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North Devon: Green Acres

Green acres and acres, in Exmoor

We spent last weekend in North Devon, just outside Exmoor National Park. Having just given a talk on "Creating Fresh Imagery" I was in the mood to create word images...and Devon, with its green, green pastures, is now my go-to image for "green". Nothing is as green as Devon. 

Want to describe someone's eyes? Someone's shirt? A slash of paint? Try a comparison to Devon's verdant pastures, where florescent green grass stretches for acres and acres. 

My camera can't do justice to the effect, but some of these photos will give you a visual taste of what Devon is like. 

A view from the edge of Exmoor.

We stayed in a cozy  way too small cottage. The inn next door was built in the 13th century, so I suspect, judging by the beams in the low ceiling and in a checkerboard across the walls, that this row of cottages wasn't much younger. I guess people were smaller then, and a two-seater sofa was all they required in the way of seating, but we were a little cramped. We actually left a day early, eager to get back to our spacious, modern house. (I actually had to sleep on that two-seater—i.e. love seat, for you Americans—since the dog couldn't go upstairs and he'd've been a bit frantic if we'd both disappeared up those treacherous steps to the loft.)

The Masons Arms, built in the 13th century. 

But enough of that. The area around the cottage, in Knowstone, was gorgeous. We walked down the lane, stopping to admire the views and the sheep every few feet, sometimes at the same time:

 

We took the dog to Dunster Estate, with acres and acres of forest and well-marked trails, in fact, it's due to our own ignorance we wandered around semi-lost much of the time. Our dog was in heaven: a new forest with lots of new smells and trails to explore, including a stream we had to ford several times as it wound back and forth over the path. 

Dunster Estate has the tallest trees in England: 

The view from the top of the trail:

The green valley:

Authentic old street signs, still in use near Dunster Estate:

More photos below:

It's Always Best From Behind

What this photographer doesn't know is that photos are always best from behind. Otherwise you'd never notice the moles on this guy's backside.

From the description: "The athlete, naked according to the Greek sporting ideal, is represented at the moment when he adjusts his position before throwing the discus, frozen in the instant before he gathers momentum."

You can see the rest of him here. 

A Trip to the Louvre

Outside the Louvre in Pas-de-Calais

The Louvre in Lens, that is. Lens is in the Pas-de-Calais region of France, about an hour's drive from the Eurotunnel terminal in Calais. It's close enough for a day trip, at least for anyone who lives reasonably close to Folkestone or Dover. 

The Louvre-Lens is located in the outskirts of Lens (pronounced lahnce), an industrial mining town characterized by huge black pyramids, the slag heaps it's been known for up until now. You see them as you drive down the autoroute toward Paris, and wonder why no one has thought to capitalize on the huge tourist potential of slag heaps before.

That's all about to change, I suspect.

Outside the Louvre-Lens, with the slag heaps in the distance.

The Louvre-Lens, an outpost of the world's greatest art museum, opened in December to very little fanfare. Maybe everyone assumed the pieces on display there would be relics stored in the attic at the Louvre, some artwork growing moldy in the basement. But that's not what they put on display at Louvre-Lens. One of the most famous paintings from the Louvre, Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People, is there. There's a pretty Goya painting of his friend, Mariana Waldstein. There's a Sir Joshua Reynolds painting of a young child, come all the way from England. 

And there are fascinating works of antiquity, including this athlete holding a discus:

Athlete holding a discus, a Roman copy of a bronze discophorus

The special exhibit includes objects and paintings from the Renaissance. One of my favorites was this whimsical bronze of The Thorn Puller: 

I found myself wanting to hold a conversation with this expressive bust: 

The site was designed by Japanese architectural firm SANAA, and in itself it's something of a piece of art. More landscaping will be done as the weather warms, but already there are interesting features in the concrete surface leading up the the museum's entrance. It's like fishponds cut into the concrete, outlined with grass. Little concrete oases. Industrial, yet somehow charming. 

The inside space is well lit (photos are allowed!), and best of all, does away completely with the idea that art must be displayed inside of room after room after room, connected like a maze and containing only those pieces that fit the time period and the room's scheme. Here you'll find a long time line on one translucent wall, inside a hangar-like area full of objects loosely grouped by geographic location and time period, so that a Greek sculpture overlooks a Byzantine bowl which is next to a Renaissance portrait...you get the picture. 

There are also three round rooms at the end of the hangar, with pieces from different time periods and techniques, which attempt to string together a theme. This was not entirely successful, and I can imagine the rooms getting very cramped and crowded in the summer during tourist season. 

Another area that doesn't hold promise for the summer was the cafe, and the limited seating nearby. The line to get a bite to eat was long and practically unmoving, and there looked to be nowhere to sit. We'd have wasted another hour or two just to get a cup of tea, so we left and found a services along the A26 as we headed back to Calais. 

Some of my favorite pieces are below. If you do go to the Louvre-Lens, you'll need to take the A26 toward Paris upon leaving the port in Calais. (Here is the location on Google maps.) The website for the Louvre-Lens is in French but Google will helpfully translate if you ask it to. 

Below are more of my favorite works of art at the museum. 

D'Alembert, the inventor of the encyclopedia, by Felix Lecomte

The painting Liberty Leading the People was vandalized shortly after the museum was opened, and now is the only piece with protective ropes surrounding it. The damage was repaired, however. 

Another man with an interesting expression, whose name I didn't catch. 

I loved the colors on this 16th century lustreware vase. 

From 1550, a footed bowl with the Royal French coat of arms. It almost seemed translucent.

A nice reclining figure. 

A Cotswolds Journey

This "gray road" near Chedworth features a lovely view of a hillside full of sheep.

Last week I took a friend on a favorite drive through the Cotswolds. It's a journey I've taken lots of visitors on, as it takes in several picturesque spots in the most picturesque part of southern England. The Cotswolds, which defy a geographical explanation, are an area of quaint English villages characterized by the use of Cotswolds stone--ranging from buttery yellow in the south to deep gold in the northern Costwolds. The gentle hills are dotted with sheep, while the low points are bisected with swift rivers and streams, a gathering place for swans and herons.

The "gray road" near Fossebridge. 

This particular journey begins at Chedworth Roman Villa and carries on across the A429 to Bibury, by way of single track roads. If you're one of those people who avoid single track roads, just stop reading right now. There is simply no way to properly appreciate the Cotswolds if you're afraid of single-track roads. There's never much traffic, and the few farm trucks and cars you encounter will pull over in a convenient spot when they see you coming, unless you've pulled over first. Generally, the car closest to a wide spot will do the pulling over—be sure to wave your thanks as you pass. 

Single-track roads have no names, but road signs are posted at every intersection naming the villages (hamlets, really) that lie in each direction. Since these roads wind through the Cotswolds (and all of rural England) like a thin thread in a patchwork quilt, you'll come across many such intersections. On a map (which I highly recommend over a GPS navigation system), the roads will be gray instead of colorful like a major road. That's why I refer to them as "gray roads" and my motto is: Always take the gray roads. Unless, of course, you're in a hurry. 

But "hurry" takes on a different meaning when villages and churches and inns in the Cotswolds have been around hundreds of years. You won't see much modern architecture in the Cotswolds. The building style is pretty much stuck in the medieval period, when wool financed the churches that were often built directly on smaller Saxon churches. On my journey, I make sure to stop at the Church of St Andrew in Coln Rogers. (Coln is the name of the nearby river, whose meandering way I roughly follow on this particular route.) 

Saxon Church of St Andrew

The small Saxon church contains a simple nave and chancel, with a baptismal font in the rear. The graveyard is full of moss covered stones, many of them unreadable. Inside the entrance porch, you might find a few jars of marmalade for sale via the trust system, or some produce from someone's garden. Just imagine, churches that were once funded by the lucrative wool trade now subsist on a few squash! 

I like to stop a few more times before I reach the bustling village of Bibury. When the road crosses the river, I almost always spot a heron downstream, posing for a photo. This time, we spotted a whole flock of herons, wading by the swollen river. 

Another favorite spot for a picture taking is in the village of Ablington, where the River Coln and a thick stream join before flowing through Bibury. I've decided the luckiest people in the world live in this very spot, with the pretty river flowing by their back garden. 

Ablington garden overlooking the River Coln in the Cotswolds. 

And finally, Bibury, where sustenence can be arranged at the Inn there. But don't just admire the village from the windows of the inn. I've explored pretty much every inch of Bibury during my many visits—it's not very big, just a few dozen cottages and a lovely church.

Arlington Row cottages were formerly homes of weavers in the wool industry. 

Follow the river, past Arlington Row (a favorite spot for photographers) and around the curve and down a lane to the church yard of St Mary's. Roses are planted in strict rows, but if you walk past the roses and look on the west side of the church, you'll see the Saxon grave stone imbedded in the wall. This interlocking circle pattern is repeated inside the church, etched in the new (since I was there last) glass entrance and the alter cloth (which, we were told on a previous visit, had been stolen). 

This time when we arrived, we were greeted eagerly by the vicar, who thought we were with the wedding party that was expected. But instead of blowing us off when he learned we were only tourists with American accents, he answered our questions about the church, pointed out the "new" parts (built in the 1500s) as well as the original Saxon structure. 

The new enclosure at Chedworth Roman Villa allows better access to the archaeological remains.

If you began your journey at the Roman Villa in Chedworth, you'll find that it's around 5:30 now, and time to head back toward Oxford (about 20 minutes from Bibury, via red and green roads, i.e. B and A roads) and London (by way of the blue road—the motorway). From 4th century Roman Chedworth to the Saxon and medieval villages of Gloustershire, to the modern motorways surrounding London—all in one colorful day. 

More photos here. 

Driving route: From London, take the M40 to junction 8. Continue on the A40 around Oxford's ring road and keep going as you enter the Cotswolds somewhere west of Oxford. At the A429 turn south (left) and at the signpost for the Roman Villa, turn right. Continue to follow the signs until you reach the National Trust property. 

From there, make your way back to the A429. Find a turn for Fossebridge and head toward Fossebridge, then Coln St Denis, Coln Rogers, Ablington, and then Bibury. From Bibury, take the B4425 out of town toward the A40 and then turn right to Oxford. From there the way will be clearly signposted to London. 

Kensington Palace: Refurbished and Contrived, But Still Fun

Kensington Palace golden gates, from a scanned postcard

I'll be honest: I enjoyed my first visit to Kensington Palace a lot more than I did this latest visit. No, it wasn't the miserable weather we've been having—we actually picked a nice Sunday to drive into London and park at Hyde Park. I'm having a hard time putting my finger on it, but I think there's just one multimedia installation too many at the new Kensington Palace.

After a £12 million refurbishment, Kensington Palace is pretty spiffy. There's a new entrance area (well, it's actually old, as is the palace: it was built in 1605) where you can purchase tickets. But forget about an audio guide: those are apparently old school now at visitor attractions in 2012 London. Instead, you might find, in one gallery, audio recordings of courtiers whispering in the window seats, typical 19th century gossip about the occupants, William and Mary or perhaps Queen Anne, who lived here during the time she gave birth to 17 children (none of whom lived past age 11).

And one room pays poignant tribute to those 17 dead babies: 17 sad little high chairs, with place settings for each. Not something you typically see at grand historical residences—I give the restorers full marks for fresh ideas.

Poignant places set for Queen Anne's dead children, none of whom lived past age 11

Another room was decorated with paper birds hanging from the ceiling—I never figured out exactly what they were meant to represent. In fact, the whole place was a mystery. Not only was there no audio to explain the various rooms, but very little information was presented in a straight-forward manner in each of the different areas: the King's State Apartments (which later were the apartments of Queen Anne); the Queen's State Apartments, and the special exhibit, Queen Victoria Revealed. 

I could have used some room guides, or some sort of explanation near each object. Instead, there were large cards hidden in the King's Apartments, a game that was never really explained—though now I read online, at their website: 

From room to room, hidden cards can be discovered and mysterious performers will divulge clues to the curious to help them collect a winning hand. The space of the King’s Apartments will become a social arena once again, where visitors are encouraged to trade cards, seek conversation and encounter the unexpected.

Hmmm. I did not encounter anything unexpected, like for instance some knowledge about what the rooms were once used for. Instead, I found information about such things in all the usual places: the guidebook, a must-read if you want to get full value for your visit to Kensington Palace. 

An 18th century "jukebox": a music box and clock

But it wasn't all a confusing jumble: in some places, the multimedia was very entertaining. I especially enjoyed watching the footage of Queen Victoria's Jubilee parade, along with the enhanced still photography projected onto an adjacent wall. And in another room, a hands-on puppet theatre thrilled the seven-year-old accompanying us on the tour. 

An exhibit on the royal family tree, explained via shadow boxes arranged in a familial pyramid, had the potential to be quite interesting. Unfortunately, the display area was cramped, and with several other visitors already peering into the small shadow boxes, I decided to read the information about how George I came to inherit the throne after Queen Anne's death in a less crowded format: at home, while sipping tea and perusing the guidebook.

The most fascinating thing about Kensington Palace is the fact that so many royals were born there, died there, lived there, and loved there. There were happy marriages, and unhappy marriages. Children grew up in its many apartments, including a young Queen Victoria, Queen Anne's doomed children, and the current monarch-in-waiting, Prince William, and his brother Harry. Edward VIII called Kensington Palace the "aunt heap" because so many minor royals lived there as elderly widows. The Duke of Edinborough, married to the current monarch, grew up there and left for his wedding from Kensington Palace. Celebrities visited Kensington, too: Peter Sellers, Rudolph Nureyev, and Elizabeth Taylor were all guests of Princess Margaret, sister to Queen Elizabeth.

Queen Victoria's wedding dress

A few of the royal visitors and residents left their clothing behind: some of the best displays are the dresses and costumes of courtiers, both male and female. The brocade whalebone dresses, the plumed slippers, the red velvet coronation robes, the sad mourning dress of Queen Victoria—all are from the collection of royal wear, regularly rotated from the display cases to preserve them from damaging light. In less-delicate condition are the dresses of Princess Diana, displayed in a special area on the ground floor, along with the designers' sketches and photos of the glamorous princess wearing the gowns. 

The gardens weren't overlooked in the refurbishment. The Sunken Garden, "an intimate, tranquil and secluded oasis", was recreated in 1908 to replicate the style of sunken gardens in the 17th century. You can't enter the garden itself, but archways overlooking the garden provide secluded viewpoints—although one was occupied by a pigeon when I peeked through. I don't blame him for stopping there—it's a beautiful spot. As Samuel Pepys said of the original formal garden at Kensington, "It's a might fine cool place—with a layer of water in the middle." 

The Sunken Garden

If you can get past the flaky multimedia presentations and figure out what you need to know, Kensington Palace is a must-see for any visitor to London. I highly recommend buying a guidebook, taking it out to the Orangery gardens, and perusing it before entering the palace. That way you'll at least have a good idea of what you're looking at.

Otherwise, you can take your chances with the card game. 

Kensington Palace is open from 10:00 to 18:00 daily until October 31, when it closes an hour earlier. Last admission is an hour before closing. Admission is £14.50 for adults, children are free. (You can purchase a membership to Historic Royal Palaces and get admission to several royal locations around London—worth it if you plan to visit more than three.)

More photos below, since photos are allowed at Kensington Palace! 

Hidcote: The American's Garden in the Cotswolds

Clematis climbs the walls of Hidcote Manor House

It's a little known fact that the garden designer who inspired hundreds of English gardens was an American, Lawrence Johnston. He moved to England when his mother, Gertrude Winthrop, bought Hidcote in 1907, and proceeded to turn the garden at the edge of the Cotswolds into a showcase that now attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors from all over the world. 

Topiaries guard the entrance to the Bathing Pool

I can attest to this last: when we visited yesterday, there were coaches filled with German and Japanese tourists in the carpark. Walking through the narrow paths of the garden, we heard Germans exclaim—well, I'm not sure what exactly they were saying but it was probably "How beautiful!" Or maybe, "What this garden needs is more orderliness! How messy! Typical English."

Because that is the charm of Hidcote. It's messy, with wildflowers growing in amongst the ornamental plants, delicate riots of forget-me-nots poking between bursts of peonies, fancy fuchsias cascading alongside paper-thin poppies. And immigrants, so unwelcome in English gardens, are welcome here (perhaps in consideration to Laurie Johnston's American roots?): Spanish bluebells, which gardening magazines instruct you to pull out by the bulb, are thriving under the shade the huge Cedar of Lebanon. 

Yet there's an order, too, to the wild profusions of flowers. Strict hedges line the garden spaces, creating separate "rooms", each with a thematic plant scheme. The White Garden, the Red Borders, the Alpine Terrace—you get it. And peonies and allium and forget-me-nots poking up any and everywhere. 

The Long Walk

The Long Walk, a corridor bordered by hornbeam, is the perfect place for cartwheels, which my niece performed beautifully on my first visit to Hidcote in 2005. The Bathing Pool, which is not for bathing, is a little oasis of tranquility in a garden teeming with life—and tourists. Rock gardens, seemingly an anomoly in the lush English countryside, are charmingly appropriate at Hidcote, where every plant seems welcome, despite its origins. 

Hidcote came to the National Trust in 1948, when Johnston, in failing health, decided to move to his garden in the south of France. It was the first garden the Trust managed, and going was tough at first, with no endowment to sustain it.

Hidcote is located in a difficult spot, hidden amidst a network of single-track roads a few miles from Stratford-upon-Avon. We had to pull over several times while coaches passed, but that allowed us to admire the stunning spring views across the Vale of Evesham, now enhanced by modern fields of rape glowing like phosphorous in the sun. 

Lilacs

Hidcote is definitely worth finding. It's an English showcase garden, the inspiration for countless cottage gardens. Even for brown thumb gardeners like me—I could only name a few of the plants I saw at Hidcote—the garden offers a glimpse of what could be—if I had a team of National Trust gardeners and a few million pounds at my disposal. On the other hand, many of the same plants are for sale in the plant shop, and I brought home a few, including a Hidcote lavender. I've got a corner next to my patio that will become my miniature "Hidcote garden". 

I'm even thinking of making a haha to keep the cows from gaining entrance into the garden—more attractive than the fence that's there now.

See? Even now, Lawrence Johnston is inspiring this American expat. 

More photos below, and a full album here. 

Visit the EU Parliamentarium! Quick, While It's Still There!

EU headquarters in Brussels on a rainy day in October

This week will be pivotal in the future of the European Union and its currency, the euro. Meetings of EU countries in Brussels will determine if the euro will survive, and here in Britain, a vote in the Commons will determine if there will be a referendum on whether or not the UK will continue to grace the EU with its presence.

For united we stand
Divided we fall
And if our backs should ever be against the wall
We'll be together, together, you and I

--"United We Stand" by Brotherhood of Man, Europop band 

I've got no dog in this fight, but I have had something of a front row seat these last few years, living on the periphery of the EU. Belgium, where the EU holds its plenary sessions (when it's not in Strasbourg) is almost next door. My concern is mainly economic: How much will the exchange rate affect my purchasing power when I visit the eurozone?

But I can't deny there are advantages to living in the EU: its laws affect us here in Britain, and those laws tend to be more humanitarian than many in Britain would like. Among other things, EU regulations affect the food I buy and the conditions in which animals are kept, two important considerations for me. 

So when I was in Brussels last week, I was delighted to learn that the EU Parliament building was open to visitors, and coincidentally the new visitor center, the Parliamentarium, had just opened days before. Since my husband had a meeting at the Parliament, I went along and took the "tour" they offer. 

If the European Union is half as chaotic as the visitor experience, I frankly hold out little hope. It took me a while to find the entrance—there was no signage of any kind. The tour was to begin at 10 a.m., and for the half hour beforehand, I and other visitors were told to sit in the waiting area, while tour groups went through security and began their guided tours. 

The flags of 23 EU countries, with the Union Jack on the far right

Then we were sent through security and were abandoned to our own devices, so to speak. I found a kiosk offering audio devices, with 23 official EU languages available. So far so good, but then I spent 20 minutes—I kid you not—trying to figure out how to work the damn thing. (Just like some men have an aversion to asking for directions, I hate to ask for technical help.)

Finally, after listening to the introduction, I wandered over to the elevators, following the instructions on my device. That's when I noticed a young man who seemed to be in charge of us. He made sure I'd come to the part on my device that instructed me to head to the elevators—sort of like border control—and then I entered one of the lifts and proceeded as directed on my device. I duly photographed the sculpture in the center and then proceeded to the auditorium (the hemicycle) where the plenary sessions are held. 

The hemicycle where the plenery session of the EU meets.

Again, I had to listen to the spiel on my device before I could move on, and then I discovered the tour was over. That was it. 

I left confused. I'd expected to be able to see the new Parliamentarium, but there was no trace of it in the building I was in. 

So I hefted my umbrella and headed back toward the city. Luckily, I happened to look to the right. There was the entrance to the Parlimentarium! It was hidden in a side building of the complex—were they ashamed of their €21 million Parliamentarium? 

It was raining and windy and cold, so I eagerly closed my umbrella and entered the building, went through security again, and accepted the device they handed me—identical to the one at the previous location. 

It didn't work any better, although I could at least adjust the volume, unlike on the first one. That's likely because it was brand new, as was everything in the Parliamentarium. Again, I fumbled around for a while before I realized that the device was the key to unlocking the displays, which showed information in your chosen language as you waved the device over the key symbol. But some of the displays didn't work, no matter how many times I waved the device over them. 

I suspect French sabatoge. 

But when it did work, it unlocked information presented on interactive tables like giant iPads, utilizing a touch screen filled with facts about the history of the EU. I read about the original impetus for a central union, shortly after WWII and the need for a common currency. With international borders so close together, anywhere from 100 kilometers to 1000, economies were intertwined unlike anywhere else on the globe. Europe's trading partners were primarily themselves, and they needed a way to trade without fluctuating exchange rates interfering. 

One of the interactive tables at the Parliamentarium

Would the original rules have prevented a situation like the one facing the Eurozone now? Perhaps if Greece hadn't hidden its debt (the previous government is at fault there) the crisis would have been averted. I don't know, though I had a hint when I read the Convergence Criteria on one of the displays, which would have expressly forbidden a situation like that of Greece.  

Another area of the Parliamentarium that didn't quite work. 

After less than an hour, I happily returned my device and left the Parliamentarium. I had a few euros to spend, and I wanted to get to the city center—a 20 minute walk from the Parliament building—before my husband was out of his meeting.  

The Royal Museum of Fine Art gift shop—one of my favorite gift shops in Brussels—was happy to take my euros, apparently heedless of the impending crisis. The exchange rate isn't very favorable—despite its troubles, the euro hasn't been devalued much against the dollar or the pound. 

Will Britain leave the EU? Not likely. The euroskeptics, as they're called, aren't a majority in Parliament, though they represent a sizeable force in the Tory party. They won't likely get their referendum, either, but they'll be appeased by voting in favor of it on Wednesday. 

The European Union will hold, and if German and France and the other major nations of the EU are smart, they'll reinforce the eurozone with the confidence and cash it needs to stay afloat.

But then, my earlier visit to Ieper, site of senseless WWI destruction and death, is a reminder that Europe doesn't always heed the call of wisdom. 

Countdown to the end of the European Union? Or just the date and time?

For more information about visiting the EU Parliament chamber, go here. For more information about the Parliamentarium go here. Admission is free and the Parliamentarium is open most days of the year. They cater to physically impaired visitors but not technically challenged. 

You Say Ypres, I Say Ieper, Can't We Just Get Along?

Essex Farm Cemetery in Ieper, Belgium

Ieper, in Flanders, Belgium, is the heart of the Ypres Salient, the scene of a series of bloody battles in World War I. Since it's part of Flanders, the Flemish spelling is the one I'll use, though you may have seen it more often spelled as Ypres. It's pronounced EEper, or EEP, or even EEpray, though the British soldiers entrenched there referred to it as "Wipers". 

Wipers was not a place you wanted to be during the Great War. Today we'd refer to it as a quagmire, a place where advancing was impossible and retreating even more so. Yet life in the trenches was unbearable, and for too many, death was the only way out. 

Over 400,000 men died in the Ypres Salient (a salient is a piece of land that projects into enemy-held territory), some from the poisonous gas the Germans used for the first time during the Second Battle of Ypres. Although casualty figures are imprecise, all agree that huge numbers on all sides died during the muddy battles, making Flanders fields truly one of the bloodiest pieces of soil in history.

In 1915, Major John McCrae, a Canadian doctor, wrote the moving poem In Flanders Fields. We visited the field hospital where the poem was written, now a memorial and cemetery. Essex Farm Cemetery is a couple of miles north of Ieper, a lovely little spot where the remains of 1500 British soldiers—including many unidentified—are buried in orderly rows.

What's left of the concrete hospital barracks lie entrenched under a cow pasture, which overlooks the Ieper Canal. There were no poppies blooming in October, yet hundreds of red plastic poppies graced the graves of the fallen. 

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

As we drove to Ieper, I noticed the surrounding homes and buildings all seemed different, somehow, from the usual European ancient stone and brick structures. Then I realized: They'd all been rebuilt since the Great War, which left the area a barren mud swamp.

The former cloth market town of Ieper was flattened during the four battles fought there, despite being occupied only one day by the German forces. The allied governments wanted to preserve it in its flattened state, but the residents naturally wanted to rebuild. The medieval buildings were recreated with the help of photographs, and today, there're few hints the bricks and stones weren't originally placed in the 17th century. 

The Cloth Hall

In Flanders Fields Museum, located in the Cloth Hall, tells the story of the Great War in Flanders. With thousands of quotes from participants bringing the war to life, it's a particularly moving place. It also brings home the futility and stupidity of the war: generals who relied on outdated techniques based on calvary charges and politicians who insisted on advancement—even when advances through the Salient were death traps for thousands of soldiers. Life in the trenches, except for the occasional truces, was abominable. 

"They came out of their trenches and walked across unarmed, with boxes of cigars and seasonable remarks. What were our men to do? Shoot? You could not shoot unarmed men." —Count Gleichen, Brigadier General of the 15th Brigade. 

During the unsanctioned Christmas truce in 1914, soldiers on each side spontaneously stopped exchanging fire and exchanged gifts instead—rations, beer, Christmas puddings—and crossed the lines to shake hands. The soldiers had decided to make their own peace. They even played a peaceful game of football—presumably with no referee waving flags. But the holiday from battle was short, and many didn't believe it had ever happened, until letters home described the remarkable events. In later years, the leaders of the war threatened to court martial anyone who participated in such a truce, so threatening was it to the fighting spirit of the troops.

The Great War went on for four more years, and hundreds of thousands lost their lives despite the fact that one Christmas, the two sides discovered they had more in common than they had differences. (You can read more about this fascinating period in this Independent article from 2005.)

Ieper today

Ieper was rebuilt after the war with money from German reparations. The tall cathedral of St Martins was rebuilt in 1930 and stands guard over the carpark. The Cloth Hall looks almost as it would have in the 17th century. And the sound of modern construction has replaced the sounds of battle.

On the way out of the town center stands the Menin Gate, a memorial to the British and Commonwealth soldiers who died in the Salient but were never found. Fifty thousand names are engraved, row after row, on the white walls. The British descendents of those who died cross the Channel to visit the memorial, as evidenced by the ever-present poppies. Poppy wreaths line the steps and small crosses bearing the names of the missing stand discretely along the base of the walls. 

Outside Ieper, there are other battlefields and cemeteries in the Salient that are open to visitors, but we had to make it to Brussels by evening, so we crossed the Salient on modern motorways, the landscape still eerily flat and featureless. 

Somehow, Ieper has risen from the bones and blood of the hundreds of thousands who died in the muddy flats of the Salient. Today it's a pleasant Flemish town, with coffee shops and cafes where once there were bunkers. But as we left I couldn't help but remember those dead, those without names, those without graves, those without descendents to remember them now, almost a hundred years later. 

War is hell. Even the Great ones.

More photos of Ieper. 

No, You Cannot Always Go to Downton, aka Highclere Castle

We knew we were on the right road to Downton Abbey when we saw this lorry on the M4. 

When you're alone and life is making you lonely
You can always go - Downton

No, you cannot always go to Downton Abbey, as I found out one day in September when I checked the website for Highclere Castle and found that the day before the estate had closed for the summer. But reading further, I saw that it would be open in October—for four days. 

We'd just finished viewing the first series of Downton Abbey, the Edwardian drama on ITV. I'd heard many people rave about it, and since I generally like period dramas, I downloaded the ITV series from iTunes and we devoured the first season. (With only minor complaints—I felt the first episode was too expository. Background information was constantly shared by the characters in too obvious a manner, usually prompted by Daisy the clueless scullery maid.) 

But by the time the series ended seven episodes later, we were both hooked. I marked October 13 on my calendar and my husband took the day off, so we could finally visit Downton—err, Highclere Castle. 

The tower, which houses the oak staircase where actors from Downton Abbey are often seen in the series. 

Highclere is the ancestral home of the Earl of Carnarvon—yes, that Earl of Carnarvon. Along with entry to the house you can purchase a ticket for the Egyptian Exhibition, featuring some of the treasures discovered when the fifth earl opened King Tut's tomb. This was a must-see for us. Carnarvon was once a household name: I remember my first grader reading a book about the discovery of Tut's tomb, over and over and over, sparking a fascination with all things Egypt that eventually infected my younger daughter as well.

This made Downton Abbey—err, Highclere—even more of a fan destination.

I love visiting old houses and castles, many of which are used as locations for films. I've already seen all the locations for my favorite period film, Pride and Prejudice. 

Arriving at Highclere Castle, before crowds bore down on the entrance.

And Thursday was a gorgeous day, almost as perfect as the neverending summer days of Downton Abbey. The only problem? Turns out every other Downton Abbey fan in the country decided to visit the same day. The queue to get a ticket was around 500 deep—we waited almost an hour to even get through the gate. Then, inside the house, we had to follow a tightly packed queue throughout the tour. One of the volunteers said that since the series had aired, visitors to Highclere had increased substantially, to over 1000 a day compared to the previous 200 or so.

Which meant they no longer offer guided tours, a shame since there was no information in any of the rooms other than that offered by the volunteers posted in several locations. I'd have been smart to purchase a guide book, written by the current countess, in advance. No photos were allowed inside, so I can't show you any of the treasures, including the desk of Napolean that one of the previous earls purchased. 

We filed past the bedrooms, peeking in the red room where one of Mary's suitors met an unfortunate end. And we saw youngest daughter Sybil's cheerful room. All these rooms overlooked Siddown Hill, a gorgeous view to wake up to whether you're in Downton Abbey or Highclere Castle. 

Siddown Hill

The present house was designed in 1832 by the architect Sir Charles Barry, who, along with Augustus Pugin, designed the Palace of Westminster, aka Parliament. The castle is strikingly similar to the Victorian Gothic Houses of Parliament, including the grand tower rising above the spires. The castle has been open to the public since 1988. According to one of the volunteers, the family no longer live in the castle, though they use it for special occasions. It's strictly a money-making business now, rented out for weddings and film locations.

 
The south side of the castle, with bedrooms facing Siddown Hill

The Egyptian Exhibition tells the story of the fascinating 5th earl, Lord Carnarvon, who financed Howard Carter's excavations in Luxor that eventually unearthed King Tut's long-hidden tomb. Known for racing his motorcars too fast down country lanes (and collecting some of the first-ever speeding tickets), the earl was also an accomplished photographer. After discovering the tomb, Lord Carnarvon died at age 56, killed, perhaps, by the Curse of the Pharaohs, or more likely, septicemia.

The castle overlooks the surrounding landscape. 

After touring the house and exhibition we escaped the crowds and wandered around the grounds. The manicured lawns unfortunately were playing host to several huge marquee tents, erected for a charity event happening on Sunday. This intrusion spoiled many of my photos. And as we left, the long queue to get inside the house spoiled any attempt to imagine the occupants of Downton Abbey standing in the familiar gravel drive, receiving visitors in their shiny motorcars. 

The Secret Garden

The estate is vast, with rolling parkland dotted with sheep and woods full of pheasants this time of year. I didn't see one of the white labradors, not the one who plays Pharoah (now Isis) in the series nor Lady Carnarvon's white lab Percy. 

But we did see The Temple of Diana, the requisite folly (one of several on the estate) as we were driving out.

The Temple of Diana

More photos are available on Highclere's website, including many of the interiors (here's a showcase of the interior and exterior film locations).

By the time we left at 2 p.m., crowds queued at the entrance of the house.

The castle will again be open in December for several days, but be warned: the crowds will be overwhelming. Plan to arrive early, and if you're visiting from overseas, consider getting a Great British Heritage Pass and bypass the queue. An easy drive from London, Highclere is located near Newbury, about a half-hour from Reading off the A34. 

Or just follow the Downton lorry.

Old Sarum: An Iron Age Hill Fort, a Royal Prison, and a Rotten Borough

The motte, or mound, of Old Sarum rises above the modern English Heritage carpark.

The other day we stopped at Old Sarum in Wiltshire. We'd somehow never been—surprising, since it's only a few minutes south of Stonehenge. When taking guests to Stonehenge, I usually try to throw in an extra attraction, since it doesn't take long to tour the stone circle and there's so much to see in the area. Now I'll add Old Sarum to the list of "must see" Wiltshire attractions. 

Old Sarum is actually two attractions in one. The castle, originally a motte and bailey structure built shortly after the Norman invasion, is located on top of an Iron Age hill fort. The location was also the site of a Roman settlement, Sorviodunum, and later was occupied by Anglo Saxons. 

These walls aren't talking. 

The well was an early water cooler, where servants gathered to gossip.

Unlike many castles in England, Old Sarum was a royal residence, home to several of the Plantagenet kings including Henry II and King John. Henry II spent the whopping sum of £300 on improvements to the castle, and kept his wife Eleanor of Acquitaine under house arrest at Old Sarum.

So it's seen its share of history. Unfortunately, there are few walls left to talk.

 
The remains of the cathedral outside the castle grounds

The castle was abandoned in the 19th century, yet it still elected two members to Parliament. These so-called "rotten boroughs" were allowed to remain until 1832 when Parliament disenfranchised them.

 

The spire of Salisbury Cathedral pierces the haze to the south of Old Sarum

The cathedral in nearby Salisbury was completed in 1258 and replaced the cathedral in Old Sarum, but the remains of the original cathedral can be seen outside the castle. Roger of Sarum, a friend of Henry I, was appointed bishop of Old Sarum. He was responsible for much of the building that took place there, taking "a pride unsurpassed within the recollection of our age", according to his contemporaries.

Now, it's a lovely spot for dog walking—from high atop the mound we watched several dogs romping among the ruined cathedral walls.

 

 
A large tree growing in the outer bank of the "ditch" that surrounds the castle mound.

The size of Old Sarum is impressive—the best view is from overhead. Unfortunately, we didn't bring our light aircraft, so we couldn't get a photo as illuminating as the one on the English Heritage website. 

Samuel Pepys reportedly visited Old Sarum in 1668, and claimed the ramparts were "prodigious so as to affright him to be there alone at night." Maybe he'd sampled some of the sloe gin that English Heritage were offering at the wine tasting in the gift shop (they also had a nice dry nettle wine). Or maybe he heard the cries of Eleanor's ghost, or the gossip of servants around the well. 

Personally, I like to think it's Eleanor's ghost, walking her little doggie along the ramparts while she sips sloe gin.

5000 years of history in one place.

If you want to visit Old Sarum, it's about 5 miles south of Amesbury, the village near Stonehenge. It's run by English Heritage. Check their site for opening times, and do try the sloe gin—unless you're driving.

Going to the Dogs in Edinburgh

The drive up the M6 to Edinburgh skirts the edge of the Lake District.

I've been to Scotland twice, but until last weekend, I'd never made it to the capital city of Edinburgh. Scotland is actually sort of an independent country, with its own government and lovely new parliament building, right across the street from the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen officially resides when she's not at one of her other residences. And yes, despite being somewhat independent, Scotland does share the monarch with England, and has since 1603 when James VI of Scotland became James I of England. 

But that wasn't the date that Scotland and England formally commenced living under one union. That happened in 1707, when the Scots, having failed to establish a colony in Panama, decided to cash in on England's thriving colonies in the New World by joining up with their cousins to the south. 

Uh oh. Those colonies didn't exactly work out either. 

I journeyed to Edinburgh to see a fellow colonist, the famous animal behaviorist (ethologist) Patricia McConnell, who happens to be from my former home, Madison, Wisconsin. The two-day seminar was enlightening, especially the demonstrations with live dogs (yeah, that's a joke). The second day's discussion of neuro-biology and animal emotions was even more fascinating—I kept relating it to everything I've learned about human brains from my research into Huntington's Disease. Mammalian brains are more similar than different—sort of like the Scots and the English. (Yes, that's a seque.)

I didn't have much time to spend exploring Edinburgh, only part of Thursday and all of Friday. (You can read more about my adventures in eating in Edinburgh here.) But fortunately, Edinburgh, despite being a capital city, isn't very big. The city centre is easily manageable—if you're up to hiking up and down the steep Royal Mile, which stretches from Holyroodhouse at the lower end all the way up to Edinburgh Castle. 

Edinburgh Castle, atop a volcanic rock high over the city.

We spent a wet morning exploring the castle, when has overlooked Edinburgh since the 12th century. The mist was thick enough to cut with a sword, spoiling many of my photos, but somehow, it seemed appropriate to view Edinburgh from inside a cloud. 

I was on my own for the afternoon, but my main mission was finding an indoor—and dry— attraction to visit. With my National Trust card, I was admitted free to the two Scottish National Trust properties in Edinburgh, one a Georgian town house and the other a 17th century tenement house, once owned by a weathly merchant. 

The Georgian town house was filled with authentic Georgian furnishings, a fascinating glimpse into the world of Jane Austen—or at least her Scottish cousins. The film in the basement introduces you to the family who lived there, the Lamonts, and the helpful volunteers posted in each room are eager to tell visitors about the furnishings. By the time I left I was feeling very Georgian myself, so much so that I forgot to use my Nikon to take a photo of the outside of the house (photography was not allowed inside). 

The Gladstone Land tenement house (no relation to THAT Gladstone) was a step even further back into history. The highlight of the house was the painted bedroom ceiling, discovered when a lower ceiling was removed several years ago.

By the time I left, the sun was out, but I was exhausted, having tramped up and down those hills I mentioned. I decided to check out the Scotch Whisky Experience, somewhat apprehensively. I expected it to be a cheesy tourist attraction, and it was: The first part of the "experience" includes a ride in a "whiskey cask", probably designed with 10 year olds in mind. I felt like I was on a slow moving carnival ride, but, at least I was sitting down, alone in my whiskey cask where no one could see me nod off. The second part of the tour was much more interesting, led by a live person who explained the differences between the different Scotch regions of Scotland. 

I liked the Scotch in the Scottie dog bottle the best.

And then we got to taste a dram of Scotch—did you know that the alcohol effect of one unit of Scotch is less than wine or beer? True. Slàinte! The largest Scotch collection is on display here, too, and of course you can buy bottles of Scotch once you've nailed down your favorite region. (I liked the Lowlands sample I sipped, fyi.)

Slightly woozey, I walked down the Royal Mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, but the gates were just closing. I didn't realize the Parliament building across the street was also open to the public, or I'd have made my way down earlier. 

Oh well. There's always a next time. 

I do hope to go back to Scotland, Britain's better half, some time. The drive up, between the hills of the Lake District and the peaks of the Yorkshire Dales, is gorgeous. (On the way down we were driving through the remnants of Hurricane Katia. Warnings of gales flashed on the motorway signs every few miles.)

For more photos, most of which were taken during the driving mist (the kind where umbrellas are useless) go here. For directions to Edinburgh, try Google maps. For more about Patricia McConnell, go to her website, The Other End of the Leash. 

Wimpole Estate on a Whim

Lovely day at Wimpole Estate in Cambridgeshire

Yesterday was "stick a pin on the map" day here. Our National Trust cards have been idle since March, and with NT membership dues going up every year, I hate not getting my money's worth. So it was time to pick a place we haven't been to, within a reasonable distance—which turned out to be the tricky part. As soon as we got on the M25 we saw signs warning that the A1(M) was closed. A diversion around Luton turned a one hour drive into a nearly two hour drive.

But we still arrived well before we were famished. We produced our crisp new cards at the ticket entrance and proceeded to the Hall, an imposing pile first built in 1643. It's been improved and modified by successive owners since then. The last owner, Lady Bambridge, did away with much of the Victorian "ugliness" and left her imprint on the place before bequeathing it to the National Trust in 1976. 

A display on the third floor describes the architectural modifications by some of the well-known architects who left their mark on Wimpole, including James Gibbs and Sir John Soane. 

When the Bambridges acquired the home in the 1930s, there wasn't much in the way of furnishings, though they did pay extra for the contents of the library, one of the best stocked libraries in the National Trust. And though Elsie Bambridge didn't like the Victorian tile floors, they've now been uncovered, all the better for having been covered by carpets. (Elsie Bambridge was the daughter of Rudyard Kipling.)

 
The Victorian tiled floor in the front hall

The front hall overlooks the house chapel, painted in 1724 by James Thornhill (who also found time to paint the dome of St Paul's Cathedral). 

The Chapel, painted by Thornhill, is currently decorated for the harvest.

The drawing rooms are left much the way they would have looked in Lady Bambridge's time. The furniture is cozy, if elegant.

 

 The drawing room

The darkened dining room was set for dinner, lit solely by electric candlelight. It was easy to see, so to speak, how difficult it would have been to see one's meal before the advent of proper lighting.  

 
Dinner for twelve

The view from the back of the house is stunning. Past the precise parterre gardens is pasture land, grazed by sheep who ignore the purpose-built "gothic ruin"—the folly built in 1768 in order to amuse the occupants of the house.

 

The view from inside the house

The Victorian parterre garden was restored in 1996 in a Union Jack design, after the outlines of the original garden beds were seen in the snow one year.

Some of my favorite rooms were below stairs, the housekeeper's cupboard and the butler's pantry. I imagine the servants in the house were kept on their toes by the servants' bells.

One of the most unusual sights at Wimpole, however, is the large Bathhouse, an indoor "hot tub" designed by Sir John Soane. Holding 3000 gallons of water, It reminded me of a church baptismal.

 
The Bathhouse, designed by Sir John Soane, large enough for twelve (those are steps leading down, to give an idea of scale)

We finished the afternoon with a walk to the working farm, which was overrun by children and their prams, and cost an extra £4. (We did get some good photos of the furry cows near the entrance of the estate, who were excited to be featured on the next Friday Cow Blogging.)

To learn more about Wimpole Estate, including opening times, see the National Trust website for more. It's located near Cambridge in Cambridgeshire, about 15 miles off the A1(M). (Remember to check for traffic and road closures before you head out!) 

More photos below:

Paris Underground: Bones and Romans

The sun really does shine in Paris.

I complain a lot about Paris. That's because I've mainly traveled there in the winter, when Paris is invariably cold, damp and gray. It hasn't charmed me. 

When a friend informed me she was planning a day trip to Paris to tour the catacombs, of course I said I'd go. Because I'd never properly seen Paris in the summer (with the exception of a few hours a couple of years ago, spent mostly in the metro and in a stuffy car stuck in traffic). 

On Friday we left before dawn from St Pancras in London, hopping on a Eurostar train and reaching Gare du Nord a couple of hours later (plus an extra for the time change). After a quick RER journey we stopped for a leisurely tea at a café, where we admired the sun filtering through the sycamores and watched the traffic. A fireman leaned out of a passing firetruck to flirt with us. 

My opinion of Paris was definitely improving. We paid our bill and followed the signs to the catacombs, passing the hundreds of people already lined up for entrance.

The entrance to the catacombs is near Denfert-Rochereau metro station.

The catacombs are a series of underground tunnels first created by the Romans, who mined rock from under their city Lutetia. Quarrying carried on during the middle ages, until there were hundreds of kilometres of tunnels underneath Paris, far below the level of the metro. No one has ever completely mapped the tunnels, and even the cataphiles who know the tunnels well occasionally get lost—and die—inside. 

When the dead population of Paris rose during times of famine and revolution, the bodies multiplied at a rate that couldn't be sustained. So in the 18th century someone had the bright idea to rebury the dead of Paris, moving bodies from the cemeteries to the underground tunnels and quarries. Beginning in 1786 bodies were moved to the "new" ossuary, and eventually the catacombs would claim 6 million inhabitants. The bones were arranged in patterns, with heads and femurs at one end, so that a visitor today sees a wall of femurs decorated with a few heads here and there. 

Femurs and skulls. 

Tourists began touring the catacombs in 1867. A thick black line above head marked the safe path—anyone venturing off the black-lined path was sure to be lost for eternity, becoming just one more skeleton in the catacombs. 

Modern visitors can wait in line for two hours to tour the catacombs, or can sign up in advance for a guided tour. Our tour guide regaled us with gruesome tales of execution and decomposition, so I'd advise anyone with tender hearts to stay above ground or consider the self-guided tour. 

After exiting the catacombs, we slowly adjusted to the bright August sun over a leisurely lunch in the Latin Quarter. Unfortunately service in Paris is no better in August than in the winter, so we waited quite a while for our meal. 

The Crypte Archeologique, outside Notre Dame cathedral.

After that we'd had enough of hot Parisian sun, so we went back underground to the Crypte Archeologique  outside of Notre Dame. Containing remains of Roman Lutetia as well as medieval Paris, the Crypte Archeologique illuminates the City of Light's ancient history. Self-operated lights expose features of the underground ruins of Lutetia, including a small bath house and hypocaust. The surrounding boards describe the Roman expansion of Gaul, particularly in the third century. 

Exhibit D, Roman hypocaust tiles.

The self-guided tour of the Crypte Archeologique took less than an hour, so we were back out in the sun and walking across the Seine long before our departure time. I felt as if I'd been plunged in to a proper summer: the temporary "beach" was full of people sunning themselves, and a giant sandcastle rose along the banks of the Seine. 

A giant sandcastle on the "beach" of the Seine.

Oh la la! Where had this Paris been on my previous visits? Buried underground perhaps? 

I was fast acquiring a proper sunburn, and it was time to head for Gare du Nord and our Eurostar train...but halfway on our journey home, the travel gods had other ideas. 

We were forced back at Calais when one of the locomotives failed (only trains with two working engines, front and back, are allowed to enter the Chunnel) so we stopped in Lille and boarded another train (whose passengers had been on the way to Paris from London, and were then forced to take our 1-engine train on to Paris). We arrived back at St Pancras two hours late, and exhausted from tramping around under Paris. Our shoes contained a layer of fine chalk dust—at least I think that was chalk.

To tour the catacombs of Paris, book in advance at Viator tours. To tour the Crypte Archeologique, look near the entrance of Notre Dame for the stairs leading down underground. And if you're traveling in August, bring sunscreen.

Tot Zo, Nederland!

Welkom in Nederland, once again

A few weeks ago I got an email from a friend. She was inviting me on a trip to the Netherlands in April, girls only. Oh boy, I thought. Another trip to my favorite country in northern Europe! 

I'm in, I replied, and started packing.

Our driver and tour guide would be my Dutch friend Hetty, and along the way we stopped to pick up another friend who'd recently moved to Brussels. We were a multi-national force, with an aim of inspecting bulbs, porcelain, and other Dutch delights.

Driving through Benelux is easy, except for the traffic. My friend's van is diesel, a fuel which is heavily subsidized in The Netherlands. Her car is British, however, which allowed us to play a cool trick: When a car comes toward you on a narrow road, the person in the passenger's side throws up their hands and covers their eyes. Even better, when an impatient driver passes on the left, make a big swerving motion with your arms. That'll teach 'em. 

Clearly, having fun was a priority. I even decided to have one more birthday, but this is my last one, I promise. (I'm giving my birthday to Sparky, since he didn't have one. I don't need them anymore; I've had plenty.) 

Dutch windmills at Kinderdijk.

We stopped at Kinderdijk on the way, a place I've been to before. But this time there were families of geese with new babies wandering around amongst the tourists. And nearby we heard lambs, racing to catch up with their mommies who were called for dinner by a handsome blond farmer. 

I could see already this was going to be a great holiday. 

We stayed in a bungalow park, a popular accommodation arrangement for northern Europeans. We never used the gym or the two swimming pools, but we did eat at the gourmet restaurant on the premises. No wifi, but you could purchase it in the reception area if you felt the need. Near our bungalow we watched a swan pair nesting, the male swimming around to ward off intruding water birds while the female tucked her head in and waited patiently for the arrival of the ugly ducklings. 

With an authentic Dutch person to help us translate, ordering in restaurants was easy. I even picked up a bit of the local lingo myself. On a McDonald's sign we saw the phrase Tot Zo. It means "see you soon," Hetty told us. After that I felt right at home, giving the supermarket clerks a breezy "tot zo!" as we left every evening, stocked up with Dutch goodies. 

"Stresa" tulips at Keukenhof

Tuesday we hurried to Keukenhof, where amazing beds of bulbs are on display every year for two months. My poor old camera got quite a workout—we pointed and shot our way over the 32 hectare garden. We came upon a "river" of blue muscari, a two-toned variety that gives the appearance of a rippling river. The theme this year is "Germany", so we also saw wooden busts of German composers, including Beethovan. We never could find the bulb-ized version of Brandenburg Tor, however. But we did wander around the Japanese garden, especially poignant and peaceful this year. 

And Keukenhof's children's petting zoo didn't mind when four adult-sized women ventured inside the gates to pose with the animals. 

We came close to filling up our multi-gig camera cards that day, with shots like these everywhere: 

Orange—the national color of The Netherlands, and of Auburn, as my friend reminded us.

We stopped each evening at the supermarket, where Hetty translated (although many items feature English). I bought more Speculoos, my favorite tea, and some syrup for the poffertjes I plan to make. Poffertjes are small pancakes about the size of a two-euro coin. They're made in a special grill, turned quickly but carefully and then served with generous sprinklings of powdered sugar.

Dutch pancake syrup is similar to strong-flavored Louisiana cane syrup, not as sweet as corn-syrup based Aunt Jemima. It's served with savory wagon-wheel pancakes as well as sweeter fruit-based versions. 

Gouda cheese—almost as colorful as the bulbs.

The next day we drove to Gouda. No, not "Guda", as most people pronounce the cheese, but Gouda, which sounds a lot like "how-da". It works best if you clear your throat as you pronounce the first syllable. 

Pronunciation sorted, we stopped by the tourist office and procured a self-guided tour map. Then we visited the church, the city hall, and then toured the cheese museum, located in the Waag house--the weigh house. 

Although I don't eat cheese, I did buy some Gouda to bring back to my husband. My friend had told me about stinging nettle cheese, which they had there—only they called it "herbs". I guess most people are intimidated by the thought of eating stinging nettles, but not me. 

Royal Delft porcelain before the ink is applied, left, after ink is applied, center, and after firing, right.

Delft was our next destination, specifically the Royal Delft porcelain factory. The €8 tour includes a 10% discount at the shop. We were able to walk past the cubicles where the artists apply the ink to the unbaked porcelain. Here's the end result of the fish plate one artist was painstakingly applying ink to. Before the piece is fired, the ink is black, but after firing, it turns the beautiful shades of blue that Royal Delft is known for. 

The Hague, or Den Haag, is only a short drive from Delft. We found a parking space, then a sweet cafe where a vegan can easily be accomodated. I wish I'd thought to remember the name or snap a photo—the pumpkin soup was fantastisch! 

We walked past the working Royal Palace (where the Queen actually works), then on to the Dutch parliament building—both the old and the new. We saw where the young-ish and single (and handsome) Prime Minister works, and passed the museum where Vermeer's Girl with the Pearl Earring hangs. 

After five days, it was time to head back across the polders of The Netherlands, down the modern highways and over borders long open to residents of Benelux—Belgium, The Netherlands, and Luxembourg. 

As we crossed the border into Belgium, near Antwerp, I whispered Tot Zo to Holland. Mainly that's because I don't know the word for Goodbye, but you never know...I just might be back.

For more images of The Netherlands, go here.  

Bruges in Winter

We went to Bruges (also known as Brugge) yesterday. Bruges, in the Flanders region of Belgium, is about 70 miles from Calais, so it's an easy day trip from London. 

I was shocked to see the weeping willow tree hanging over the canal, one of the most picturesque spots in Bruges. It's naked now in November, yet in summer, it looked like this: 

More photos of Bruges in November below. 

WDIK Location Quiz

Can you guess where (and who) this is? 

Hint Number 1: The Lancastrian in the statue was born just across the river, and not long after became the King of England and then France. 

Hint Number 2: David Cameron would have been caught in his gaze, but not Tony Blair. 

Hint Number 3: Not sure whether he condoned the beatings that went on here until the 1980s. 

Hint Number 4: He probably didn't notice the game of Fives that was being played nearby. 

Hint Number 5: Margaret Thatcher would not have been welcomed here. 

Who is this man in the bronze statue, and where is it located? 

Extra credit: How much does it cost?

WDIK Location Quiz

It's time for another WDIK Location Quiz! Where was this photo taken? 

Hint Number 1: It's not Victorian. 

Hint Number 2: It was not built by Brunel. 

Hint Number 2, Redux: (because that second hint was sort of redundant): It was built in MDCCLXXIX. 

Hint Number 3: It's a very popular tourist attraction, despite being about 150 miles from London.

Hint Number 4: Fe Fi Fo Fum.

Not enough? Okay, here's another photo: 

Any ideas?

Hampstead Heath, London's Lungs

Hampstead Heath in London—a scene I wish I could paint.

On Saturday I paid my first visit to Hampstead Heath in London. Despite having been told many times of how delightful it is, especially for walkers, I'd never been. But a friend suggested we visit Kenwood House, which overlooks the Heath. It's a bit hard to get to—it's a mile from the nearest tube, then a 20 minute walk or a 20 minute bus ride. And the nearest tube happens to be a 25-minute train ride plus three tube exchanges for me. 

When I was living in London when I first moved here, people would recommend I go there with my dog, but sadly, we never figured out a way to get the dog there. By the time we had a car, we lived so near to other great walks there didn't seem to be a reason to head into town just for a good walk. 

But Hampstead Heath is more than walking. The views are magnificent, too, especially from Parliament Hill, where kites fly year round. 

And then there's the English Heritage property Kenwood House, full of priceless artwork, including a Vermeer, a Rembrandt, and so many portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds, landscapes by Constable, and charming animal portraits by Landseer, you'd think you were in the Tate Britain. Photos weren't allowed, but I snapped a shot of a ceiling before I knew that...don't tell.

Kenwood House is a typical Palladian-style pile, remodeled by the architect Robert Adam. Entry is free, due to a bequest by the Lord Iveagh, who left it in the care of English Heritage upon his death in 1927. (Donations are welcome, however.) On weekends music concerts take place on the grounds, which apparently annoyed the neighbors in leafy Hampstead. It was because of an upcoming concert that much of the grounds were roped off, so I couldn't get a photo from a proper distance. However, if you saw the film Notting Hill, you saw the house—it was the scene of Julia Roberts' period film, where poor Hugh Grant learned he'd been played for a fool.

Hampstead Heath is known as the "lungs of London", though these days the air of London isn't quite as polluted as it once was (thank the congestion charge for that!). There are several ponds, some of them suitable for swimming (including Ladies Only, Men Only, and Mixed), and plenty of paths, some of them suitable for cycling.

Sometimes I forget how wonderful it is to live so near to London. But a hot July afternoon trudging up hills in Hampstead Heath reminds me right quick.

London isn't so far away. 

Kenwood House, overlooking Hampstead Heath

The ceiling at Kenwood. 

A Last Look at Belgium

King Albert surveys Brussels from his horse

Belgium held elections yesterday, and it's a real possibility the country could split into two distinct nations—the Flemish Dutch speaking region, and the Francophone Wallonia region. 

I like Belgium. I'd hate to see it split in two—which country would I root for in the World Cup? 

Bruges is only an hour's drive from Calais; Brussels another hour or so from there. So last week we spent a couple of days touring both, since Daughter Number One is in town and hasn't been to Belgium yet. We wandered around Bruges for the afternoon, then headed for Brussels. Unfortunately, rain marred our visit, but a trip to the new Rene Magritte Museum in Brussels gave us a whole new appreciation for umbrellas and other everyday objects. 

We also toured the Victor Horta museum, housed in his Art Nouveau-style home which he designed—including the furnishings, which, if you don't already have an appreciation of Art Nouveau, will endear you to the late Victorian style. No photos were allowed, in fact, we had to check our bags and jackets before we could even enter the museum. Check out some of the photos online, if you're interested.

Meanwhile, here are some of my photos—possibly the last photos I'll ever take of a united Belgium—beginning with Bruges, a medieval city in Flanders. 

Norfolk and The Broads

Beach huts at Wells-Next-The-Sea, which isn't exactly next to the sea.

We spent a couple of days in Norfolk, tooling around the beaches and the Broads. The beaches, which are on the North Sea, were too cold of course for any serious beach combing, but I did get some nice photos. We stopped in Wells-Next-The-Sea (named with the very British habit of dropping a vital preposition) to admire the beach huts. It was low-tide, so the surf was nowhere to be seen. We decided to trudge out a hundred yards or so to the dunes, planning to race back if the tide came in suddenly. But when we reached the top of the dunes, the tide was still far, far off—too distant to be seen. It was around 4 p.m., and high tide was scheduled for 8:10. Amazing to think that in four hours, the tide would come marching in so far! 

The next day we went to the Norfolk Broads, a series of rivers and lakes that cover much of eastern Norfolk. The Broads are actually man-made lakes, but until the 1950s they were thought to be naturally occurring. However, when scientists finally got around to taking underwater photos, it was obvious the "lakes" had been cut by humans. Early Britons had cut blocks of peat from the boggy land, using it for fuel and selling it abroad, via the convenient rivers that wash out to the North Sea. Eventually, these peat quarries filled with water during the Middle Ages, creating the Broads. Little did they know they were creating another industry in Norfolk, one that caters to both tourists and waterfowl. 

The waters of the Broads are home to many species of waterfowl, including the once endangered grebe. We were told to watch for kingfishers, but we missed seeing their bright blue plumage. Otters also live in the Broads, and rare swallowtail butterflies make their home in the marshes. Reeds, used for thatching cottages, grow abundantly in the Broads, a welcome addition from a conservation point of view, since their root systems help prevent soil erosion.

The best way to see the Broads is by boat. Our first stop was in Wroxham, where we took a 1.5 hour cruise from Broads Tours. At £7.50 per adult, it was a great bargain, and included an interesting commentary from the boat captain.

For a great overview of Norfolk, including helpful information for seeing the Broads, check out this website. I found it to be very well done, and accurate. We saw many of the sites listed, including the Ranworth Church, which offers the best view of the Broads from its tower. 

Norfolk is about a three hour drive from London via the M11 and A11, which goes all the way to Norwich. If you go, be sure to pronounce it correctly: Norfolk is pronounced Nor—well, this is a family blog. I'll let you figure it out.

For more photos, plus exciting commentary, go here.