July 4, 2014

I spent America’s birthday in the country of our oppressors. I had to work – as it’s obviously not a national holiday here. And in a British pub I watched European teams play soccer in a South American country. Every now and then I would be asked who I was rooting for and I would bark back “America!”. No grilling, lazy rivers, or fireworks. The thing I missed most, though, was my annual watching of 1776 the musical.

Dr. Benjamin Franklin: If I’m to hear myself called an Englishman, sir, I assure you I prefer I’d remained asleep.

John Dickinson: What’s so terrible about being called an Englishman? The English don’t seem to mind.

Dr. Benjamin Franklin: Nor would I, were I given the full rights of an Englishman. But to call me one without those rights is like calling an ox a bull. He’s thankful for the honor, but he’d much rather have restored what’s rightfully his.

John Dickinson: When did you first notice they were missing, sir?

An afternoon at Mr. Darcy’s

June 29, 2014

On the back of an old McDonald’s receipt, Cath, an American getting her Master’s at Nottingham, had scribbled down precise instructions on how to get to Chatsworth: 40 minute train to Matlock, then 40 minutes on the number 34 bus to Chatsworth. It seemed straight forward enough, though I never would have figured it out on my own. So Saturday evening, with nothing spectacular planned for the following Sunday, Missie and I bought our train tickets and dreamed of lounging in the grass and reading like a true Bennett sister.

Because, of course, Chatsworth is Mr Darcy’s home, Pemberley, in the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley. That night, we watched the movie in preparation (much to Ryan’s chagrin as he had just watched it with his girlfriend and did not want to be dragged into another girly movie so we also played cards to entertain him).

Our road to Chatsworth was not as emotionally tolling as Lizzie’s but our transportation ended up not going as smoothly as the back of the receipt had made it seem. The bus from campus to the train station never came so we took a cab with a driver that couldn’t seem to find one of the main landmarks of the city. The train was pleasant enough but when we went to catch the bus, we learned we had gone to the wrong bus station – in the small town of Matlock, the end point of this train line, there were TWO freakin bus stations. And on a Sunday, the bus we wanted came only once an hour. During our wait, we stopped and had some breakfast tea. The small store was one of the few open on a Sunday morning and a gaggle of men were on their last sip but not their last word when we snuck in to take our seats in the corner. Later, the sounds of the radio emanated from the kitchen playing 80’s hits like Shaggy’s “Red-handed” and MC Hammer’s “Ice-ice baby”. Missie and I just giggled – our calm morning and breakfast tea now juxtaposed with a reggae voice lamenting being caught banging some chick on the bathroom floor (I mean, how could he forget he had given her an extra key?).

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But we did make it. The double decker bus wound slowly through the Peak District, past farms and small houses, down two lane roads that somehow turn into one lane when everyone is home and their car is parked out front, and waited patiently behind bicyclists on their touring circuit. Missie made the brilliant observation that gardens here are chaotically beautiful – yards don’t appear manicured and flowers aren’t planted in neat rows; instead, it’s as if this beautiful boque of wildflowers magically sprung up in exactly the right place. Past fields of sheep, we descended from the crest of a hill into the valley that held shining Chatsworth below.

It was…huge. Even the movie doesn’t give the size of this place justice. We got lost for an hour just trying to find the entrance. I wish I was kidding or exaggerating – I want that hour back.

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At the entrance, a woman gave a short introduction to the house, filled with one liners like: “In the house, if you think you see something from ancient Egypt or Rome, it is. If you think you see a Rembrandt, it is.” The Cavendish’s who owned the house had wealth in land, artifacts, and political power. While lots of people have had wealth and land through the ages, continuously picking the winning side in civil wars and political upheavals allowed the family to keep their land and wealth and maintain their collections within their family. And they continue to live in it to this day. (I know right?) Which means, ancient artwork and architecture have been preserved and passed down, but also modern elements are continuously added. Like the wire sculptures sprinkled throughout the gardens:

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Or the bright pink boxes many of the sculptures posed on (“Wounded Achilles” is front and center):

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Each room was so dense with wondrous things, I struggled to take it all in.

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Missie would read from information cards scattered in the back of a room and fill me in on little details.

Like the wallpaper is gold-embossed leather:

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Or the pair of tall white things by the fireplace are Narwhal horns:

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Or that during World War II, a girl’s boarding school took refuge in these walls. (Two of them are still alive today and were at the opening of this particular exhibit. A quote on the wall of a letter home to the parents stated they had been bombed earlier in the day, but that everyone was fine and the girls would still be going to bed on time. #what):

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Or that the portrait to the far right is of Tsar Nicholas of Russia from when he visited:

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This dining room table was SHORTENED to better accommodate tourists:

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This is King Henry the VIII. You have probably seen this portrait in your European history textbook:

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This is the oldest sculpture in the portrait gallery Missie and I could find. It’s from Ancient Greece (~300 BC).

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These were the only depictions of black people in the whole house – they were also the only statues I wanted to know the story of and couldn’t find it – the pair were so regal and beautiful:

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And, of course, the veiled vestal virgin:

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In the library, I asked one of the docents what his favorite book was. He answered King Henry VIII’s daughter’s bible and pointed to a back corner. Apparently I can make an appointment and see any of the books I wish.

On an architecture note, the base of the house has remained relatively the same since it was made. Entire sections were added on to the back end. A bachelor-partier added walls to form a courtyard more suitable for big events (all I could picture was that scene from Leo’s Gatsby and my internal DJ began playing ‘a little party never killed nobody’). The area is rich in mineral wealth and almost every material that went into the house was extracted nearby, like the green stone in the archway to the left apparently came form a quarry over the hill:

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After a quick lunch, Missie and I toured the gardens. Dozens of families were picnicking and small children played tag like this was their backyard. The roses were in full bloom.

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The height and length of each stair within a waterfall staircase was altered to emit a unique pitch – creating an echoing natural melody within the pagoda at the top. Missie stopped to read a sign of rules posted nearby and immediately concluded that nowhere did it say we couldn’t go into the water. We soon became barefoot trend setters for several nearby kids.

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Lastly, we navigated through a hedge maze, itself cleverly hidden amongst the gardens.

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We had gotten none of the high-society leisure time we had envisioned and instead probably accumulated miles of walking and an overall sensory overload. We collapsed ungracefully on the bus and train ride back. I’m pretty sure I drooled. Oh Mr. Darcy, where are you to save our families’ reputations?

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In a random moment of relaxation while at Chatsworth, Missie and I had an interesting discussion on how to appreciate beauty. How do you both live in the moment and properly reflect on those moments? Too often in the house, men (yes, men) with those large expensive cameras would take up an entire room with their angling and maneuvering. If you were a professional photographer of the place, you probably would have gotten access to an empty house after hours. Since you’re not, be a humble tourist like the rest of us. This moment of learning history and gazing at all of these beautiful objects is not yours alone, so please share in the experience with us. I think too often having those big cameras gives you more credentials than you deserve. Not that they’re all bad. A younger girl would crouch in corners, angling and waiting for the right shot while her mother stood nearby holding her coat. They were out of the way and she seemed so focused in her element, almost hiding behind her lens. I personally love photography – I have the memory of Dory and catching the right angle can instantly bring the experience I had back. It also focuses me. Instead of looking at something and walking on, I spend time with it, looking at the object and place in a new light. But when getting just the right picture consumes you, looking at a screen becomes your new reality instead of the real live thing in front of you. Missie hardly took any pictures and preferred to read the note cards in the back of each room – her experience was much more about looking at all the things around her and appreciating the quirky facts she found, which she happily relayed to me. When you’re overwhelmed by the beauty around you, there’s no one right way to take it in; but instead of focusing on how you will tell the story in your blog later, or worried about getting wifi so you can instagram-brag the moment to the world, bearing the morning’s woes of wasting time, or taking up an entire room so your camera can get the best picture – take a breath, look with your actual eyes around you, and smile. And walk up the staircase.

Nottingham Castle

June 28, 2014

Today was explore Nottingham day.

Downtown Nottingham is two and a half miles East of our comparably deserted summer campus. Two and a half miles doesn’t seem like very much, especially when I used to run 3.1 miles in twenty or so minutes, but out-of-shape-walking-uphill-and-slightly-lost is apparently a very different experience. We now take the 1-pound bus. Nevertheless, I was elated to find a small road along our journey had been named after Faraday (woo! Science!):

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We reached the castle at 11am. Wedding guests for the third wedding we had seen that Saturday morning were beginning to file through the castle gates and into some unknown courtyard. The grounds were well manicured, with delightful Robinhood references sprinkled throughout, the top five finalists of a children’s contest to create the new Nottingham Castle flag waved over a field of screaming children attempting to tackle their father.

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I began to read signs.

On top of the first hill I learned that the civil war started on my birthday (obviously my birth is the more important of the two):

“Near this site King Charles I raised his royal standard on August 22nd, 1642 an act which marked the beginning of the English civil war”

At an outer entrance into the castle I learned the castle wasn’t a castle:

“The medieval castle was almost completely demolished in 1651 at the end of the Civil War to prevent it being used again as a military stronghold.

After the Restoration of King Charles II the site was bought in 1663 by William Cavendish. He had been made first Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne for his support of the Royalist cause in the Civil War. He cleared away many of the remains of the medieval castle so that, in 1674, he could build a magnificent mansion, the shell of the present building.

In 1831 the local people were angered by the fourth Duke of Newcastle’s opposition to the Reform Act that would have given them wider voting rights. They rioted and set fire to the mansion. The statue of the first Duke on horseback that you can see above the door was smashed by the rioters. Although the Duke received 21,000 pounds in compensation, he left the burnt out shell as a silent rebuke to the people of Nottingham.”

Wow. What a mosaic of history. And string of jerks. Later on I learned the Castle had been ordered to be built by William the Conqueror in 1067. 1067. That means over the past 900 years this piece of land has gone from pretty hill to strategic fortress to mansion to a symbol of exorbitant wealth and oppressive government. How hard is that to conceive? My Irish Starbucks barista made the greatest comment the other morning: “In England 100 miles is far; in America 100 years is old.” The “magnificent mansion” and damaged statue of the first duke can be seen below:

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The Castle also had a pretty cool view of all of Nottingham. Channel your inner William the Conqueror, rich Cavendish, or angry rioter as you look out over all that is yours. Like the University of Nottingham in the very far back right. Or the coal power plant in the back left.

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Inside the castle, we moved slowly through a maze of rooms. Just when you thought you had seen everything, another room or staircase would appear with another themed exhibition.

We started with a grade-school-on-field-trip room that urged you to organize their random collection of artifacts into categories of organic, ceramic, and metal materials;
then a gallery on the local military regiment through the modern era;
then some early 20th century paintings, followed by a room of abstract modern art;
then a coffee shop;
then a children’s play area with costumes and felt paintings and a castle;
then rooms filled with porcelain and glass;
then a gift shop;
then an augmented reality display on the 1831 riots;
then a children’s room made to look like Sherwood forest where you can dress up as Robinhood.

And I think that was it? Who knows what rooms we may have left uncovered. At some point Jill and I somehow got separated from Missie and Ryan. So Jill and I took it slowly. We read plaques comparing the painting styles of a husband and wife; we stared at the modern art looking for meaning within dashes and teddy bears; but mostly we played in the Children’s areas. I donned a Sherlock hat and posed. Jill vogued it up in a Robinhood cape. When we began playing with a felt board with an idyllic pastoral scene, I scolded Jill for trying to put the felt cows near the felt river so they could drink felt water. Instead, I grabbed some felt shrubbery to make a felt riparian buffer to protect the felt stream from the evil felt cows which I placed in a field on the other side of the felt painting. Crisis averted guys. I totally restored that felt water quality.

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My inner IB history nerd was in love with the exhibit for the 1831 riots. Unlike the earlier exhibits that had urged a superficial analysis of artifacts or simple costume play for grade-school ages, this exhibit’s walls asked questions like “Who writes history?” “Whose views are important enough to be heard and recorded?” “What would you have done in 1831?” The riots occurred during the shaky decades of transition between monarchy and democracy when leaders tried desperately to hold on to what remained of their power and the country tried to determine exactly what age, status, wealth, sex, or race could allow you to vote (though obviously non-white people and women would have to wait another 100 years). The exhibit presented primary sources of newspapers from the day, quotes from all sides of the issue in white scribbles of paint against the black wall, and a blackboard for you to leave your own white scribbles of thoughts in chalk. The augmented reality displays – an interactive I-Pad hanging from the ceiling whose camera recognized where you were pointing – would bring lifeless paintings and models to life.

At 2pm, Maid Marion arrived in the atrium to lead 30 of us on a Nottingham Castle cave tour. She was brilliant – immediately memorizing every child’s name and their doll’s name – and ably juggling giving all the adults a short history lesson while corralling all the children with ghost stories, pigeon nests, and that motherly-you-better-behave glance. The castle-mansion-thing stands atop a hill made of incredibly soft sandstone that through the ages people have carved dozens of tunnels through. They served as a method of quick escape for some and an unknowing downfall for others. Maid Marion amazed the kids when she pointed out the line of Jurassic-era rock in the walls and told them they could be touching dinosaur sand and rocks. I touched the wall too for good measure.

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