My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Four

Friday, 9 December, 1988
Chartres to Bourges to Lyon

ON THE TRAIN, BETWEEN BOURGES AND LYON-- Most of the day on the train today. The kid is very tired. This business of waiting till late to eat breakfast is not such a hot idea, is it? One begins to make a fool of oneself when one can’t manage locker keys. Or to become desperate and settle for mineral water and synthetic flan. This you call French cooking?

That gourmet repast happened in the Tours station, one of two train changes before Bourges.

Between Chartres and LeMans the sun rose and it looked like the sky might actually turn out clear.  No such luck. It’d clouded up completely by Tours and by the time I got to Bourges it was mizzling pretty steadily.  Well, nothing to be done about it. Though I guess I could’ve taken the lens cap with me.

Bourges Cathedral was lighter and more impressive than Chartres, even with the same weather. But Bourges has more clear or grisaille glass (thanks to the Huguenots?) than Chartres and they seem to have gotten farther with their window restoration work. Many of those in the chevet had already been cleaned and looked stunning.

The most wonderful thing here today was totally serendipitous: when I arrived the organist was practicing and he kept it up pretty steadily the entire two hours or so I spent there. It was marvellous to hear Bach rolling through that soaring three-level space. The organ is at the west end and was new or restored in 1985. There’s a smaller one-- also real-- in the choir (I blush to relate the Chartres’ choir ‘organ’ seems to be an EKI ["Electronic Keyboard Instrument"]). The organists used all the stops; it was lovely, the range of dynamic effects.

The inner aisle is unbelievable in its soaring proportions. And I love the way the ribs in the vaults of the ambulatory sway and curve across the webbing after they spring from the pier colonnettes. It’s so lively. Those piers look like slender trees, like giant sequoias, perhaps, that just grew and grew and branched out above.

I was surprised to see how much of the west end sculpture still remained. Most of the trumeau figures and pretty much all the tympana and archivolts. In its drapery the Beau Dieu [the statue of Christ at the main entrance] reminded me a lot of pictures I’ve seen of the one at Amiens, but the face wasn’t as sensitive. I wonder if it’s original or a 19th Century replacement.

I regret to say I was so intent on getting outside to see the edifice as a whole that I didn’t think to turn around and survey the southern portal when I emerged from it. It wasn’t till I was on the train and looking through the booklet I’d bought that I learned it has some very fine early Gothic sculpture, à la the Royal Portals at Chartres.

It was almost by accident that I found the cathedral at all. They have signs up to a point, but then when you’re looking for the next one you glance from la rue Moyenne to the left up this little belgian-pavered street, la rue de Guichet, and mon Dieu, there she is.

The south flank is nowhere so coquettish. It can be viewed in full, across the municipal garden, which must look lovely when everything is in bloom. As it was, the rows of gingko trees with their cropped heads had a certain baroque beauty. They rather reminded me of the rows of piers inside.

Something to check at home: have the apsidal chapels always had full buttresses below the corbels, or is that a recent pis aller?

Left the cathedral grounds a bit after 4:00. Got some cheese pastries and a can of soda at a patisserie, to eat on the train. But when I was passing by a salon de thé on the street to the station I thought of how chilled and wet and hungry I was now and besides it was over an hour to the train. So I turned in and had tea and a croque-monsieur.

Funny, but in the States that’s a pressed and grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Here I received a kind of hotdog with cheese on a long hard roll. Or hadn’t I made my order clear? No matter. It was hot and it was good and I’m grateful. Felt much better thereafter.

Bourges was all decked up for Christmas, too. I think it’s nice to think of all those decorations up all over the world. It’s something in common. If only all the world had the Savior in common, too!

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Twenty-two

Friday, 7 April, 1989
Moatenden to Great Dixter to Bodiam to Hastings to Oxford
Day Twenty-two

Breakfast was in the big, low-beamed kitchen. Last night Mrs. Deane showed me one of the ceiling beams that some archaeologist was specifically interested in, as to its antiquity and date. Going from Cecil Hewitt I would’ve thought the original structure was rather different from what this other man had surmised, but then I’m just a novice at this sort of thing.

I’m afraid I was rather behind getting to the meal. But Mrs. Deane was quite cheerful about getting me my eggs on her big Aga-- after all, her son had just come in to eat, too; thereafter to help deal with some workmen who were expected in.

The Londoners were finishing their holiday today, too-- their daughter’s school was restarting soon. We all traded horror stories about driving in London, and then Mrs. Deane invited us to walk about in the garden, if we would, before we left.

Sadly, it’s still rather awry from the big storm in October of ‘87. She hasn’t been able to get the tree surgeons in to deal with all the broken limbs. And a lot of the plantings besides those trees were destroyed.

Still, it was nice to walk to the back of the garden and contemplate the daffodils beside the watercourse. Funny, but Mrs. Deane told me that the moat that gives the Priory its name was originally a dry one. Moatenden Farm, just across the moat to the north (and a separate property) has oast houses. Be fun to see inside one sometime.

Picked my way round to the front, to get a view of the 12th century bit in front. It’s mainly just the doorframe and so forth at the kitchen end-- the brick nogging dates, I’d say, from the late 1500s, early 1600s.

After I got my things together upstairs, I sat down and wrote postcards. That done, I settled accounts, loaded the car for the last time, then drove away south. Stopped in Headcorn, where I posted the cards. Great fun--it started raining, hard, as I dashed back to the car-- then just as quickly stopped again.

I thought of heading generally northwest, meeting up with the M25, then catching the M40 straight back to Oxford. That’d certainly get me there by car-turn-in time at 4:15. But it seemed rather dreary, and anyway the rate the M25 goes, I wasn’t so sure it’d be all that quick. Besides, I had a hankering to see the sea again, feeling I mightn’t get another chance while I’m over here. So on to the south it was.

I’d read somewhere that Great Dixter doesn’t open on weekdays till the end of May, but just for jollies I followed the lane to it when I hit Northiam, just to see.

Well, it is open weekdays, but not till 2:00 PM. Oh. Only 11:00 now. That’d mean another day’s car hire. Oh, well.

The man in the nursery, which was open, pointed out Bodiam Castle which you could just see on the horizon to the west, only about four miles away.

Well, why not?

So I followed the little lanes down and around and soon was there.

Bodiam Castle is such an odd little thing, especially after places like Warkworth and Caernarfon. It obviously meant business, sitting there so solidly in its wide moat. But still you get the impression of a small swaggering person who defies people to attack him. One backs off, just in case, but one is still left wondering if one’s leg is being pulled all along.

Worked my way round the moat counterclockwise, as the sun dove in and out of the clouds, till I reached the main entrance. Other visitors were going in and I decided that if admission was free, I’d look in. But if not, I hadn’t the time.

It was 90p. OK! It’s off again we are.

Wended along over to the A229, heading for Hastings. In Hastings the main roads don’t indulge in any such American nonsense as a bypass. No, the A229 went straight down to the seaside. There you pick up the A259 which runs parallel to the water, with the big hotels on one’s right.

The sea was in magnificent form today, sending great towers of spray over the sea wall and onto the windshield of the car where I’d pulled it over to get out and see. The waves thundered gloriously and I was sorry I had to be on my way so soon.

Decided to take the seaside road as much as I could. Went through Brighton, where I could glimpse the Royal Pavilion, freshly restored, I am told, on the right. And Shoreham by Sea, and on to Worthing.

It was there that I knew I’d have to give up my plan, for although it’s nowhere near high season a plethora of other trippers had the same idea I did, apparently. The sea road was incredibly clogged and slow. I made it partway through Worthing when, considering how shockingly fast time was getting on, I backtracked a ways then got myself onto the A27, a bit to the north.

That was much faster-- it even has dual carriageways in places-- and except for lacking the view of the Channel was just as pretty. I love so much to see the sheep on the sunlit green hillsides! It’s as if so many fluffy white flowers had sprung up and blossomed in the space of a night. And the view coming down the incline into Arundel is simply breathtaking. The castle and cathedral were bathed in light, made much more dramatic by the clouds gathering to the northwest.

Again, though, no time to stop-- I had to press on.

Not that I didn’t pull over a bit farther on-- I stopped and got out to take photos of the thunderheads piling up over the downs-- they looked so Midwestern!

As I entered Portsmouth, around 2:15, I saw that the needle on the petrol gauge was riding rather low. I started to look for a Shell station, figuring that since everyone’s gas is overpriced here I might as well patronise the oil barons my mother works for. And soon I spotted one-- on the far side of the divided road that the A27 becomes as it passes through the northern regions of the town. But there were no legal right turnings I could see for blocks and blocks.

So at next opportunity I made a left into a residential neighborhood, then another, then another, round the block hoping to find a cross street that’d intersect with the highway and allow me to backtrack to the filling station.

As I was on the northward leg of this square I passed a cyclist, giving him plenty of berth. At the end of the block I could see, as I approached, that the way ahead was blocked-- there was indeed a bridge over a stream or ditch, but closely-spaced bollards closed it to motor traffic.

Well, rot. I put on my turn signal in good time and when I reached the T-junction, turned left yet again.

All at once, I heard a bump on my left rear fender. A cry came from the road behind me, more of wrath than of pain. Chilled with apprehension, I stopped the car and looked back-- to see the cyclist lying on the ground just short of the intersection, his supine bicycle spinning its wheels beside him.

Well, you know me, especially when I’m tired and hungry and rather frightened besides. I ran back to the corner, grateful to see him getting to his feet, and said, "Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?"

The cyclist, a rather regimented-looking young man of about twenty-seven or so dressed in a BritRail messenger’s uniform, flexed his ankle and said, "Well, I suppose it’s all right," adding accusingly, "no thanks to you."

I went off on another volley of apologies and blametaking and he was well-satisfied to give me a grim little lecture on the rights of cyclists and the rules of the road. It was so shame-making-- for as one who for years got around mostly by bike, who should know such things better than I?

Then he got out his walkie-talkie, with another comment about how it wasn’t my fault that it wasn’t broken, and radioed his office, giving them the license plate number of the hire car and my driver’s license number and all the rest of it.

Immediately fears of horrendous lawsuits swarmed into my head-- maybe I wouldn’t be allowed to leave England. And whatever would the EuropCar people say?

Finally, as if he were a traffic cop and not an accident victim, he sent me on my way, saying cynically, "Next time you run down a cyclist, try a little harder-- maybe you’ll do a better job of it"-- as if I’d gone after him on purpose.

I found the way to the Shell station and got a fill up and a chocolate bar. I wondered morosely and guiltily what the attendants would say if they knew what I’d just done.

Continued on into Southampton, where I got a little lost trying to hook up with the A34 going north. It was around 3:00 by now and the primary schools, with all their uniformed scholars, were letting out. This forced me to take it specially slow-- another accident I did not need.

After I got on the A34 and up past Winchester, my head began to clear a bit and I got to wondering. How could that accident have been my fault, since he was the one who’d hit me, presumably as I’d turned the corner? And how, since I’d passed him about even with the previous cross street, had he managed to come up on me so fast, and why? And considering that I’d signalled for a left and the way ahead was blocked, how could he for a moment have thought that I wasn’t going to turn left, or have been such an idiot as to think he could pass me before I did? For afterwards he’d gone off straight ahead across the bollarded bridge.

And in place of my fear and guilt came a swell of anger-- anger at people who can so cleverly blame others for their own foolishness and at myself for habitually being such a patsy for that sort of person.

The day and my mood rapidly deteriorated as, short of Newbury, I came upon a backup that the radio said stretched out for ten miles and for which their traffic reporters would propose no explanation. All I knew was that it took a half hour to go five miles and my chances of making it to Oxford by 4:15 were to hell and gone.

When I got to Newbury, I discovered the problem-- It was simply the glut of Friday travellers and commuters taking their turns getting through the Newbury roundabout. Damn this road system! Haven’t these people heard of a proper interchange?

Thank God the road was clear after that.

I’d planned to reenter Oxford by the eastern bypass, by way of Littlemore and Cowley, but saw there was no way. It was 5:00 already and the hire office closed at 5:30. So I came up the West, got off onto the Botley Road, and wended my way through the rush hour traffic by way of Beaumont Street, finally reaching Banbury Road and Coverdale*.

Fast as I could, I emptied out the car, dumping my luggage in the basement flat [where I had been moved during the vac]. That done, I dashed back across the Chapel passage and back to the car.

Fought off the Oxford traffic back to the Botley Road. There I perpetrated an act that put the crown of absurdity on this whole confounded trip-- I mistook, or misremembered, the way into the carpark for the shopping center where the hire place is. Instead I found myself on the highway on-ramp and thence heading southbound back down the A34.

I didn’t care who heard me, I screamed in frustration! In an access of self-disgust, not to say self-destructiveness, I gunned the engine and as my speed mounted I didn’t give a holy damn if I were arrested for speeding or cracked up the car or committed whatever other mayhem.

But I couldn’t help but see the Palm Sunday cross that’d been hanging from the rearview mirror ever since Saffron Walden. And a more sensible voice reminded me of what a bad witness it’d be if I did something foolish with that present to proclaim me a Christian. Chastened, but still very upset, I slowed down and turned left into what I discover is Yarnells Road. This took me to North Hinksey Lane and back to the Botley Road.

This time, I didn’t miss the turning to the car park. And thank God, though it was 5:40 the EuropCar office was still open. I told them about the cyclist and filled out a report on the smashed door I so cleverly acquired in Stamford. The girl at the counter agreed that my second-thoughts version of the encounter in Portsmouth was probably the accurate one. She told me not to worry, they’d take care of it, since it was properly reported to them and she’d taken the particulars down from me in writing.

I couldn’t get my deposit back yet, as all the cash was locked up for the weekend. And I nearly forgot my Palm Sunday cross, running back to retrieve it.

I did not take a bus back to Oxford. I’d had enough of vehicles for quite awhile. Instead I loitered along the Botley Road, pausing to inspect the little ramifications of the Thames as they passed under each bridge I crossed. I stopped to see the locks at the Osney Bridge, coming down into East Street for a closer view. At one point, I passed a young guy who was trying to hitch a lift into Oxford. I nearly laughed in amusement as I told him, upon his inquiry, that the city was only a short distance ahead-- he’d might as well walk. Everything was bathed in a golden western light and as calm returned I felt a great sense of proprietary affection for my city as it appeared ahead.

And so to New Road, round by the castle mound, and thus by Queen Street to Carfax. It was a little short of 7:00 and I just had time to pop into the Coop on Cornmarket for some milk and other supplies.

Thus provisioned, I strolled up Magdalen, up St. Giles, and finally to the Banbury Road and Coverdale College*.

I’ve been utterly useless the rest of this evening. I made myself supper and took forever eating it at the desk in the little bedroom down here. And, ignoring the luggage that wants to be unpacked, I’ve finished reading Scott’s Heart of Mid-Lothian (and rot him, need he be so predictably moralistic in the end?).

The college is still overrun with those absurdly embarrassing students from Bemidji, Minnesota, and I still don’t know how I shall deal with the problem between Lukas* and me. But away with all that for now-- I’m back at Coverdale*, thank God, I’m home at last, I’m home!

In a Pickle

Funny, what a creature I can be of happenstance.

In this case, in regard to what I plant in each year's backyard garden, and what I do with the produce that comes from it.

This year, in May, I happened to visit a certain local garden center on a certain day, and they happened to have pickling cucumber plants for sale. So I got a four-pack of those, and a four-pack of regular cukes.

I planted them, and now in the fullness of time, I have-- cucumbers. A good many cucumbers. Too many to eat fresh, too many to give away.

So I resolved to make-- pickles.

But I was lost in a cookbook maze of crocks and brining and pickling salt and who knows what all. And that was before I could get to the vinegar and spices end of the process.

But there were all those pickling cucumbers! Nothing daunted, I hied myself to the local Agway to buy me some of this magical pickling salt. Maybe they could sell me a crock as well! And it so happened that there I discovered the pickle amateur's salvation, in the form of powdered pickling mix proffered by the estimable Mrs. Wages!

This evening I shook off the leading strings of happenstance. It was time to pickle! I assembled my forces and got to work. I used all the pickling cukes I had on hand, and part of an ordinary one, for good measure. I sterilized my jars and lids and boiled my water and timed my processing.

And now I have eight pints made with half the Polish Dill mix. Did spears, since even the smaller cukes were too big to put in whole. Could've filled one more jar, but alas! I was out of dome lids. If the bushes keep yielding, I'll have to get more Mason jars!

To be on the safe side, I used Mrs. Rombauer's fifteen-minute timing for the boiling-water processing, instead of Mrs. Wages' five. Knowing me, if I'd stopped at five I would've given myself a stomach ache when it came time to eat the pickles, worrying that they might possibly be off, even if they were perfectly good!

I am reliably informed that dill pickles are best if allowed to sit for six weeks before eating. We shall wait, and see what we have in early September!

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Seventeen

Sunday, 2 April, 1989
Holford to Taunton to Glastonbury to Wells to Holford again
Day Seventeen

Had breakfast at 8:30, down in the sitting room. The family’s black and white border collie named Roly came in and begged with his big brown eyes, but had no better luck than his predecessors. When Mrs. Ayshford discovered it she hauled him away. Which was too bad, as I liked the company.

Taunton was my first stop today. Took an unclassified one and a half lane road from the A39 south to Crowcombe. Very pleasant, tree-lined, with little traffic. It was actually turning out sunny and there was a place to pull off and shoot pictures, looking towards Bridgwater Bay.

After Crowcombe it was the A358 into Taunton. Devil of a time finding a place to park, till it occurred to me I could put the car on the street, it being Sunday.

First visit, to the church of St. Mary Magdalene near the center of town. But I'd diddled around too much if I'd expected to attend services there. Church was at 10:15 or so and I got there at nearly 12:00.

I guess there was some advantage to having the building to myself to explore and take pictures of. It's a very nice 15th Century Perp church. The ceiling, recently repainted black with all sorts of green and white shields and gilded angels, is stunning. Lots of fine sculpture in the double aisles. Rather odd terrarium-looking altar, though. Unique is the word.

Also very nice pierced decoration on the tower.

Wandered around town trying to find a phonecard box. Located one near the river and called down to Kent to a B&B there that looked interesting. So I have a place for Thursday night. And I called Phyllis Johnson* in London and asked please could I stay there Wednesday after coming to hear [Hector Berlioz'] Romeo & Juliet that night. Oh, yes.

So, very good-- except that I couldn’t get my card out of the phone. Called the British TeleCom toll-free repair number. All the man could suggest is leaving the card there and having them send me a new one. But I needed it back now! Luckily, it popped back out even as we spoke.

The blue and white bridge over the River Tone looked so pretty in the sunlight that I walked down a ways, past the castle, to see it better. Watched the ducks on the water and the clouds in the sky. The castle was converted to a high class hotel ages ago [not entirely true, I now find; part of it is the Somerset County Museum], but you can walk along the river in the castle gardens. There were some large bushes growing there, with bright yellow flowers growing all over them like cheerful pompoms. I've never seen a shrub like it before. I wonder what it is? I like it.

Tramped around trying to find something to drink. Settled for a bottle of ersatz raspberry fizz water at 20p at a formica-topped cafe. Definitely an Experience.

I passed through one street down by the church and noticed how packed it was with artsy-craftsy supply shops. All those pipe cleaners and beady glue-on eyes, and for what? And it hit me what a reprehensible waste all that is. How can people have such trash in their homes, and pay good money for it, too, and spend good time and money making such things? I realize most people don’t feel such moral repulsion against it, but it is hard to wonder why something that seems so painfully obvious to you shouldn’t be apparent to everyone else.

Walked north of the river only as fair as the railroad station. After that, I took off for Glastonbury like a good little architectural tourist.

Up the A361, not too many miles from Taunton, I saw something that looked an awful lot like Glastonbury Tor but on closer inspection was not. It was a ruined chapel dedicated to St. Michael on top of a mound called the Burrow Mump, near Othery. And of course I had to double back, park the car, and climb up.

Other people had the same idea. Families and couples out in the sunshine. Great view of the Somerset Levels and all the little towns below.

That done, I came down and drove the rest of the way to Glastonbury. And wondered how I could’ve been mistaken about the Tor, once I’d seen the real thing in the distance.

Found a carpark (free on Sundays) not far from the town center and walked to the Abbey. Could get a little weird there, since not only was Glastonbury a great Benedictine center, but because of the Arthurian connection, various New Agers and other fringies find it an attractive pilgrimage spot as well. Several shops on the High Street for me to stay out of, though for the most part it seemed pretty laughable.

Judging from the size and compass of the ruins, Glastonbury Abbey when complete must’ve been a jaw-dropper. Just incredibly huge. Very Norman in feel, even in its Gothic parts. Lots of dogtooth ornament. And some original floor tiles left, in situ. You look at them by lifting up wooden covers. They’re all below existing ground level, which is higher than that of four hundred years ago.

Funny thing, though. Durham Cathedral is older than Glastonbury; the building is, at least. But Durham doesn't seem so incredibly remote and ancient as Glastonbury does. Maybe it's because here it's all ruins, so the place is arrested in the past. Up in Durham, the cathedral is used and lived in, as it were, and it's part of the everyday life of the Christian church-- regardless of its current bishop! So Durham belongs to Today, old as it is. There I got a sense of fruitful rootedness and living tradition. But here-- whatever's living is living several centuries back, and it pulls you into a world that is a long time ago and culturally, at least, very far away.

Which would explain the airhead-looking types sitting around soaking up vibes from the stones (what the sensible Benedictines would’ve said, I can’t think). There was one man, Western but with hair, beard, and robes like an Indian guru, sitting meditating in what was once the chancel. I considered taking his picture but decided it’d be a poor idea. If I showed such a thing, my audience might think I approved, which would be bad, or know I was holding the man up to ridicule, which would be worse. As much as I may deplore his creed I have no right to compromise his dignity.

I do have to wonder how much of this New Age business would be going on here if the Abbey were still an intact, functioning church. I mean, how much of this myth and legend stuff is us modern people putting our ideas on the Past, which isn't still around to defend itself?

Wandered around the grassy grounds contemplating the trees and flowering shrubs, including what is supposed to be a scion of the original Glastonbury Thorn. I used to love that story of Joseph of Arimathea planting his staff in the soil here-- did I ever actually believe it, or just want to, like the story of Santa Claus?

Visited the abbot’s kitchen, the only building really left intact. It was used as a Quaker meeting house for awhile. I was disappointed to see how some idiot had defaced the exhibits with vulgar writings and drawings. Real grown up, turkey.

Drove round to the Tor, but wasn’t so good at following the signs. But that was all right, since the road where I ended up got me closer to the stile to one of the footpaths than the official parking lot would’ve. Left the car at the side of the street and headed up the hill.

It is a big hill. The best way to climb it is to go round the curve, though I trusted my shoes enough to risk taking sideways steps diagonally up the grass. Wasn’t wet by now, fortunately. The clear, dry weather was holding beautifully.

The ruined chapel here, too, was dedicated to St. Michael. He seems to get the ones mounted up on pinnacles, doesn’t he? Like the one at Burrow Mump, this place was also thoroughly betouristed, with couples lying or wrestling around on the grass and children running in and out of the remaining tower. You just have to accept it and appreciate it for how it is, even if you’d prefer it quiet and to yourself.

The pagans, literally, had been at the place, scribbling their graffiti over a plaque, claiming the hill as their personal free-love site for some dark celebration . . . I don’t see St. Michael being too thrilled with that-- let alone, God.

From the top you can see all over that part of Somerset-- down to Glastonbury, the black and white cows grazing in the fields, and northeast all the way to Wells, its cathedral readily apparent. The sun was dropping lower, its light becoming more golden, backlighting the grasses of the hillside.

I came down a different way, meaning I continued my original counterclockwise progress all round the tor till I came down again to the stile I’d originally crossed. There were sheep even on this touristed mound, and little lambs ramming and butting one another, or running away behind their mothers if anyone got too close.

Back to the vehicle, then down to the town again, and caught the A39 up to Wells.

When I’d parked the care there in Sadler Street, opposite the gate, it was just on 6:00 o’clock and the cathedral was closing. I went in anyway, just for a minute.

And you know, there’s a wonderful effect that you get looking squarely down the nave: The line of the foliated capitals of the shafts of the clerestory lead your eye swiftly down the righthand side, swooping down the downward curve of the upper, inverted strainer arch, up its upward counterpart to the left, then flying back towards you along the lefthand row of clerestory capitals. Incredibly dynamic. You feel you can see the forces go. It all works a lot better than I’d thought.

And of course the carving in the capitals, above and below, is worth seeing for itself. So marvellously crisp (I hope it’s not all 19th Century restorations).

Having plenty of time in this part of England, I didn’t push things here today. But one thing was important, that I felt called to do. I passed up to the front of the nave, just before the Communion rail, and asked God that if-- no, when I come to forgive Lukas* for his behaviour at Iona (for he must be forgiven, else I’ll suppress this and it will only add to my general sickness of soul), I will truly forgive him, honestly and completely, and not keep pulling his offense out again, to his hurt or to my own. The thing must be made right between us, it must.

There was a young clergyman locking up, so I just verified that the Chapter House would be open tomorrow, and allowed myself to be shepherded out with some other stragglers.

I did not leave the cathedral grounds then, not a bit of it. The sun was striking full on the west facade and also illumining the north flank. And you know me-- I like anything with the sun on it. I think I killed a whole roll of film just on the Wells exterior. They’ve been cleaning the masonry and it all looked golden and lovely. I had good fun shooting the high-up statuary with the telephoto. They’re what that facade is all about. The doors themselves are ridiculously insignificant.

I was still there to see the funny clock on the north side mark 6:45. Then I got an ice cream (loosely-speaking) from a vending lorry and wandered out and back in to see the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace.

It was closed, but the moat and walls with the swans and ducks gliding by below could all be seen in the most welcome and fortuitous light. The mallards are wonderful, the way the color of their shimmering neck feathers changes from royal blue to grass green to velvet black and back to teal again, depending on the angle of refraction.

You can go in the gateway of the palace and look into the inner court, but no farther except for one or two days a week, when there are tours. The Bishop still lives there. I tried to imagine one of the Coverdale* guys rising to this estate. Somehow I can’t picture any of them feeling comfortable in such splendour.

It was proper time to head back to Holford by now, being well past 7:30. Trouble was, my petrol gauge was riding on empty and here it was Sunday evening. I’d seen an Amoco station selling 4-star at £1.76 a gallon (miracle!) on the road above Bridgwater last night, but now I had no idea exactly where it was or if it was even open. Just what I needed, to run out of petrol. I didn’t help myself by getting onto the wrong road out of Wells and wasting fuel going all the way to Wookey Hole before I realized my error. Back and got onto the A3139 as planned, west towards Highbridge. Coasted as much as I could. I don’t know how much reserve this car has when the needle’s on empty, but I wasn’t taking chances.

Came out onto the A38 and after a bit came to a British Petroleum garage that was open. Damn, £1.87/gallon-- but read the old one about beggars and choosers as said. How nice then to pull away from there with a full tank and spot the Amoco a few miles closer to Bridgwater-- and open.

Proper good sunset this evening, but it was quite dark as I again drove the curving road towards Holford. All sorts of fun with the brights, trying to see how long I could keep them on before having to dim them for an oncoming driver. It’s near impossible to negotiate that road on the low lamps, especially if you’re trying to go as fast as local expectations would have it.

Decided since, except for the ice cream and that raspberry fizz, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I’d pop over to the pub and have a meal and a glass of Somerset cider. The barbecued chicken was the least expensive, and came with a jacket potato, mushrooms, and peas, for about £3.45. Glass of medium-sweet (but hard) cider for 52p. Brought Walter Scott [Heart of Mid-Lothian] along to keep me company, though the cover of that Everyman Edition doesn’t take kindly to being propped up on tables.

There were several other people in the Plough, including a group of people in their 20s. The guys were making some rather rude suggestions to the girls, which struck the young ladies as more funny and provocative than repulsive . . . It made me think about cultural differences-- not national, but class-related. But maybe it has more to do with religion. I couldn’t imagine any of the guys in the young adult class at my home church or in Coverdale* making personal comments about a female friend’s private anatomy to her face. I couldn't imagine them making such comments at all! Here and now over supper, I decided that as long as these people didn’t attempt to draw me in, I was going to ignore it and not let it make me nervous.

Returned next door to my room at around 10:00 and vegetated with the book until turning in.

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Eleven

Monday, 27 March, 1989
Iona to Helensburgh
Day Eleven, Easter Monday

My attempts to get to sleep last night looked for awhile to be quite in vain, as Therese* contracted a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth. She started rambling inanely on and on about her adventures in prep school till I had a terrible case of the giggles and Marie* nearly came over and killed her. Still, in a perverse way it was nice, because predominantly it seemed hilariously funny and not a cause for rancor at all.

Dragged myself out at 4:15 nonetheless and got everything packed up in the nick of time. Marie*, bless her, got up and dressed just to see me off, though I nearly had a heart attack at the jetty when my backpack, which she had carried out for me, was momentarily nowhere to be found. I’m afraid I didn’t impress anyone with my maturity for a minute or two . . . All the suppressed stress threatened to come out at this least opportune of moments. Thankfully, it was found and all was well with the luggage.

Raining again, of course, and pitch black, except for the lights, so no photos of the Sound of Iona again.

Not a hell of a lot to say about the trip to Oban, besides that I’m glad to have a reasonable set of sea legs. Makes boat trips much more enjoyable. As for my hope of talking to Lukas* on the Mull bus, forget it. He was still thoroughly occupied with one of the girls from the abbey program. If I did fancy him I could’ve felt jealous, but as it was I was merely disgusted at his incredibly rude behavior at not even greeting me this morning, especially after what happened in Communion yesterday. I don’t know what he did on the ferry to Oban; he retired to the boat’s cafeteria for some breakfast and I ascended to the observation deck.

There I was kept amused by the Tzubekis’* little girl Tumelo* and her friend, the little son of another African family that had been on Iona, and was able to be useful in taking a picture of the two families out on the boat’s deck.

A short time later we docked in Oban and I lugged my stuff to the Astra, which thankfully was still there in the BritRail parking lot, undisturbed. As I was stowing my things in the trunk I thought about Lukas* and wondered what Jesus would do in this situation.

My inclination was to bitterly say to hell with Mr. Renzberger* and drive off. The positive and mannerly thing would be to go back to the train station and wish him a good trip. Who knows what Lukas* would’ve preferred, but as far as I could tell, Jesus would do the positive thing.

So back I went, to wish him well and to inquire civilly after his further plans. Well, said he formally and distantly, he’d be up in Inverness for awhile and then after that, who knows; he didn’t have to be back at Coverdale* when the regular students did and he might not return till after the 20th. Charming, considering he’d said before the end of Hilary Term that he’d definitely be back the week of April 9th and had accepted my invitation to dinner . . .

Hell, what would Jesus do in a situation like that? Jesus has the advantage of knowing that it isn’t any sin He’s committed that’s making another give him the brush-off. But I can’t help but wonder what the hell is it I’ve done to offend Lukas*, that he should treat me so badly.

My tiredness and lack of sleep and the stress of driving on wet, narrow, twisty, rock wall lined roads added no good to my state and the only thing that prevented me from breaking down crying right there at the wheel was the knowledge that if I was blinded by tears a serious accident could ensue.

But as soon as I reached Inverary I stopped and bought a pastry and a bit of bread and cheese to eat. And I got a postcard and wrote and sent it to Friedhelm* [a German theology student who'd spent only Michaelmas Term at Coverdale*] . Friedhelm*, to my recollection, though at times reserved, never acted like a jerk. I miss Friedhelm* a great deal.

After that I made it down to Helensburgh without having an accident, despite more rock walls and being stuck for a long time behind a trailer being drawn by one of those ridiculous three-wheeled mini-cars.

When I got into town I parked the car at the lot by the big Clyde estuary and went and got a cup of tea and another cake (just what I needed, more sugar). Back to the tourist office then and found out the way to Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s Hill House.

Still thinking about this thing with Lukas*, though. The only thing I can conceive that I could’ve done to offend him is to be myself, who I am. But you can’t go to another human being and say, "Forgive me for living"-- because that’s not your fault, it’s God’s. They should take it up with Him. Still, I don’t know what’ll be worse-- if we get along terribly once we’re back at Coverdale* or if he’s sweet and nice again and I suppress all my anger at him because I’m afraid this weekend was all my fault or because I don’t want to rock the boat.

The Hill House was swathed in scaffolding and translucent plastic, to repair the exterior surfacing. But it was still open inside. It was thoroughly a matter of "O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!" as in its perfection of proportion and decoration and detailing it is excruciatingly beautiful. Especially when I came into the drawing room, with that white bay window flooded with light, I just wanted to sit down and weep for the sheer loveliness of it.

But you can’t-- all the chairs say "Do not sit!" on them. And the place was flooded with other people, all talking in whispers as if they were in church . . . funny, when you consider all the children the Blackies had, and how they must’ve gone running and shouting up and down those gracefully-ornamented stairs.

Seeing all the custom designed furnishings and fittings, I had to think of Eric* [the architect I'd worked for for over seven years] and the work he does, that I used to do with him . . . And to wonder if the design I did for the Griffons* just before I left Myron’s* [the architect I'd been working for up to the time I left for Oxford] has been built, and if so, how properly.

Because although it costs more now and the craftsmen are hard to find, this sort of thing can still be done. Maybe not the amazing curves in the furnishings, but the inlays and repoussés, yes.

It’s good to have all the rooms I’ve seen in photographs now totally assembled and arranged in proper order in my head. It’s now a house, and not an artifact.

It’s hard to know what to say about it all; let the photographs I took speak for me. But it makes me what to get back to designing myself, and if my work should have a bit of Mackintosh influence in it, so be it. Originality cannot come to life fully blown, it must pass through many stages and influences first. (Or so I tell myself in resolved self-correction, for my lack of productivity as an artist is largely due to my feeling that if what I’m about to do isn’t going to come out a masterpiece it oughtn’t to be done at all.)

It is so wonderful to see how everything flows together to make a total design, and good to know that the clients do exist who are willing to help make it happen.

I wandered round the garden afterwards. The rose bushes were just coming into leaf. Stylized roses within, real roses without. But these were also stylized in their way, being trained to the lines that Mackintosh drew, as individual trees or as intertwined arches. I wondered about the suitability of this, but may not a cultivated rose, which is not strictly a "natural" object after all, rejoice to find itself accorded a part in a great artist’s vision?

Perhaps someday I’ll see it all in bloom. Then I’ll be better able to tell if he was right.

Thereafter drove back down to the city center and waterfront and got the lady at the Tourist Bureau to book me a room at a Helensburgh B&B. No way I was going to make it to Glasgow tonight. Too damn tired.

Before going over I found a place to sell me more 400 Ektachrome. Yes, I’m out again. Six rolls, another minor fortune on the Visa.

Had a dickens of a time finding the place I’d been sent to, and when I arrived the lady apologised but they’d just been painting the walls and her husband had vetoed the idea of taking in any guests till the paint was thoroughly dry. They’d already fixed me up at another place, though, and I set out in search of it.

More fun with that; had to stop at a gas station where one of the clerks called the place and got more specific directions.

So I finally landed around 6:30. Lovely house, lovely hostess, tea and biscuits on a tray-- but God, that room was cold. I suppose I was hungry but I was too exhausted to move. I just put on another sweater and sat huddled in a chair, trying to make sense of this weekend but unable to maintain a continuous string of coherent thought.

Gave up around 9:00 and got into bed but stress kept me awake quite awhile longer. The noise from the TV down the foyer made lightnings go off in my head, just like Daddy used to have after his head injury . . . I wonder if he knew a lot of that was probably stress.

I wonder if I was the cause of a lot of it . . .