Similar to my last post, I am going to write about two local trips I took recently. Last weekend, API spent a day at Brighton on the southern coast of England. The day began with a walk along the beachfront and then around the pier. I have always known the image of this pier, but it is a bit underwhelming to see in person, being mostly crowded with coin-operated games, the kind of thing I'm somewhat nostalgic for but glad I'm not spending money on.
After the pier, we toured the Royal Pavilion, the decadent seaside getaway of King George IV. It was a self-guided tour with a room-by-room audio companion; mine broke in the second room so I just wandered around appreciating the great artworks and architecture.
After the tour we had four hours to do whatever we wanted to in town. I had looked up the addresses of some bookstores and record shops in Brighton, with the hope that I might find some of them wandering around the streets aimlessly. This is exactly what happened.
After a much needed cappuccino, I walked through North Laine, the cultural hub of Brighton. Along the narrow roads are shops lined up with their trellises out and doors open. It was in this area that I found a few of the bookstores along Kensington Gardens and Sydney Street. Later, I found a great record shop, The Wax Factory on Trafalgar Street. (Notice the street names, many of which are evocative of the empire.) Here, by chance I bumped into a few friends on the trip and we regrouped.
My friend Anna showed me a local landmark, street art by Banksy. This turned out to be a reproduction of the original artwork. But this is an opportunity to mention another of Brighton's characteristics: its abundance of street art. Painted in every alleyway are bold, eccentric graffiti. I was reminded of the East End of London, where so many political messages are disseminated through street art.
Anna and I made our way back to the beachfront. We took a ride on the Ferris wheel, which was worth the view of the sea, though the fog obscured much of our view of the landscape of Brighton and Hove.
After our spin on the wheel, I tried to teach Anna how to skip rocks. The waves were pretty enormous by rock-skipping standards, so we were not quite successful in this endeavor. Before we left town, I found a small booth on the beach that was selling "pots" of mussels. I was so excited, since I haven't had mussels in a long time and the prices were really cheap. The "pot" turned out to be a tiny styrofoam cup of cold mussels. On a day characterized by blistering wind and occasional bouts of rain, this was not the grandest of snacks, though I was happy to taste the salt of the sea, a taste that very much reminds me of home.
The next morning began with a horrifying jolt of recognition: I had forgotten that Saturday night was the beginning of Daylight Savings hours. So though I thought I had woken at seven o'clock for a nine o'clock train, I had actually woken up at eight. I realized this just as I was brushing my teeth and contemplating the great breakfast I was about to cook myself. That breakfast did not happen. Instead, I put on my trousers (trying not to say pants here-means something different in England) and ran out the door. It takes me about twenty minutes to get to Paddington Station, so it was somewhat miraculous that I made it on time for my train.
When I arrived in Bath two hours later, Shannon had an itinerary ready: we would take the train to Chepstow, Wales at a specific time, in order to catch the bus to Tintern, which was also departing at a very specific time. The reason for this was that the local trains and local buses do not run too often in the area we were traveling to. But, of course, the trains were delayed due to a "signal error." This gave me time to get a quick meal from, I shamefully admit, McDonald's...I had forgotten to transfer money to my checking account and was really low on funds, so in the name of hunger, I ate the cheapest meal I could find in Bath.
Once we made it onto the train, the stark contrast between industrial England and verdant Wales seemed obvious. Our last sight of England was Bristol, and as soon as we crossed the water into Wales, all we could see were green hills and small cottage homes. We had to get off the train at Newport in order to transfer to Chepstow. The next train to Chepstow was leaving in an hour and forty minutes. So, with no knowledge of Newport, we explored it for a while. After a few minutes of walking around the empty roads, we realized that there was really nothing else to do in Newport but go to the only pub we could find that was open.
The world seems very empty on most Sundays in the UK, even in London. I have a romantic image of all the families across Britain staying at home cooking and eating roasts by a warm fire. But this is a cultural myth, I think. Who knows what everyone could be up to on the universal day-off?
When we arrived a few hours later at Chepstow, we found that the bus was nowhere to be found. Again, we poked around an unknown, silent town. We did see Chepstow Castle; we figured it would cost to go inside, so we appreciated it from the outside. After trekking around the town in search of a taxi, we did find one and got on our way to Tintern Abbey.
The taxi driver had many complaints about America. He grumbled, "So you're off to see Tintern Abbey? And you're American? You folks do love history, don't you? Must be because you don't really have one." Wow. I've never heard that before. Go ahead. Point to the stone wall off the side of the road and say, "You know that there's older than your country!" At first, this sort of sardonic comment is endearing, but after three months it's become a bit irritating to be expected to uphold countless generalizations about my home country.
Arriving at the Abbey, I thought to myself that I would need some time on my own to explore the crags and crannies of the place. It was completed in 1131, and after a few centuries of peaceful, contemplative ascetic existence, it was set on a trajectory of ruin when Henry VIII dissolved the Catholic Church in Great Britain and the Abbey eventually wasted away. Shannon told me she was particularly moved by the idea of the monks' abjection in the course of their home's decay. For me, it was when I was sitting beside a low wall, looking around the valley that I recalled a few lines from Wordsworth's poem. The few that came to mind were lines I had memorized for an exam last year. In plain sentences, the lines read,
When the Abbey was about to close for the day, the four of us (me, Shannon, and Jeremy and Adam who are in her program in Bath) took turns reading Wordsworth's poem aloud. We were the only ones left visiting the grounds, and our voices echoed as we paced back and forth taking turns. It was a very moving moment to read through the poem and imagine how Wordsworth saw the Abbey over two hundred years ago.
If you are interested in the Abbey, also read Allen Ginsberg's poem "Wales Visitation," which he wrote about Tintern during an acid trip in the Black Mountains.
Between the closing of the Abbey and the arrival of the next bus to Chepstow were forty minutes. We noticed the ruins of a small stone chapel on one of the hills near the Abbey so we walked up to it. Outside of the chapel, a couple were laying flowers by a grave. They told us about the fire that ruined the chapel in 1977, when a circle of teenage Satanists held a seance in the chapel and consequently burned it to the ground. The husband of the couple told us he had gone to church there every week as a child, and his mother is now buried there. Telling the tale, they seemed not so much melancholy as disappointed in the recklessness of the young. We strayed on the small overgrown hillside, enjoying the pastoral scenery.
On the way back into Chepstow, where we had to wait an hour before the next train to Newport, we found a small fish and chips shop, where I had a full meal for under £5. This is another wonderful thing about visiting the countryside; it's cheaper than London. Just about any other place is. The trip back to Bath took some two hours (including stop-overs), so we all slept on the train. I took the train back to London in the morning, leaving some time for a short walk along the River Avon, which is probably my favorite part of Bath that I have experienced.
Waiting for trains can be exasperating, but when there are places to explore nearby, a layover can be a miraculous thing. (Famous last words.) I am traveling the next ten days to visit friends in Paris, Florence, and Siracusa. I will have stories to share when I return!
After the pier, we toured the Royal Pavilion, the decadent seaside getaway of King George IV. It was a self-guided tour with a room-by-room audio companion; mine broke in the second room so I just wandered around appreciating the great artworks and architecture.
After the tour we had four hours to do whatever we wanted to in town. I had looked up the addresses of some bookstores and record shops in Brighton, with the hope that I might find some of them wandering around the streets aimlessly. This is exactly what happened.
After a much needed cappuccino, I walked through North Laine, the cultural hub of Brighton. Along the narrow roads are shops lined up with their trellises out and doors open. It was in this area that I found a few of the bookstores along Kensington Gardens and Sydney Street. Later, I found a great record shop, The Wax Factory on Trafalgar Street. (Notice the street names, many of which are evocative of the empire.) Here, by chance I bumped into a few friends on the trip and we regrouped.
My friend Anna showed me a local landmark, street art by Banksy. This turned out to be a reproduction of the original artwork. But this is an opportunity to mention another of Brighton's characteristics: its abundance of street art. Painted in every alleyway are bold, eccentric graffiti. I was reminded of the East End of London, where so many political messages are disseminated through street art.
Anna and I made our way back to the beachfront. We took a ride on the Ferris wheel, which was worth the view of the sea, though the fog obscured much of our view of the landscape of Brighton and Hove.
 |
| on the Ferris wheel, with the pier and ocean in the background |
The next morning began with a horrifying jolt of recognition: I had forgotten that Saturday night was the beginning of Daylight Savings hours. So though I thought I had woken at seven o'clock for a nine o'clock train, I had actually woken up at eight. I realized this just as I was brushing my teeth and contemplating the great breakfast I was about to cook myself. That breakfast did not happen. Instead, I put on my trousers (trying not to say pants here-means something different in England) and ran out the door. It takes me about twenty minutes to get to Paddington Station, so it was somewhat miraculous that I made it on time for my train.
When I arrived in Bath two hours later, Shannon had an itinerary ready: we would take the train to Chepstow, Wales at a specific time, in order to catch the bus to Tintern, which was also departing at a very specific time. The reason for this was that the local trains and local buses do not run too often in the area we were traveling to. But, of course, the trains were delayed due to a "signal error." This gave me time to get a quick meal from, I shamefully admit, McDonald's...I had forgotten to transfer money to my checking account and was really low on funds, so in the name of hunger, I ate the cheapest meal I could find in Bath.
Once we made it onto the train, the stark contrast between industrial England and verdant Wales seemed obvious. Our last sight of England was Bristol, and as soon as we crossed the water into Wales, all we could see were green hills and small cottage homes. We had to get off the train at Newport in order to transfer to Chepstow. The next train to Chepstow was leaving in an hour and forty minutes. So, with no knowledge of Newport, we explored it for a while. After a few minutes of walking around the empty roads, we realized that there was really nothing else to do in Newport but go to the only pub we could find that was open.
The world seems very empty on most Sundays in the UK, even in London. I have a romantic image of all the families across Britain staying at home cooking and eating roasts by a warm fire. But this is a cultural myth, I think. Who knows what everyone could be up to on the universal day-off?
When we arrived a few hours later at Chepstow, we found that the bus was nowhere to be found. Again, we poked around an unknown, silent town. We did see Chepstow Castle; we figured it would cost to go inside, so we appreciated it from the outside. After trekking around the town in search of a taxi, we did find one and got on our way to Tintern Abbey.
The taxi driver had many complaints about America. He grumbled, "So you're off to see Tintern Abbey? And you're American? You folks do love history, don't you? Must be because you don't really have one." Wow. I've never heard that before. Go ahead. Point to the stone wall off the side of the road and say, "You know that there's older than your country!" At first, this sort of sardonic comment is endearing, but after three months it's become a bit irritating to be expected to uphold countless generalizations about my home country.
Arriving at the Abbey, I thought to myself that I would need some time on my own to explore the crags and crannies of the place. It was completed in 1131, and after a few centuries of peaceful, contemplative ascetic existence, it was set on a trajectory of ruin when Henry VIII dissolved the Catholic Church in Great Britain and the Abbey eventually wasted away. Shannon told me she was particularly moved by the idea of the monks' abjection in the course of their home's decay. For me, it was when I was sitting beside a low wall, looking around the valley that I recalled a few lines from Wordsworth's poem. The few that came to mind were lines I had memorized for an exam last year. In plain sentences, the lines read,
"For I have learned to look on nature not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts."I don't think I remembered the entirety of that block on the exam, let alone the line breaks. But they came to mind because they resembled what I was feeling, gazing out at the hilly wilderness and the River Wye. I was reminded of my boyhood penchant for imagining this kind of eerie, fantastical world. I tried to imagine how I would have felt if I had been here as a child. But this, I knew, was as close to the sort of edifice I had imagined as I have ever encountered.
When the Abbey was about to close for the day, the four of us (me, Shannon, and Jeremy and Adam who are in her program in Bath) took turns reading Wordsworth's poem aloud. We were the only ones left visiting the grounds, and our voices echoed as we paced back and forth taking turns. It was a very moving moment to read through the poem and imagine how Wordsworth saw the Abbey over two hundred years ago.
If you are interested in the Abbey, also read Allen Ginsberg's poem "Wales Visitation," which he wrote about Tintern during an acid trip in the Black Mountains.
Between the closing of the Abbey and the arrival of the next bus to Chepstow were forty minutes. We noticed the ruins of a small stone chapel on one of the hills near the Abbey so we walked up to it. Outside of the chapel, a couple were laying flowers by a grave. They told us about the fire that ruined the chapel in 1977, when a circle of teenage Satanists held a seance in the chapel and consequently burned it to the ground. The husband of the couple told us he had gone to church there every week as a child, and his mother is now buried there. Telling the tale, they seemed not so much melancholy as disappointed in the recklessness of the young. We strayed on the small overgrown hillside, enjoying the pastoral scenery.
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| Shannon at St. Mary's Church, Tintern |
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| A bus stop with a view (with Shannon and Jeremy) |
Waiting for trains can be exasperating, but when there are places to explore nearby, a layover can be a miraculous thing. (Famous last words.) I am traveling the next ten days to visit friends in Paris, Florence, and Siracusa. I will have stories to share when I return!
Too bad about that pot of mussels, Cory. At least it wasn't McDonald's. I like thinking of you and Shannon at T. Abbey. She signed up for Fiction Writing in the fall, sing hey. Now I want to hear all about your adventures on the continent. I hope you have a brilliant time with Kenny. Keep on having elevated thoughts. Or not.
ReplyDeleteWill
Love the jaunty hip's appearance! I know all about much-needed cappuccinos. And this paragraph:
ReplyDeleteThe taxi driver had many complaints about America. He grumbled, "So you're off to see Tintern Abbey? And you're American? You folks do love history, don't you? Must be because you don't really have one." Wow. I've never heard that before. Go ahead. Point to the stone wall off the side of the road and say, "You know that there's older than your country!" At first, this sort of sardonic comment is endearing, but after three months it's become a bit irritating to be expected to uphold countless generalizations about my home country.
Mmmm.