Four rats. Our mousetraps entertained four rats yesterday- yes, all in just one day. Unfortunately, I had to witness Dave carrying one downstairs, still squirming desperately on the sticky trap. Poor guy knew what was coming. It was gruesome, but I felt little sympathy for it- I want those things gone! Two different times I have woken up in the middle of the night to scratching and scurrying sounds. The rats come out at three in the morning when everyone in the whole building is finally asleep.
Both times I heard those noises I immediately tried to convince myself I wasn’t awake. I’d just make sure all my limbs were covered under my blanket (as if it could somehow repel rats) and keep my eyes shut tight. The room was completely dark, so even if I’d tried to see them it would have been pointless. However, I don’t think seeing them would be nearly as disturbing as hearing them. Clawed little feet were scampering around on the carpet beside my bed. It still makes me shudder just to think about it. Since then we have moved out all things scented- even our laundry detergent- to keep out the rodents. It seems that downstairs issues are escalading, seeing as some of the rats caught were babies. Great- like we need a whole rat colony in a building with 39 squealing girls. I can picture exactly what’s going to happen when a girl falls asleep with a chocolaty hobb nobb in her hand and she wakes up with a rat nibbling at her fingers.
Moving on to a happier subject: on Saturday I was stopped three different times and asked for directions. Clearly this is a sign that I am beginning to look like a true Londoner. Of course, I couldn’t tell the poor tourists where to go- but at least I looked like I would be knowledgeable. I’m pretty excited about that. J
Just as I’m getting comfortable in my London Town, we are plucked from our beds at 6 a.m. for a weeklong road trip around England.
After drowsily packing sandwiches and apples into our own white paper bags, we all dragged our suitcases out to Bayswater road where our coach awaited us.
Hmm… That sounds much more romantic than it really is. To clarify, a coach is a big smelly tour bus.
Tony, of course, was our bus driver for the week. BYU requests him every time we are in need of group transportation. Sometimes I wonder why.
We were all exhausted from staying up late and waking up unusually early. Needless to say, Tony’s ability to find two thousand different ways to explain how British stone walls are built without mortar, and blare the facts over the microphone while we were all trying to catch up on sleep, was not appreciated.
A few hours and several disrupted naps later, we arrived in Haworth at the home of the Bronte sisters. They were a gifted family with a sad story.
The Bronte family originally consisted of five daughters and one son. The two eldest daughters died while still in their early childhood. Then the mother died. The three sisters (Emily, Charlotte, and Ann) all grew up inventing stories together. When they were of age, each published their own novels, but two of them died before they ever received any recognition for their work. The other died soon after her books became popular. She had just been married and was pregnant with her first child when she passed away. Their brother had suffered from drug addiction and died before she had. So the father, Patrick, outlived his entire family.
I told you it was sad.
Eerily appropriate, we had to pass through a nearly overgrown graveyard to get to the little 18th century house. We didn’t see any people- only crooked headstones and the occasional passing hen. (Shout out to Lynn!)
This is the only picture I have of the outside of the house.
There was quite a bit of refurbishing done, because it really did not look as old as it was. Naturally, no photography was allowed inside. But if you are really curious to see what each of the rooms look like, you can take a virtual tour by visiting the site http://www.haworth-village.org.uk/brontes/parsonage/parsonage.asp.
Most of the things inside the house belonged to the Bronte’s. The first room on the left was the dinning room of the family. This is the room where Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Agnes Grey were written. I wondered if the sisters all helped edit each other’s work. I imagined they all sat around the table and read to each other and exchanged opinions and ideas. Personally, I think that sounds like a blast, but that’s just me.
Against one wall there is a worn dark couch. Emily Bronte, the author of Wuthering Heights, had caught a cold that turned into tuberculosis. She died on that sofa. In fact, it seemed that a Bronte had kicked the bucket in every room in the house.
Still, it was interesting to see the stiff clothes that they had to wear and the way they lived their short lives.
Back outside in the open air and overlooking hundreds of mossy headstones, I felt more depressed than enlightened. That feeling was only intensified when we were crammed into the stuffy bus.
Yes Tony, we understand that there is no mortar in the walls, thank you.
During our next drive we watched a BBC production of Jane Eyre, which everyone got really into. It’s over four hours long, so we watched it in increments throughout the next few days. The coach was filled with sighing and pinning over boyfriends as the romance unfolded.
York was our destination. When we pulled into the city I felt a rush of joy seeing the Best Western hotel that my mom, aunts, and grandma stayed with me at only a month before. I’m not the type to get homesick, but it made me miss my mom like crazy.
When we were let loose in the city I already had a general idea of where things were. I led the way to York Minster, which Mom and I had missed out on last time. On the way I noticed the ruins of the Roman walls that once protected York and now run all throughout the city. People walk beside and beneath them on their way to work every day without a second thought. Isn’t that crazy?
Getting our little group and the entire Minster to fit into the frame of a camera was really tricky- it is the second largest cathedral in Northern Europe- but it’s gorgeous. Like many other historical religious buildings that we’ve seen here in England, all of the heads were missing off of the Saints. In the 16th century Puritans had a habit of knocking the heads off of sculptures and destroying stained glass windows. They believed that the intricate beauty and decor of the church needed to be simplified and the worship of “idols” needed to cease. So if you ever see a church filled with decapitated Saints… the Puritans probably paid a visit.
Luckily for us, a man named Thomas Fairfax decided it would be a good idea to stop his men from destroying the stained glass windows. Therefore, the oldest medieval (as well as the largest) exists here in this cathedral, as the rest of the cathedrals and churches in Northern Europe were still looted to the fullest. The tallest stained glass window is 76 feet tall, although it is currently being cleaned, and so instead of seeing the world’s largest medieval stained glass I saw the world’s largest picture of the stained glass.
Our guide through the minster was a tiny little old man named Malcolm who was probably only up to my jaw in height- and I’m not the tallest girl in the world. He had watery slits for eyes and heavy lids that he couldn’t seem to keep open. He was really funny and I soon found out he wasn’t even Catholic. He spent some of the time asking us about our beliefs.
What really impressed me the most was that he could name all of the monarchs in England’s history. How? Well, he used a little song- I hope you can hear it over the earsplitting organ.
Right before the York Minster was closed to tourists we began climbing the tower. 275 steps later we would be looking down at the city of York. That’s almost three times the amount of steps I have to climb each day to get to my attic room. The man in front of me would hate living up so many flights of stairs. He was the first in line up the narrow staircase, and his big belly scraped against both walls as he tried to pull himself up. Gravity can be a menace to ridiculously huge people. He was stopping every 20 steps or so, which gave us a lot of time to read the writing all over the stone.
This one is for you, Roy.
About halfway up the large man began asking if he could come down. Umm… there were 12 girls all standing squished together, it was so narrow that two people couldn’t even stand side by side, and I was beginning to feel claustrophobic just watching him squeeze his hefty self into these tiny spaces.
I’m happy to report that he did finally make it to the top, and immediately rested on a chair.
Yes my hair was a little crazy in the wind up there, but even the windiest kind of fresh air was relieving after being stuck behind the human cork for forty minutes. And the view was awesome.
We stuck around for Even’ Song, which was really cool. The choir consisted of about forty little children, and the prayers were sung with many of the audience joining in. It was very traditional- the priests were draped in long white robes and some carried gold staffs and slowly made their way down the isle with incense. It was cool.
Then we explored down the shambles, which I did before with my mom, aunts, and grandma- but we didn't realize where we were or the significance of it back then. This is proof that traveling somewhere twice is beneficial.
That was our first night in a hostel. The whole week prior to this trip I heard complaining and fears revolving around staying in hostels. Having stayed in hostels in both Europe and Mesoamerica, I wasn’t worried and really thought everyone was being over-dramatic. Sure, they aren’t five star hotels, but they’re not leaky dungeons with straw for beds, come on! And since we were staying in a big group, it wasn’t like we would be sharing rooms with strange druggy vagabonds or anything.
In fact, it was a pretty nice hostel. I got to share a room with girls I didn’t really know before: Mysha, Kaitlin, and Melissa. Every night it was a new hostel and new roommates. However, Kaitlin and/or Andy were always in my room so that was way fun. It was refreshing to make friends with people outside of our individual rooms at the center.
After hauling our luggage back onto the infamous coach, we headed out of the city and into the greener north England.
Fountain’s Abby is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever laid eyes on. From the distance at the head of the trail we could see a part of it poking up from behind some trees.
From there we walked down a dirt pathway into the dense forest, almost losing our way at one point. But then through the branches we could see the clearing. The trees fell away and we were standing in a never-ending field juicy green grass. The gothic stone seemed to grow right out of the grass like God had planted them there. Moss covered the abandoned walls that reached up high enough to scrape the clouds. It’s enough to make one forget to breathe.
You may be wondering why this magnificent building was abandoned in the first place. The shortened story: King Henry VIII wanted to get rid of the Catholic church in England since the Pope wouldn’t give him permission to divorce his current wife so he could marry Ann Boleyn. But since the King didn’t want his subjects to know that he and the Pope weren’t buddies anymore, he pretended that he truly wanted religious reformation. This brought about the dissolution of the monasteries, which were disbanded, and the new Supreme Head of the Church of England (who just so happened to be the King) claimed all of the money and land. Nice guy.
But in all honesty, I am kind of grateful for his selfish stupidity. These abandoned buildings can be found all over England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland- and can you believe how awesome they are?
Back on the bus we passed some things that I had to try and snap some pictures of. Cows, sheep, and cute houses.
The countryside is something that you just can’t miss if you ever visit England. It’s so very different from the city.
In London there are almost as many immigrants as there are English. It’s extremely diverse. Generally, the customer service and people in public are cold and distant- everyone seems to constantly be in a hurry to get somewhere. Most residents are young or middle-aged people trying to kick off their careers with the vast opportunities available in such a large and influential city.
But in the country you are more likely to find the cute old English grandma with her flower hat and strong proper accent. Everyone seems more relaxed, and more considerate too. And the gardens and the fenced houses… words are useless to describe them.
The Lake District has inspired some of the world’s greatest literary minds. The last time I’d been there I could see little past the fog and downpour. Even then, though, I thought it was beautiful. But on this second trip there was not a single drop of rain- it was all clear and breathtaking. The Lake District should be on everyone’s list of places to go before you die.
I thought I would include here a few pictures of the flowers I saw. I’ve officially decided that I want to garden when I have a little piece of land for myself. Even in the city people use up whatever space they’ve got for some flowers of some kind. Pots dot windowsills or crowd doorways. But the true English love of flowers is obvious in the country, and in the Lake District they truly flourish. Everyone, it seems, has very well-kept gardens and Virginia Creepers draped over their walls.
From inside the coach I watched a full rainbow form in the purple sky over all of the green, flowery fields as we headed toward Dove Cottage. This is where William Wordsworth lived for some time.
The house and museum were fantastic. Although no photography was allowed, I managed to snap this picture of Wordsworth’s study. Our towering tour guide, whose head was scuffing the low ceiling throughout the entire house, quickly reprimanded me. But it was worth it. This was Wordsworth’s chair where he wrote many of his greatest works. He believed that a desk was an “instrument of torture.” Wow- I couldn’t agree more. I have yet to have written a blog entry from a desk. I’m always curled up on my bed or sprawled on the floor. Maybe I should try to acquire a chair like this, with wide arms- perfect for a notebook to balance between the wood and a pen. Genius, that Wordsworth.
Here is part of Wordsworth's garden that we got to tiptoe in. It's very lush, as is the entire Lake District. These are the steps he took almost every day, including on times he was musing about how he "wondered lonely as a cloud..."
I saw many of his objects, such as his ice skates. Did you know William was a talented ice skater? Fitting. But my favorite things to see were his original manuscripts and notebooks. It was interesting to see his creative process.
When we piled back onto the coach we began our usual count off. I feel as though I’m in high school whenever we do this. Before our coach takes off I have to sit, straining my ears to hear someone shout the number 34 so that I can respond with, “35!” I thought this system was in place so that we made sure we had our entire group.
I thought.
But our coach began pulling away from Dove cottage, even though we knew very well that we were missing Nicole and Brooke. Several of the girls were loudly objecting, telling Tony to step on the brakes. But we had a very eager professor who silenced the girls and seemed to be rushing Tony.
I was in shock when we were back on the road and Dove cottage was becoming a speck down the lush road. We had seriously just left two girls in the middle of nowhere. It was the gossip of the day as everyone stressed about our roommates and their safety.
Meanwhile, Tony was making a lot of stops for sheep. It was cool to watch them come flooding across the road like we had just been hit by a foamy sea wave. Sheep dogs would be running around, keeping the livestock moving together in a clump. It was fun to see the shepherds with their walking sticks and sometimes even newsie hats, if you know what I mean. An elderly shepherd surprised me when he picked up one of his flock by the horns to carry him across the road faster. I always imagined shepherds to be a little less violent- haha!
We then took a ferry to Hawkshead, Beatrix Potter’s hometown. I’m an avid fan, and basically forced the professors to squeeze this trip into the itinerary by gathering an avid fan club together the week previous. It was so beautiful; I could see why Miss Potter dreamed of moving out of London to live there. My own dreams (though impractical) were beginning to surface.
Her farmhouse on Hilltop was left exactly as it had been when she died. Everything was original to her and to the house except for the curtains and the carpet. I liked seeing some of the letters between her and her publishers. Apparently not all of her material was well liked. But she was so cool! If I had infinite amounts of time I could write a whole separate blog about her. I’ll just tell you my favorite thing: her illustrations in most of her later books were based on true animals and places. A duck once wandered away from the farm, and that duck became Gemima Puddleduck in her imagination. We could see certain areas of her house and surrounding garden that she painted for her stories. The front door, her staircase, her garden, etc. I wish we could have taken pictures inside, but if you are at all familiar with the quaint children’s stories, perhaps the outside of her house will ring memorable to you.
I had to buy all of the books- all 23 tales- from her hometown.
That night we stayed up really late talking in the lobby of the hostel on fluffy couches.
By the way, Nicole and Brooke asked for directions from the people in the Wordsworth museum and simply walked a few miles to our youth hostel. Although they missed out on Beatrix Potter’s and the town there, they were optimistic about how beautiful the walk had been.
The next morning a few of us got up before the sun to go on a jog and to get a picturesque view of Lake Windermere (which happens to be the biggest of the lakes in the Lake District). By the time we made it to the top of a huge rolling hill the sun had entered the sky. The view was truly stunning, and we quickly decided that our cameras could not really do the scene justice.
When we were on our way back Sarah and I got separated from the rest of the group because of our over curiosity. While I was waiting for her to snap another picture of the view, I noticed something different about one of the stone walls. It had steps! And in the field over the wall, there was a steep hill where a pile of stones stood against the morning sky like a pillar. Clearly someone wants people to go up there, I thought.
After checking for killer sheep on the other side of the wall, I climbed over. Sarah followed and soon we were crawling on all fours up the super steep hill, passing flowers and some kind of purple vegetation. The stone pillar was there to get people’s attention, I’m sure of it. There could be no better view of Lake Windermere anywhere. We felt as though we had discovered gold.
I imagine we could have spent all day just gazing down into the Lake District, but then the sheep started inching their way toward us. We left quickly, but not too quickly. One trip or slip and you could be doing summersaults for a long time.
This little side trip, though completely worth it, disoriented us and put us quite far behind the group. Soon we were wandering down overgrown roads and crossing unfamiliar bridges. Some shepherds would occasionally pass us on their roaring quads, but we were too embarrassed to stop them to ask for directions. In our aimless wanderings we continued to take pictures, found a cascading waterfall, and saw more beauty.
I just love the walls and the little doors and gates that seem to have been hanging on their hinges for hundreds of years. In a particularly tall wall there was a large wooden door. I thought I would check to see if it would open- but I knew it wouldn’t budge. After all, it was ancient.
But the lever lifted smoothly and the door started creaking open!
BABAAAA!
“AAAH!” and I slammed the door in the yellow-eyed face of a big scary sheep. Sarah would be better at telling you what expression had sprung to my face when I saw that ugly sheep head looming right on the other side of the door. Alarmed, maybe? We were quick to jog away from that scene, but we looked back to see that about 10 sheep had migrated toward the door, waiting for me to make the stupid mistake of opening it again.
It was heartrending to leave the Lake District. I could spend forever there, and maybe then I could get a hint or a glimmer of the inspiration that Wordsworth or Beatrix Potter did. Still… maybe not.
For our next long bus ride we watched North and South, which is basically a retelling of Pride and Prejudice. This chick flick nonsense would not have been tolerated if any guys had come on the trip.
On our way to Liverpool and Preston for our religion class, we stopped at Chatsworth. This is where parts of the most recent Pride and Prejudice were filmed.
I took a picture of the bust of Darcey used in the movie. Cool, huh? This is dedicated to the roommates of Avonlea 9, who insisted on playing Pride and Prejudice every Sunday.
A few other movies were filmed here. There are few buildings that I've seen that can even come close to comparing with this splendor. It had five libraries.
FIVE! No one deserves to have five libraries. I'm sure the Duke and Duchess haven't read even half of these books- with no disrespect to them... but no one has enough time to read that many books. I had to be physically torn away from where I was rooted, staring jealously at the gorgeous bookcases.
This picture is for Mom, who thinks that big doors with tiny knobs are funny. Every door as gigantic and every knob was almost microscopic.
The LDS church history here is so neat. We saw the river where many of the first converts were baptized.
At that time the British called Mormons "dippers" because they were baptized by full immersion (something quite rare at that time in history). 9,000 people came to watch the first baptisms. The water is pretty shallow there today, and a trail runs right alongside the river.
We also saw other sites where the early missions were. For example, the square where Brigham Young preached as a missionary. The square is still busy today, but it is surrounded by mostly modern buildings. What Brigham Young would have seen was the obelisk pictures below. He actually preached from there.
Near the Preston area we talked about how fly fishing originated in this area and how Wilford Woodruff (I think) was the first to bring the leisure sport beyond the Mississippi. Naturally, Dad, I thought of you. If you look really closely at this picture you can see some fly fishermen.
My favorite thing was standing at the docks in Liverpool where my ancestors stood before boarding ships to take them to America. Looking out into the grey waters we sang, “Come, Come, Ye Saints” together. It was a still morning, and the music helped me somehow feel closer to those ancestors of mine. I spent most of the rest of that day in a museum learning about immigration from England and other related things.
Oh, we also visited the Preston temple, which was really pretty.
There is an entire area where the mission president lives, where there is a huge stake center, and then this amazing MTC (missionary training center). It was much more beautiful than the one I've seen in Provo, and I was just able to walk right on in.
Here we are in front of that museum I mentioned earlier. This anchor was used in the 1830s! It's huge!
One night in Liverpool we decided to see a movie. It was called Dorian Grey, a British movie rated 15. So that means it should be safe for anyone over 15 to see. But um… there was enough nudity that I don’t think anyone should see it! There was a whole row of us that got up and walked out, which really irritated the people behind us. I felt like I was doing them a favor, though! I was censoring!
Most people went back to the hostel, but Sarah and I wanted to get our money’s worth. So we slipped in for 500 Days of Summer, which was a good movie. I’d recommend that one. Not Dorian Grey.
It being our last day of the weeklong trip, I went out for a treat with some of the girls: Pizza Hut. Oh yeah, we were excited for our American food. I ate enough cheesy breadsticks to feed a small third world country. But what was interesting was meeting our waiter, Daniel.
As soon as he heard our “accents” Daniel wanted to know which part of the states we were from. When we told him he was absolutely enthralled. He told us that he has wanted to live in the US since he was a kid. He has been to Florida once and apparently it was the single most important event in his life.
I said, “That’s funny, because we’ve always wanted to live in England.” He looked at me as though I had just swallowed a frog.
“WHY?”
He proceeded to tell us that England was boring and “why would anyone want to live here?”
It was crazy to see that different perspective. How could he think a place so rich in culture and history could be boring? How could he find normal-old America to be so incredibly amazing? He made it sound like a kind of Heaven.
It just goes to show: no matter what, the grass is always greener.
Well not always... I don’t miss the coach.
DO hang out at the parks even in small obscure towns. A rest stop turned into a blast from the past- playground time!
