, a family standing nearby starting whistling and calling, “Judy, come! Come ‘ere girl!” They were looking at the cute dog that I nonliterally threatened to steal. Whoops. A little later on we went to another part of the beach and were treated to stone stacking displays all along the coastline. I thought they had a calming effect, a bit like a Zen garden. Another girl in our group called them dream stones, explaining that if you could balance your stone on top of the pile your dream would come true. Four of us tried to build a stone tower, which got four stones high before toppling. Then we wised up and took pictures with a pre-built tower so we could masquerade as being just as in tune with balance and nature as any yoga instructor. By 2:30 our group had exhausted the bulk of the activities offered on the Holy Island, so we wound up wandering through town and stopping at a coffee shop. There were a limited number of places to explore, which made me further appreciate not living on an island that floods every day. However, it was a cute town and a great way to spend a day as long as you manage to avoid wrathful hotel workers.

Forever plaid (or tartan)

Last weekend we went to Edinburgh (pronounced Eh-den-burr-uh). I hiked to the train station, about a 30-minute walk, along with another girl. It was still rather early in the morning, so I thought it might be chilly. Nope. Durham is another one of those magical cities where no matter where you trek, you’re going to head uphill, and of course this makes the trek even toastier. However, it wasn’t bad, and we got some fresh air to start our day. After we got to the train station, we met up with the rest of the group on the platform. There was no security, and we simply had to feed our tickets through a turnstile to get to the train platform. This was my first train trip, or at least the first time I’ve taken a train as a means of transportation instead of just an attraction. It was nice. The train was much smoother than what I thought; I jotted down a few notes during the trip, and it was just barely more jagged than my usual untamed penmanship. Anyway, it took fewer than two hours for us to get to Edinburgh, and then we quickly found our hotel. Hotel is a loose term, because it was really more of a cross between a hotel and a dorm. At any rate, it was comfortable and close to the center of town, so it worked well.

A few of us decided to wander around the Royal Mile, which is one of the main drags in Edinburgh. It’s a nice road to wander down IF you’re heading the right direction, because the road is better split into top and bottom instead of east and west. It has a pretty steep grade. Edinburgh Castle is at the top of the hill and the Holyrood palace (where the Queen stays!) is at the bottom, along with the entrance to King Arthur’s Seat, which is a mini mountain that allegedly makes for a nice little hike (more on that later). We basically started at the bottom of the Royal Mile and worked our way back up. We took a tour through the Edinburgh Museum, which was an interestingly random collection that curators attempted to vaguely tie to the city. Then we decided that coffee would help perk us up, so we found a little café  promising Scottish art tucked into a narrow shop along the Royal Mile. The artwork was unique, the coffee excellent and the service even better because the guy running the shop was nice and chatty. It felt like a place where they would hand regulars their orders the moment they walked in the

door. We ended up going back there another time, which is when I got what I would tentatively label the world’s best coffee (YOU DID IT! CONGRATULATIONS!). It was a flat white, basically a double shot of espresso with a bit of steamed milk. It was perfect. Afterward we wandered over to a park and people watched. There was a tough-looking guy walking his miniature short-haired mutt that liked to take frequent sniffing breaks at every spot previously visited by another pooch. The little dog took one of these breaks as the duo passed in front of us, and in gravelly British we heard the guy mutter, “You nightmare, Mr. Pickles!” It was precious and funny, because you could tell the guy really loved this tiny dog.

The next day we did a bit more city exploration, wandering around the little Scottish shops and sidestepping the tourist queues that gather for photos with EVERY. SINGLE. KILTED. BAGPIPER. (Side note: Kilts aren’t really worn by everyday Scotsmen, mainly by street performers, fancy hotel bouncers and grooms. However, there’s a kilt tailor on every other block, which makes me wonder if the Scots are exaggerating their kilt market.) Anyway, early in the morning, another girl and I found ourselves drooling in front of a bakery window and settled on the chocolate instead of the coffee éclair by way of rock, paper, scissors. Later that day we met up with a larger group for a picnic in a park, before heading to another coffee shop with a quaint little garden out back.

Saturday was our busiest day, as we saved that for the majority of the tours. We went to an art museum first, where we were met with modern art displays that even kindergarteners would spurn.  No matter how large the canvas or how prominent the wall placing, I still struggle to classify colorblocked squares as art. If I could paint a replica in an hour using nothing more than finger paints and masking tape, there’s a good chance it’s not art. Eventually we wandered into a section that didn’t resemble a proud mother’s refrigerator decorations. The best part was the impressionist and post-impressionist painters, Degas, Monet, Gauguin and Van Gogh. It’s neat to see real-life paintings of people you’ve read about for years. Next, we decided to ride the Ferris wheel, so we got a fantastic city view if you ignore the rain and fog that practically swallowed the city. I was concerned that the ride might be a bit on the sketchy side based on my previous dealings with carnival rides. However, this one was fully enclosed and the word “rickety” never popped in mind.

It was good prep for riding the London Eye in a few weeks! Then we wandered around a bit before going to the other side of town for a Harry Potter walking tour. The tour started at Greyfriar’s Bobby, which is a little statue dedicated to a tiny dog that was so loyal to his owner that he visited his grave for years after his death. The story was sweet, and the statue had a lovable, friendly quality; it also had a golden nose from where people rubbed it for good luck (I’m a member of that crowd). From there, we went through several places that helped inspire Rowling, such as a graveyard for Book 4, Voldemort’s grave, the cafés where she did the bulk of her writing and a curved street that bears a striking resemblance to Diagon Alley. It was raining pretty much the entire tour, but it was worth it. It actually just seemed to authenticate the experience by giving it a proper misty atmosphere. Afterward we went to a warm café that called fried potato strips “fries” instead of “chips” and offered pancakes on the menu (they weren’t fluffy, more like the poundcake equivalent of pancakes). However, the food was warm and gave us enough energy to get back to the hotel.

On our last day in Edinburgh we decided to climb King Arthur’s Seat. My group thought it looked like a nice little hike as we were walking down the hill to the entrance. When we actually got to it, we realized it was about twice as steep as we thought. As a bonus, all the things I brought for my weekend stay were loaded into my backpack, I was wearing a long, flowy skirt and the path was covered in loose rock that deliberately jumped in our Chacos. We started off strong, then our power climb petered into something more of a trudge. I kept up a mental pep talk littered with inspirational Braveheart quotes and felt triumphant when I wasn't the first person who asked to take a little break. We started back up the mountain, and kept hoping the trail would flatten out a bit. Eventually it did, and then we realized that we were at a false top; an unmarked path we’d already passed lead to the top. The website suggests wearing only true climbing shoes and apparel for the upper climb, although I’d argue that could be said for the lower as well. Anyway, we decided to stick with the lower trail since we weren’t really dressed in climbing attire. Besides, the view from our tier was still incredible and we did have a train to catch. It was a great end to our stay in Scotland, getting to see the entire city where we’d spent the weekend wandering.   

Old York

The hardest thing about going new places is finding the right description for it. Even the most powerful adjectives become weak when they’re tossed out for simple things, so when it comes down to truly gorgeous sights, shallow clichés become a popular option. I’ll try to refrain, but if it happens please just realize that the creative part of my brain has been numbed by last weekend’s sights. With that disclaimer out, I’ll do my best to tackle our York visit. Here goes:

We left early Saturday morning for the hour and a half drive to York. I fell asleep for the majority of the trip, but luckily, I caught sight of a poppy field before I passed out completely. This valley was covered with the red flowers, and although I only saw it for a few seconds, it was worth my fight with sleep. When we arrived, we immediately took our things into the little bed and breakfast where we spent two nights. Of course our rooms weren’t ready, so we had to leave our things in the lobby (definitely not my top choice as far as security goes, but thankfully nothing was stolen). Anyway, despite the fact that we weren’t getting our rooms yet, we still spent a good deal of time waiting to get checked in. The lobby is decorated in no less than three different wallpapers: neutral, stacked wooden logs and golden deer antlers printed on a deep scarlet background. Actually it could be an elk or a reindeer for all I know, as I’m a little fuzzy on the finer classification points of horned animals. The last wallpaper matched the beige curtains, which featured the same deer head. It’s also complemented by a smaller gilded deer head that’s mounted on the wall. Obviously there are lots of big game hunters within the confines of central, urban York.

Anyway, after we left our luggage under the many empty-eyed gazes of the lobby deer, we ventured into York city proper. The city has slightly wider sidewalks than Durham and the drivers seem a bit less intent on their destination, possibly because they’re used to stopping every 87 feet. The town just finished their sendoff of the Tour de France bikers, which means that the entire city was covered in a fancy, cloth version of those little neon triangle flags that decorate car lots. Our first stop was to the Jorvik Viking Centre, which shows the remains of an actual Viking city that was built roughly 1,000 years ago. You can spot the museum from pretty far back, as there are several men walking around with flowing beards and tunics. Nearly as soon as we get into the museum part, we stepped onto a three-inch thick glass floor that showcases the remains of Jorvik homes. However, before we get to the museum part, we were blasted by an odor that caressed the nostrils with the delicacy of a swinging baseball bat. It reeks. Then came the ride portion, which looked like the first Brave prototype from an underpaid Disney employee. There were six people to a car, and it followed along a rail while an automated voice told about the Viking city through which we were riding. There were animatronic Viking people throughout the city, and they looked every bit as sketchy as they sound. On the city tour, we were treated to more authentic Viking smells that were somehow more pungent than the first. One was allegedly the scent of Viking stew, although I’m a bit skeptical of how they know what it smells like since there’s no historical record of scent. But we made it through and finally escaped to fresh air.

Our next stop was to Clifford’s Tower. It was built in a quatrefoil shape and it’s right in the middle of York. It has a bit of a sad history as it was the site of a Jewish massacre in 1190, and this juxtaposed with the peppy scenery. It’s built on the apex of a very steep hill and the top provides an excellent view of York. After I climbed it, I looked around and spotted a carousel in an adjacent parking lot. The fire massacre turned the stones a charred coral color, which matched the cheery carousel. It just seemed wrong. Anyway, despite that, I loved climbing the spiral staircase and wandering about the castle. Another good thing was that I got to have a swordfight on the castle floor, and I thought that really authenticated the experience. It may not have been historically accurate, but it fit the fairytale memories of my playground days.

Finally, we stopped at York Minster, the cathedral. It was another one of those incredible experiences for which pictures and memory can hardly do justice. This one was lighter than the Durham cathedral, but the feeling of inadequacy was still the same. Wandering around the huge rooms reminds me of just how many people have been moved and affected by these sights for centuries. I saw tons of other tourists, but the rooms were far from packed. The tour was even better because of our guide. He had the demeanor of a pipe-smoking grandfatherly figure who had a penchant for storytelling, and he was sure to draw our attention to all the funny bits of the building, such as a carving of a couple having a snog behind a pillar. He was also really animated. He’d been working there for more than 20 years, but he still seemed genuinely happy to give the tours. It made me want to find the perfect career even more.

The next day we watched the York Mystery Plays. These plays are performed every 10 years, and this is what really brought us to York.  Their website says more than 600 locals volunteered for the performances, which is kind of incredible. Originally the Mystery Plays performances started at 4:35 in the morning so that the “Let there be light!” coincided with the sunrise. Now it starts at noon and they skipped quite a number of episodes, or mini play segments. I didn’t lament the delayed start time. The plays were really interesting because they roll up on a wooden cart and then speakers introduce where the episode is at in the Biblical storyline, and they all sort of go with one another. The first play was the first five days of creation, and it had an incredibly elaborate set with a ton of different buttons, latches and things to push. I was impressed. However, a large group of us left about halfway through the plays for lunch at a pub/café. And since the group was entirely of women, we went shopping. That night, we grabbed some pizzas and snacks and stayed in to watch the World Cup final. Some of the rooms had full kitchens, so it worked perfectly.

On Monday, we left pretty early in the morning and headed to Rievaulx Abbey. This was previously a monastery, but a ruler ordered it be shut down, so soldiers removed the building’s roof and gutted the place. It’s quite an effective method. This is my favorite stop so far. The ruins sprawl along a pastoral hillside and the absence of everything but stone give the ruins a much different feel than the equally huge cathedrals. The ruins seem a bit more personal, like a place of entertaining secrets. Nothing was off limits, so we could take as many photos and wander through as much of the grounds as we wanted, which was perfect for the climbing souls in our group (me). Next we traveled to Helmsley Castle, which was just a short distance away. Obviously this was another castle, but it was much different than Clifford’s Tower, because it was more than just one building. The buildings were spread out and in various degrees of dilapidation. One building was decent enough to walk through, but another was definitely ruin-like. It was neat. Afterward, we went into the town and meandered around for a few hours. We stopped at a little ice cream and sweet shop, and my multi-day cravings for ice cream overpowered my desire for the chocolate truffles that tempted me from another display. I got an ice cream that had toffee and honey swirled in, and it was every bit as delicious as it sounds. When we got to the city, we found a few little bookshops, and I was used a fair bit of self-control to walk away empty handed. It’s a shame that the books I wanted weren’t lighter. Then we had the trip home, which only took about an hour and a half. I fell asleep again. Whoops. Eventually I hope I’ll see more than 20 minutes of English countryside.  

Next up: Scotland!  

Also, I have to give my momma a special shout-out: Happy birthday, Sher-Bear! ;)

What a conundurham!

Well, I’m in the land of tea, and it is lovely. But seriously. The town is basically like an English version of Fayetteville except the doors are painted cheerier colo(u)rs,  the town chatter has a more nasal quality, and when it comes to a showdown between pedestrians and cars, watch out because it’s not just the yellow ones that don’t stop. The hills, however, are identical.

After a semi-eventful day of travel, we made it to Durham University. We lost two people between London and Newcastle because security was terrible and they missed the flight, although they were able to catch the next one. While in the air, I copied the chatty British woman who was sitting in my row when the coffee cart came around and had my first cup of truly English tea (milk, no sugar, please). After we landed, we were picked up from the airport by two men driving taxi vans.  I sat in the American driver’s seat, which gave me a firsthand view of the driving reversal while we were speeding along the English countryside. There’s a double line along the sides of roads, and the streets seem tiny. People drive as if they’re on a quest from either the Queen or Christ himself, and speedy road navigation is non-negotiable.

The guy driving our van became an unofficial tour guide, pointing out when we crossed under a bridge that was the former border of Hadrian’s Wall. He gave us lots of interesting tidbits, much of which was gleaned from a recent Amazon book conquest, The History of British Pubs. The other parts of his narrative were dotted with factual gems of dubious accuracy about general English history, such as the battle that destroyed his hometown’s namesake building (forgive me, but the proper name escapes my jetlagged mind). He said that 20,000 grisly Scotsmen were brutally defeated by an English army 7,000 strong. Did the English have superior weapons or a killer game plan (ignore the pun)? Nope! Instead, our driver attributed the win as the result of having a solid English breakfast. Obviously it’s an important meal.

After we got to Durham we explored a bit. There were a lot of exciting details on the buildings, which may be my favorite part of the town so far. One shiny black door had a worn gold fish knocker on the front, which was absolutely begging to be sounded (I refrained). Another thing I noticed was a common lamp post sticker that reads “Conundurham.” I’m still trying to decide if this is a punny notice to travelers, warning them that the city is confusing. So far, I’ve been lost no more than once (each hour), but I’ve always been in good company so we found our way back. We took a tour of Durham Cathedral on our first day of class. Luckily, the place was spared from a lot of damage from Henry VIII, although the darn Victorians tragically whitewashed the place and many others also took their toll. Regardless, the place was gorgeous with the colored windows, etched columns and a 40-foot-high baptismal font. Dedicated Harry Potter fans may recognize the cathedral's courtyard from the first two films (yes, I fangirled). 

As for the school, it’s been an experience. We seem to have rather spotty Wi-Fi coverage, so this post is coming a smidge later than I intended (sorry Mom and Dad). However, all is well. I have my own room that comes with its own sink. Great, eh? However, this only marginally makes up for the toilet room (notice the absence of an “s” on toilet) that has no sink despite having a detailed four-step handwashing poster that seriously cautions against leaving hands germy. But they kindly provide a dispenser of “skin sanitizer.” The best and worst part of Collingwood College is the same – the coffee.  They have a magical machine that’s partly Keurig and partly automatic barista – you just push one of many buttons, and in 18 seconds your tiny mug is filled with your choice of steamy beverage. The bad part is that this is curtained off as soon as lunch is over, which means that an evening beverage is not an option. So I decided to give a certain dining hall teacup a little taste of American freedom and I chose that and a berry tea as a lunchtime souvenir. Nobody chased me while waving threatening weapons, so I guess they didn’t mind my temporary heist in quest of an evening cup of tea. So far, I’ve held off my jetlag with double espressos, but with today’s lesson already over, I think I’ll settle for a short nap now. After all, sleep is an excellent supplement to coffee.