A Visit to Pemberly

I realize all too often that life is full of mishaps and let-downs and messy complications—but my visit to Lyme Park was a rather humorous extreme. My friend and I decided to visit the house used as Darcy’s Pemberley in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. The estate is situated in Chesire, very close to Manchester.

We began the day early, taking a bus to the train station at 8:45; our train departed at 9:30; and we arrived at Disley (the town closest to Lyme Park) at 2:30. The trip began with engineering work on the train line, so we had to take another bus, then three trains. For lunch we quickly grabbed the only food available—some rather dubious sandwiches at a little cafe at the train station that were stuck in the microwave. Yum.

Upon arriving in Disley, we stopped at a local pub next to the station and asked for directions, which were very simple: follow the road behind the pub, it curves left, take the right fork when the road splits in two—it should be a ten minute walk or so. We start on the walk, uphill, in the rain, of course (it’s only fitting) and end up in the countryside. Half an hour into our walk, we were very concerned that we had gotten lost and approached the first person we saw, an older woman working at her stable.

With a concerned look and knitted brow, she responded, “You’re going in completely the wrong direction.” She said the pub was really close to Lyme Park and we should turn around; I assumed from this that we had somehow taken the wrong road from the pub. So we hiked back, leaving the sheep, cows, donkeys, and chickens behind us. The rain continued with some fierce wind, and I smiled, thinking “Well, this walk is certainly invigorating.” To say the least.

We arrived back at the pub and found a road tucked behind the pub itself—if you want to call it a road: it was more like a narrow alleyway, with a little sign reading, “Red Lane.” The exact road we were looking for. The directions from the pub were spot-on now that we had found the right road. We arrived at the entrance to the park in about 15 minutes, only to find that the last shuttle has just run to the house itself. So we had another mile walk to enjoy.

At the house, we went to purchase tickets and were told that we wouldn’t have time to see the house and the grounds before closing time. So we chose the grounds and ventured out to see the lake where Colin Firth had emerged in his epic wet-shirt glory in Pride and Prejudice.

The lake, at first glance, looked rather disappointing. But as we walked to the opposite side of it, the sun came out, dramatically, briefly, with absolutely perfect timing. The house itself looked much grander, more imposing, and fit for Mr. Darcy from this side of the lake. And, right when we were smiling the huge smiles of relief, clinging to this one moment of perfection on a somewhat, to be perfectly honest, dreary day—you’ll never guess what happened.

Mr. Darcy emerged from the water.

He fell in love with me at first sight (again—only fitting) and said that between my lovely American accent, addiction to literature, and affinity for rambling country walks I was the perfect woman for him.

While flattered, I couldn't help but feel that he was moving a little fast, so I told him I would carefully consider his proposal. We trekked back to the pub for a delicious dinner, mostly just enjoying the sensation of sitting down. But don’t assume too soon that the day’s mishaps had concluded, as we mistakenly believed. We enjoyed dinner a little too much and suddenly realized our train was due to arrive in just 5 minutes. Rushing to pay, we found their credit card scanner was malfunctioning. Finally we were able to leave and took off sprinting for the station right next door.

Alas, we were too late and had missed the train. Suprised? At this point I hope you’re not. The next train did not come for another hour so we went to hunt down a bus that would take us to our next train connection in Stockport. We successfully made it (some more sprinting was involved) just in time. After boarding the train, drunken football fans crowded on and spent most of the ride yelling at one another and singing in chorus. How enjoyable.

The ticket collector came by and I handed him my ticket. He asked, “May I see your rail card?” (I have a youth rail card that enables me to buy discounted tickets). Imagine my joy to have to reply, “I forgot my railcard.” The best part is that you do not simply have to pay back the discounted amount when you forget your rail card but must buy an entirely new full-priced ticket, which was £42. Lovely.

Finally we arrived back at Oxford and I couldn’t help but laugh. How many more things could possibly have gone wrong? Perhaps the trip wasn’t worth it. But I like to think it was. And to feel as though I am a tiny bit more connected to England. At the very least, I think I can safely say it was an adventurous and memorable day.

The Beginning of My Oxfordian Spring

I questioned today how many more laundry tokens I’ll need in Oxford; just looked at the dull bronze coins in my hand, each a token of two weeks’ time. There are so many small signs, like the number of vitamins left to take before that day, circled in my planner, with a “:(” boldly proclaiming my feelings on the matter.

Why, why would I start thinking about how it will feel to leave when I should be focusing on enjoying still being here? Especially with a beautiful Oxford spring at my fingertips. This place is feeling more and more my own, with each day that passes. But with each day that passes, it is moving closer and closer to not belonging to me any longer.

I’m being seduced on two sides at the moment, by English history and English weather (English literature always gets me, nothing new there). Of course when I eat my lunch propped against the side of the Radcliffe Camera, intoxicated with the dreaminess of St. Mary’s, Brasenose, and All Souls, the sky is cloudy and rain seems imminent. But when I’ve just planted myself in the Upper Camera, the sky clears, the sun comes out and beckons me. The silent reverence of academia in the UpperCam lulls me into a sleepiness I can’t shake off and I must get out, immediately, throwing all my belongings back into my back-pack, dashing down the stairs, getting on my bike, rushing down the bustling High Street with the wind and sun moving right through me, reinvigorating me with the beauty of spring in Oxford. The ride only lasts so long though, until I have to return to the books—which, while lulling me to sleep, do have their own appeal.

English history intrigues me, overwhelms me, helps me to understand this country I’ve planted myself in for a year. I’m learning about Oxford during WWII, about London during the blitz, about heightened socialization during post-war reconstruction. All these small details make me feel connected to the British, almost as though I too am one with their history. The stories from the history books that are supposed to bring history to life for the reader, with a touching dose of humanity, really work for me—I can picture the evacuated babies’ nappies drying in the breeze at Tom Quad at Christ’s Church because I’ve walked through the Quad. I’ve been to the Tube stops where thousands of Londoners camped out during the blitz. I can feel the desire to preserve the beautiful historic places of England during the bombing raids—the fierce desire to protect Oxford. I read about the namesake of an ale I tried the other night, Spitfire, and how Britons were compelled to donate whatever they could afford, a shilling, a pound, even 10 pence to sponsor part of a Spitfire fighter plane—one type of plane that the R.A.F. used to heroically defend London and Great Britain from Nazi attacks. One by one, the facts connect me, delicately, even more with Oxford and with England.

I mean, really, what is this life I’m living. I am experiencing the antithesis of that feeling I wrote about (eons ago, if feels now—on the eve of coming to Oxford): rather than being on the cusp of something great, I am smack dab in the middle of it. The antithesis of so many things actually: old, burnt-out, bored, alone, suffering from seasonal-depressive disorder. I feel young and alive and as though all that is holding me together is my skin. It seems to be the fulfilment of things I’ve always dreamt of without realizing that I’d been dreaming of them. I’ve just participated in a croquet tournament while sipping Pimms. This week I’m going to a ball; next week I’m going to a Harry Potter themed formal hall. Soon I’ll go punting. Again, what is this life I am living? I don’t want it to end. Does it have to? I suppose so.

But not now, not yet.

Connecting the Dots of a Few European Stops

Twenty-one days spent travelling across Europe. I can’t believe it really happened; it’s transformed back into a distant dream. Now that I’m back in Oxford once more I’m glad I took so many photos on my trip and bought postcards: they’re tangible and ground my fleeting memories, vivid, too beautiful, too many to be true.

The list of stops includes: Brussels, the Loire Valley (in the French countryside), Switzerland, Florence, Rome, and then I took a cruise to Athens, Rhodes, Ephesus, Istanbul, and Naples before flying back to London from Rome.

I’ve always dreamt of travelling. When I was younger I wanted to buy a world map and bright tacks, pinning, claiming each speck on the map I’d been to. Until each continent, each corner of the globe was mine. Until I’d taken those photos that come with the picture frame, too happy, too clean, too cliché to be real life. Until I’d collected memories and exotic experiences like precious souvenirs, to be shown and shared with others.

And of course—I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—travelling is less glamorous and more work than it sounds. There have been countless times when I’m watching a movie or reading a book that I think, “How much did that cost?”, "How does she look that good after travelling for 18 hours?", “When did they have time to go to the bathroom?”, “Is that really feasible?”. It’s just funny when actually travelling, as an average student on a simple budget, to have to deal with all the practical details, annoying responsibilities, frustrating realities that get left out of an idealistic movie. Getting from one speck on the world map to another, for instance, can be slightly exhausting.

We travelled by rail pass, creating a smooth routine of waking ridiculously early, grabbing a pastry and caffeine, leaping onto our train with luggage in tow, and setting off to the next destination. It oscillated between feeling as though we had been travelling for ages and travelling for mere hours, in sync with my feelings of exhaustion and anticipation for the next place. We switched between languages and currencies frequently and relatively fluidly, the universal arrows, bathroom, and train symbols easing the transitions. It’s funny to enter a new place and realize how utterly far, how completely disconnected one is from any shred of familiarity. Just my suitcase, my purse, and my travel companion anchored me to the new places.

We made mistakes, we got lost, we laughed, we sprinted to catch trains, cat-napped, sought refuge in our iPods, attempted to journal the experiences into safe-keeping, tasted new foods, and tried to stick to a reasonable budget while not fixating on money.

Each place had a new energy and presented new challenges. I day-dreamed about the trip beforehand, imagining how it would feel to be in the different cities, see the different works of art, taste the different foods. It makes me laugh to think about the weird relationship between my expectations, actual experiences, and the snippets I took away from the trip. None of them match up.

Brussels is a city of light, waffles, frites, meandering; the Loire Valley is dreamy, a beautiful spring day, grand, delicious, relaxing; Switzerland is cold, serene, clean, expensive, and cute; Florence is what you would expect, old, Italian, thoughtful; Rome is historic, blasé, fashionable, poetic.

Despite my attempts to savor each moment, to not take any of the places or experiences for granted, my memories have already become blurred. The travelling time has smoothed into one tedious, exhausting, exciting, long train ride in my mind; the French countryside, the Swiss Alps, the outskirts of Rome are all one continuous journey in the space of my memory. My time spent in each city comes first in bright snatches, the highlights.

We rented and rode bikes alongside the Loire River to see chateaux, on a glorious spring day. Riding back, we got horribly lost and the stunning scenery had an ironic beauty: we were too exhausted and rushed to appreciate it, dreading nightfall, wishing we could be safely back in our town. But we made it, safe and sound and completely drained. Switzerland is beautiful mountains and greedy lungfuls of clean, pure air. Oh, and ridiculously good chocolate. Florence is David and the top of the Duomo. I had expected to be underwhelmed by David but he got me. I stood there for who knows how long, gaping, transfixed by the beauty of his form, the detail of his muscles and veins, the magnificence of his stature, the power of his hands. And the Duomo itself is a beautiful building but the view from its rooftop over all of Florence is spectacular, breathtaking, with the warm tones of the city buildings, the trees, hills, and vivid skyline all melding together seamlessly, flawlessly. Rome was a city of overwhelming excitement, between the Pieta in St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican Museum, the Trevi Fountain, the Coliseum, and the pinnacle, Palm Sunday mass in St. Peter’s Square with the Pope.

The cruise blends together in eleven days of luxurious relaxation, our belongings unpacked in one room, complimentary room service at our fingertips, fancy dinners every night, movies, games, reading for fun, going out, sleeping in. The cities we visited were wonderful and that would be one of my only complaints about the cruise—we spent too little time in the cities themselves. Athens is simply the Acropolis for me, with not enough time to see much else. Rhodes was underwhelming, Ephesus better than I had expected, with a staggering archaeological site, including the theatre where St. Paul preached to the Ephesians. Istanbul was a city of the senses: the taste of kebap and apple tea, the overwhelming colors and smells and textures at the Spice and Grand Bazaars, and the hauntingly poignant sound of the call to prayer from the mosques. Finally, in Naples we climbed Mt. Vesuvius, visited Pompeii, and ate wonderful, beautiful pizza.

Is this an adequate explanation of the trip I’ve always dreamt of? No, though I wish it were. But hopefully it’s a good beginning, a snapshot, a small commemoration of one huge blessing.