What Do I Know?

Sulgrave Manor: George Washington Was (Not) Here

Sulgrave Manor, with the flags of Great Britain and the United States of America flying on opposite ends.

It seemed appropriate that our last outing to the English countryside, before we repatriate to America, would be to the ancestral home of the first president of the United States. 

George Washington's forefathers were, of course, from England, but he was born in the colonies, in what is now the state of Virginia. His great-grandfather John Washington emigrated on a ship from England, bringing goods to the colonies since they weren't allowed to manufacture anything (really?). When the ship's manifest of tobacco, bound for England on the return journey, was lost, he was blamed. He sought refuge from a local landowner, Nathanial Pope, and ended up marrying his daughter and inheriting land near the Potomac River. 

Thus was George Washington born in the United States, rather than at the family's ancestral home near Banbury on the edge of Oxfordshire.

Sulgrave Manor was built in Tudor times, and the original owner was Lawrence Washington, who married well twice and found himself in need of property fitting his social situation. The current house was modified over the years. Half of the original Tudor home burned sometime in the 17th century, leaving a house that's a bit of a hodgepodge, as English country estates typically are.

In 1914 the British Peace Centenary Committee purchased the manor to celebrate 100 years of peace between Britain and America, using funds raised on both sides of the Atlantic. It's now a historical property available for tours and weddings, with a special appeal for curious American tourists like us.

When we arrived, we were greeted by one of the Sulgrave tour guides. After paying our dues, I struck up a conversation with the woman, who mentioned that she was a Tudor historian. After learning I was from America, she told me that Americans must not learn as much history as the British do. I started to explain that we Americans focus on different histories, including the history of our individual states and the Americas, but then I let her go on thinking we were a bunch of ignorant savages. It's more fun that way, I've found: Never let yourself be overestimated by the natives.

Later on, as the tour started, I learned from another tour guide that George Washington actually was a general in the War of 1812! Not, as I'd always assumed, in the War of Independence, or rather, The War In Which The Colonies Broke Away From Their Cruel Overlords. I guess we are a bunch of ignorant savages, because I had no idea George Washington served in the American Army after he was president; indeed, after his death in 1799. We colonials learn something new every day here in the Motherland. 

The hour-long tour turned out to be two hours and counting, because the Tudor enthusiast I'd first met couldn't resist joining the tour and sharing every facet of Tudor life experienced in the manor house. I guess she felt it was her duty to educate us ignorant Americans, and I was grateful for that. My previous visits to Hampton Court Palace, Hardwick Hall, Basing House, and numerous other Tudor sites, as well as several history courses at Oxford, didn't include all those details about Tudor food. After all these ten year living here, I finally learned about all the uses for dead mice in Tudor times.

Seriously, I would have quite enjoyed the lengthy tour if we hadn't been in a hurry to leave, as we had to take care of pre-moving business later in the day. These last few weeks have been filled with moments like that: I realize I should be enjoying my last outings in this beautiful and historically rich country, but my mind has been filled with all the logistics of a trans-Atlantic move. I wish there were a shipping company like John Washington's who would just take me and my household goods and most importantly, my dog, straight across the Atlantic, with the impressed sailors from the colonies along to provide protection. 

Oops. I was wrong about the origins of the War of 1812, which was started, as we were surprised to learn, because the "Americans wanted to go to war" after the White House was burned. Yep. We were a war-like bunch of colonials even then. The impressment of American sailors had nothing to do with it. Apparently.

Oddly, I noted that this was the only time I've ever heard the War of 1812 mentioned here, and when it was, they had the facts all wrong. (Notice the date for the burning of the White House, 200 years ago today, after the war of 1812 began in—wait for it—1812.) I suspect they don't study American history here.

And thus my last visit to a historical property here brought me full circle to my roots in my homeland, established by those who fled these shores either by duress or by the force of hope offered by a new land. (Or perhaps by a desire to never have to learn history.) I, too, am leaving under duress, yet I have budding hope that my life in what is my "old country" will be prosperous.

Or that, at the very least, I'll be able to manufacture my own textiles. 

Some photos of Sulgrave Manor: 

This emblem on the front wall of Sulgrave was, perhaps, the inspiration for the Stars and Stripes. Or perhaps not. 

The Great Hall, a Tudor room that was uncovered when Sulgrave was restored.

Gilbert Stuart's portrait of George Washington, one of many that the artist reproduced. 

"George Washington as a Younger Man" by Archibald Robertson

Some examples of Tudor and Georgian food on display in the Tudor kitchen

George Washinton's liquor cabinet

The garden at Sulgrave Manor

A last glimpse of the Union Jack flying at Sulgrave Manor 

What's the Matter With Stonehenge?

I was looking forward to visiting the new exhibition centre at Stonehenge, which opened in December. After approximately 20 visits to Stonehenge over the last ten years, I was well aware of the need for some sort of interpretive museum, a way to explain what happened at Stonehenge other than the audio guide you're given prior to viewing the stones. 

Plus, I'm always in favor of progress, and a new scheme for viewing Stonehenge, located next to the very busy A303 and almost sideswiped by the entrance road, seemed a no-brainer, despite its £27 million price tag.

Yet, when I finally visited the new Stonehenge yesterday, I left disappointed. It's definitely a different experience than the old Stonehenge, which could be seen in less than an hour, start to finish. But I'm not sure it's a better one, especially for those of us who want to see other sites in the area, crucial to understanding the importance of the location in ancient times. 

Visiting Stonehenge is no longer the intimate experience it once was. Previously you could park near the stones, walk up to the entrance, hand your cards to the attendant and grab an audio guide before joining the throngs viewing the stones. Walking to the stones is still possible, but the shortest route involves walking a mile and a half along a paved road busy with trolley traffic and buses whizzing past, in a hurry to get the overflow crowds to the stones. The journey to the stones via the "land train", i.e. a LandRover pulling a trolley, takes ten minutes. After the chaos of the opening weeks, when visitors queued for an hour for a trolley ride, buses were added, but there's hardly enough room for two vehicles to pass on the narrow lane.

Stay to the right to avoid getting hit by the whizzing buses and the "land train". 

There's another path that goes through the fields and near the burial mounds (which are very much worth seeing) and though it's longer, it seems much shorter since the walk is more pleasant. 

Why English Heritage couldn't separate the footpath portion from the rest of the paved road is beyond comprehension, and downright dangerous. Likewise, I'm not sure why the visitor facilities couldn't be placed closer to the stones. There are several empty (and presumably archaeologically unimportant) fields between the centre and the line of trees that splits the view so that there's no way to see the stones from the visitor centre (or more importantly, to see the visitor centre from the stones). I can see why they wouldn't want to clutter the site, but this is a battle that was lost decades ago. The A303 is still located very near the stones, and in fact, the traffic on the A303 is worse than ever, since the new entrance road for Stonehenge is located past the pinch point where the 4-lane A303 chokes down to two lanes.  

The traffic crawls past Stonehenge

Due to the traffic on an August Saturday, a journey that's normally less than an hour and a half became an over two hour trip, and that was with a sat nav detour through Durrington Walls to avoid the heavy A303 traffic. For anyone with timed tickets, getting to Stonehenge would be fraught with anxiety, but fortunately, there seemed to be no reason to have a timed ticket, since we were told to just go to the stones anytime. (We were able to avoid the long queue to get in when we heard someone asking for anyone with English Heritage or National Trust membership to head toward the members-only queue.)

After seeing the queues for the "land train", we opted for the walk (which we probably would have done anyway). 

But all this queueing and walking means you're no longer going to be able to stop at Stonehenge to view the ancient stone circle before heading to another destination, like the far more enjoyable Avebury stone circle. By the time we left it was already late in the afternoon. 

The visitor centre, with the Disney-esque trolley just leaving

And the exhibition centre itself was less than I'd imagined. It came off a bit slick, like the large cafe and gift shop located across the ticket entrance. A handful of display cases held objects on loan from the nearby Devizes Museum (another place you won't be able to visit if you spend all your time queueing at Stonehenge). There were also large "totems" with quotes on them, a habit of modern museum design that adds very little to one's understanding, frankly. Maybe they should move those outside where people can read them while queueing to get in.

Inside the gift shop I saw some postcards with scenes from the early days of Stonehenge tourism, one depicting a family picnicking amongst the stones. That's when it struck me that this new era of Stonehenge has become even less user friendly than when access to the inside circle was no longer routine, sometime in the 70s. Now I understand why people sound so nostalgic when they refer to the good old days, when the inner circle of Stonehenge was open to all. I have a feeling I'll sound equally nostalgic one day when I remember the time when you could park next to the stones and view them without a half hour walk or an hour long queue.

Neolithic digger?

There's a construction crew digging up the old carpark now, and once it's gone the area surrounding the stones will be even more pristine—if you can ignore the constant coming and going of trolleys and buses and the traffic crawling on the A303, not to mention the hoards of tourists queueing for the best viewpoint of the stones.

I'm more surprised than anyone that my experience turned out to be so disappointing, when I was so looking forward to seeing what they'd done with the place. Obviously something needed to be done, but I'm not sure English Heritage have arrived at the best solution, even after decades of pondering the problem of Stonehenge. 

While I used to look forward to taking our houseguests to Stonehenge, I would no longer do so. It's not the easy day trip it used to be, nor is it an easy stop on the way to Avebury or Salisbury.

My advice: Skip Stonehenge and go to Avebury instead. You can still easily see the stones from your viewpoint on the A303 while you're stuck in traffic—and it's a better view than the pig farm that's on the other side of the highway. 

If you do go to Stonehenge, plan to make a day of it and opt for the scenic walking path instead of the crowded and dangerous road. Don't bother to reserve a time slot, but do join English Heritage beforehand. (Since they've increased the entrance fee to almost £15, it's really worth it if you plan to see other English Heritage properties.)

But I'm not quite sure that English Heritage has got their money's worth with the £27 million they spent. Perhaps in another three decades or so we'll have yet another solution.

More photos below:

WDIK Location Quiz

It's time for another Location Quiz! Where in the world was I when I took these photos? 

Hint: She's not as old as she looks. 

And remember: Looks can be deceiving. 

Still stumped? Here's another hint: It's not a bank. But a banker's funds built it. 

The Scottish Highlands: Castles, Cairns and Cottages

My favorite spot on Earth

We've visited many parts of Britain and Europe while living in England these past ten years. Only one place has tempted me back, again and again. And only one spot has convinced me to book the same cottage, with the same view, for a second time. 

The first time we stayed in a self-catering cottage was in 2006, when we first visited Scotland. I happened to find the perfect idyll: a cottage in Foyers, on the southern side of Loch Ness. With a big picture window overlooking the loch, Coach House proved to be the perfect location for walking, and watching—scouring the ground below for red squirrels and deer, and keeping an eye out on the loch for any signs of legendary monsters. 

We never saw a monster, but the loch has currents and reflections and odd patterns of waves, possibly created by the boats that cruise the shores, or possibly by underwater creatures. I try to keep an open mind. 

Further afield, down narrow lanes and highways hardly deserving the name, the Scottish Highlands have much more to offer than quiet squirrel watching. This is the heart of Scottish whisky country—Speyside malts are born and bred here in the Highlands, and many distilleries offer tours and tastings. At any rate, it's a good excuse for a drive, regardless of whether you like the taste of whisky. (Don't bother to call it Scotch when you're in Scotland; everyone knows you mean the Scottish kind if you talk about whisky.) 

On the other side of the loch, Urquhart Castle beckoned, almost literally—we'd see it on its spit of land as we went up to Inverness, across the loch through the trees. To get there, we had to put up with a bit of commercialism at Drumnadrochit, on the wider A82 road from Inverness, but the castle quickly dispelled us of any 21th century notions and transported us right quick to the 13th century, when defending your flank from raiders by way of a drawbridge and trebuchet was the thing to do.

Some visitors arrive at Urquhart Castle by boat

Urquhart Castle

Trebuchet at Urquhart Castle

The view of Loch Ness from Urquhart Castle

But then we ventured a bit further back in time, to the Bronze Age Corrimony Cairn. Nothing was defending this pile of rocks but sheep, who scattered as we approached. So much for defense, guys.

Still, eleven standing stones encircle the cairn, where ancient burials took place. Now, it's the perfect spot for a picnic. 

The entrance to Corrimony Cairn

The inside of Corrimony Cairn, where the capstone has disappeared, showing the inside of the burial mound.

Since I've been bitten by the archaeological bug (it's related to the Scottish midges) I insisted we take a trip to Orkney, north of the Scottish mainland and virtually a country unto itself. Once part of Norway, the islands of Orkney were given to Scotland as collateral when the Norwegian king married off his daughter. He never bothered to reclaim them. Now Orkney is a bit of Norway in Scotland, with self-reliant Orcadians having their own flag and calling their largest island the "Mainland" as if Scotland is simply another island.

Prehistoric ruins are everywhere in Orkney, the most famous being Skara Brae, the neolithic village on the edge of the Mainland. Skara Brae was discovered in the 1800s when a storm washed away the sand that had covered it for centuries. The settlement was small—probably no more than 50 inhabitants lived here at any one time—but they left an almost intact network of homes, surrounded by earthworks and "middens", which is what archaeologists call ancient tips. Not only were the middens a convenient place for tossing rubbish, but the layer of rubbish provided excellent insulation from the harsh cold.

Skara Brae

Well preserved Neolithic home at Skara Brae

Reproduction of a dresser at Skara Brae

Skara Brae map

The residents of Skara Brae built their furniture out of stone, ensuring it would last long enough for archaeologists to get a proper look at it. Each home was exactly the same, with a "dresser" (in Britain, a "dresser" is a hutch, like a China cabinet in the U.S.) directly opposite the entrance and two beds on either side of the circular room, with a square hearth in the middle. Skara Brae would have been occupied from around 3100 BC, making it older than Stonehenge and the pyramids. 

Next to Skara Brae is Skaill House, standing out on the desolate seaside like a concrete-hued fort. It was built in 1620 and has housed twelve lairds (lords), whose belongings are on display inside the house (included with your entrance to Skara Brae). The garden, built into the ground a meter or so, is a sad illustration of the harsh conditions on Orkney—no lush flowers typical of the English gardens here. 

 Skaill House, the 17th century home next to Neolithic Skara Brae

Garden at Skaill House

We also stopped at the Ring of Brodgar stone circle, not far from Skara Brae. Stone circles aren't that uncommon in Europe—around 1000 survive today. They must once have been as common as churches are today. The Brodgar stones are almost as large as the stones at Avebury, but are much slimmer. 

We were told to expect a "magical feeling" once inside the circle, but all I felt was a stiff wind.

Ring of Brodgar stone circle

Ring of Brodgar

On the way back to John O'Groats from Orkney, our ferry boat tossed and turned in the choppy waters. Several passengers became ill during the hour long ride. But then, like magic, a rainbow appeared starboard, and we arrived at the port without incident. 

Rainbow from the John O'Groats ferry

New York or Orkney?

One of the most beautiful drives in the Highlands has to be the road from Fort Augustus to Foyers, a highway built by General George Wade after the Jacobite rebellion in 1715. By highway, of course, I mean a single track road, with wide areas for oncoming cars to pass. Yet over the entire route, we only saw one other car as it passed while we'd stopped for photographs. We saw far more sheep, who proved to be the greater traffic hazard. 

The Caledonian Canal from Fort Augustus

Views along the B862 from Fort Augustus

A glimpse of a loch along the B862

A meandering stream

Another view of a loch along the B862

Closer to "home", our cottage in Foyers was located a short walk from the Boleskine Cemetery and the Falls of Foyers, as well as the entrance to the Forest of Faraigaig. Boleskine House was once owned by rock star Jimmy Page, as well as a mysterious magician, known as the Beast of Boleskin, who reportedly dabbled in black magic. 

Inverness is a 40 minute drive, despite the fact it's only 16 miles up the road. There's very little traffic—the South Loch Ness area has only 1000 inhabitants—but there are deer, and pine martens, who dash across the road unexpectedly, not to mention the odd slow camper van.

Boleskine Cemetery

In the Forest of Faragaig

Falls of Foyers

We spotted Nessie at one point, during our cruise of Loch Ness. 

Did we spot Nessie? Clearly, we spotted something on the Loch during our boat tour. Or perhaps it was something on the window.

Black magic or not, there really is something enchanting about Scotland and its lochs. Maybe it's the pine-scented air, or the Speyside malts, or possibly ancient ghosts, cross at having their burial mounds disturbed. Whatever it is, Scotland is my favorite place on earth, I've decided, having sampled quite a few earthly locales.

I would go back in a heartbeat. 

What I Saw in London

Yesterday I spent the day in Queen Square in London, participating in the HD Predict medical trial. I've done this every year for eight years, and now the study is winding down. It's good to hear that lots of good data has been collected, in both patients with HD and control subjects, like me. And somewhere there are eight years worth of brain scans of my brain. Nice to know. 

Here are a few photos I took yesterday as I walked around in the rain, and underground in the Tube. 

My bench on the platform  in Baker Street Tube Station.

Directions at Russel Square Tube Station

Around the corner from Russel Square. I don't like the modern sign they've hung up there. 

This plaque is on the side of Great Ormond Street Hospital. "This stone was laid by Her Royal Highness Princess Alice Countess of Athlone April 30th 1937". 

Someone erected a statue in Queen Anne Square to commemorate someone's death, probably at the hospital across the street.

Looks like the bluebells here are spent. (Yes, you know I'd manage to get a shot of bluebells, even in the middle of London.)

Queen Anne overlooks her square.

Take the Kids to Oxford!

Where else can you take your child to see a dodo bird but Oxford?

A friend asked for advice on where to go this weekend, with a couple of caveats: it must be child-friendly and an hour or two by train from London. My first thought was Oxford, my favorite city in the whole world. 

Oxford might not be your first thought when it comes to family-friendly outings. But even though I don't have small children, I've seen lots there that would delight a young child. Beginning, in chronological order, with the dinosaur eggs at the Oxford University Museum of Natural History. What child wouldn't like to touch a dinosaur egg? There are also some nice dinosaurs there, rivaling those at London's Natural History Museum, and of course the famous Dodo, the only remains of the extinct bird anywhere (and only the beak and feet, since the rest of the original stuffed bird were lost in a fire). 

Dino eggs at the Natural History Museum

Which brings us to Alice in Wonderland. Alice Liddell was the real-life friend of Charles Dodgson, who was the head of the Maths Department at Christ Church College. Across the street from Christ Church, where Alice's father was the Dean, is a little shop called Alice's Shop, with sweets and child-appropriate gifts, which the actual Alice frequented. 

And if it's more modern literary heroes you're fond of, Christ Church was the film location for one of the Harry Potter films. Take a tour and you'll see the Dining Hall from the film, as well as the grand staircase featured in the films. (I'm not a Harry Potter buff, so I can't tell you which ones.) 

The Bodleian Library Divinity School, also known as Hogwart's infirmary. 

The Bodleian Library also has a Harry Potter connection: The Divinity School stands in for the infirmary in the film. At the entrance to the library on Catte Street, you can purchase tickets for tours of the library and Divinity School. I'd recommend taking the 30 minute tour, which gets you into the main room featured in the film, or if your child is too antsy for even that, just ask to walk in and look around. (This was also where King Charles I held court while in exile during the Civil War, so parents may find the room adjacent to the Divinity School interesting, but you have to take a longer tour to see that.) 

The museums at Oxford are among the best in the world, but they're also family friendly. The Museum of the History of Science, located around the corner from the Divinity School, has all sorts of gadgets, but my favorite exhibit is the chalkboard where Einstein wrote down his Theory of Relativity. The Ashmolean is filled with ancient artifacts, including Greek and Roman statues which may bore children, but on weekends there's usually family-friendly activities planned. There's a nice cafe too, if you're hungry, and entrance, like most of the museums in Oxford, is free.

The Pitt Rivers is hands down my favorite museum. Filled with items from the collection of Victorian archaeologist and ethnologist Augustus Pitt Rivers, it's got something for everyone, from shrunken heads to ancient writing implements to musical instruments from other cultures. Best of all is how the collections are displayed, in Victorian cabinets—you can open the drawers underneath and discover more!—with original handwritten or typed labels. The Pitt Rivers is a meta-museum, with the museum itself an artifact of the Victorian era. It's located inside the Natural History Museum building, accessed by walking through doors in the back.

Oxford Castle was used as a prison until 1996, and then was remodeled as a tourist attraction geared toward children. (Don't worry, it has plenty of history to interest grownups as well, though you might want to read up on King Stephen and Empress Matilda.) Now it calls itself Oxford Castle Unlocked and is located very near the multi-story carpark at Westgate. 

Punting on the Cherwell

For the child in all of us, there is nothing like punting on the River Cherwell. Just underneath Magdalen Bridge, on the other side of Magdalen College (look for the tall tower down High Street, leading away from the city centre) you can find the punt hire. You can either try your hand yourself or hire a chauffeur, which I highly recommend—at least for landlubbers like myself. Sit back and admire the river and the Botanic Gardens as you float by, while your child laughs at the swans and geese racing the river craft.

If your older son or daughter is familiar with Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, be sure to visit the Botanic Garden and search for Lyra's bench, where her name is carved. It's located exactly where the final book says it is: 

She led him past a pool with a fountain under a wide-spreading tree, and then struck off to the left towards a huge many trunked pine.

There was a massive stone wall with a doorway in it, and in the further part of the garden the trees were younger and the planting less formal. Lyra led him almost to the end of the garden, over a little wooden bridge, to a wooden seat under a sprawling low-branched tree.

The Botanic Garden is just across from Magdalen College. The entrance fee is £4.50 for adults, but children are free.

You can also tour any of the colleges for a small fee, provided they aren't closed for student exams or some other reason. This may or may not interest your child, with the exception of Christ Church, which is a must for any Harry Potter fan. 

All Soul's College, seen from the top of University Church of St Mary's 

For great views of Oxford's "dreaming spires", you can't beat University Church of St Mary, right on High Street just beyond the beautiful Radcliffe Camera, if you're coming from Catte Street. (You might not want to tell your child what happened here—the trial of the three martyrs, Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer, was held in this Catholic church during the reign of Queen Mary, and later they were burned to death at a spot on Broad Street, near Balliol College.) For a small fee you can climb the tower and squeeze around the viewing platform (it's very narrow, with a high ledge, so short children may not be able to see over without a boost). And if climbing towers turns out to be a real turn-on for your child, go climb St Michael's tower on Cornmarket, which dates from Saxon times, and Carfax Tower, which is "only" from the 12th century. Better than any climbing wall, with proper steps! 

The Bridge of Sighs, on New College Lane

If your child is impressed by architectural oddities, be sure and point out the Bridge of Sighs, right across from the entrance to the Bodleian Library. And if you pass underneath the Bridge of Sighs you can point out to your budding astronomer Sir Edmund Halley's house just on the other side, where Halley's Comet was discovered. 

By now even the hardiest young tourist will be tired. Take them to Covered Market (between High Street and Market Street) and find a sweet shop or a bakery, or stop for hot cocoa in one of the cafes. Look through the windows at the cake decorating shop, where fabulous cakes are on display, and if your child has been extra good, you can buy her a lovely child-sized cake for a few pounds. 

A celebration cake at The Cake Shop in the Covered Market

To get to Oxford, take a train from Paddington in London or drive up the M40 to Junction 8, then take the A40 to the Thornhill Park and Ride. There's also a nifty bus called the Oxford Tube, which stops at several locations in London and departs from Gloucester Green in the centre of Oxford. 

Here's a map that shows carparks in Oxford, but I find it useful to have at hand while walking around the city centre. If you arrive by train, I'd go first to the Museum of Natural History and the Pitt Rivers on Parks Road (about a 20 minute walk), then head down Parks Road past Broad Street, admiring the Bridge of Sighs along the way, and then in to the Bodleian to check out the Divinity School. Then continue down Catte Street to High Street and turn left toward Magdalen College. From there, walk back down High Street to the intersection with St Aldates, turn left and visit Christ Church (you'll aim for the tall Tom Tower, designed by Christopher Wren) and Alice's Shop. To visit the Castle, go back to High Street, turn left, continue on Queen's Street past Castle Street until you see the large castle mound on the left. From there the train station isn't too far.

Likewise, if you arrive via the Oxford Tube, it lets you off in Gloucester Green and from there you're right in the heart of Oxford—my very favourite place to be. 

You've Read the Blog; Now Read the Book: What Am I Doing Here?

New release!

For the last few months, I've been working on a non-fiction project called What Am I Doing Here? I've kept it under my hat, since I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off. It's self-published, under my own imprint called Lavender House Publishing. (More about that later.) 

What Am I Doing Here? is a collection of blog posts from this site, plus a few extra bits, including a glossary. It focuses primarily on my experience here as an expat, an American slightly bewildered by Britain. There are chapters on the assimilation process (rocky), driving (smooth), language (still incomprehensible at times) and, of course, my dog.

In fact, I've dedicated the book to Bailey, my Golden girl and I'm donating the proceeds to the cancer charity Animal Cancer Foundation. Cancer in canines is similar if not identical to the same cancers in humans, so research in one species adds to our knowledge of cancer in other species. 

What Am I Doing Here? will be available in both print and digital. If you buy the print edition at Amazon.com, you can get a digital copy for only $.99 through Amazon's MatchBook program. They don't offer that at Amazon.co.uk yet. But the digital edition has some really colorful photos (as long as you have a color-enabled device), which aren't available in the print edition. 

I got the idea to compile my blog posts well over a year ago, and around that time I designed the cover, using a stock photo from iStockphoto.com. The rest of the book I edited, copyedited, and proofread myself, which I would never recommend to anyone. I used a Word template for the print edition, and made modifications to that as needed. The ebook editions were made using Jutoh, a program I highly recommend. 

In order to avoid the dreaded "Sold by Amazon Digital Services" in the product listing, I decided to create my own publishing imprint. I'd intended all along to call it Canterbury House, since that's the name of my house (isn't it charming how houses in Britain have names?). But when I searched the internet, I discovered there was already a Canterbury House Publishing.

So I scrambled for an alternative. While pondering several possibilities, I looked outside my office window at the row of lavender I planted, right in front of my house. Thus was Lavender House Publishing born. 

One day I may publish more non-fiction through Lavender House. I doubt I'll ever publish my fiction there, as I value the editing I received from my publisher far too much to want to go it alone.  

Here's how to find WAIDH?: 

Print:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk

Digital:
Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk,  Kobo, Barnes and Noble Nook, and iBooks USA / iBooks UK

Naples: Peering Back in Time to 79 AD

Pompeii at dusk, with Mt. Vesuvius in the background.

I'd been warned about Naples: well-meaning friends cautioned against going anywhere without a driver, avoiding public transport, generally sticking to well-traveled routes. But the only menace I felt while there was from a looming volcano, sulking under the clouds much of the time; and a splitting headache I couldn't shake the whole time I was at Herculaneum. 

We arrived at the Naples airport after dark, and walked from there to our hotel. The air was balmy and tropical, matching the architecture, or at least what I could see of it in the dim light of the street lamps.

The darkness hid the ever-present graffiti, which covers every flat surface in Naples, sadly. But fortunately Naples has just enough charm, especially after dark, to make the grubby exterior fade away. 

Even the statues have been covered with graffiti, like this one welcoming visitors to Naples from the marina.

Or maybe instead of charm, call it history. Neopolitans built their city on top of volcanic rock, and despite living next to an active volcano (Mt. Vesuvius is overdue an eruption) they don't seem to care much that each day could be their last in Naples. But then, this is a city that withstood Allied bombardment in World War II, and then freed themselves from the Fascist government before the Allies could complete the job. And now they reap the benefits of that earlier eruption, the one that destroyed the nearby towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

If any place could be said to be at the top of my "bucket list" it would be Pompeii. I've wanted to see the ancient Roman city there for years, ever since I learned how important it (and the nearby city of Herculaneum) was to the study of Roman archaeology. Until Pompeii was discovered in the 18th century, virtually unchanged since the Mt Vesuvius erupted in 79AD, little was known about how the ordinary Romans lived outside of Rome. 

Now, thanks to a few centuries of excavations at both Pompeii and Herculaneum, we know a lot more about how people must have lived around the turn of the millennium. Despite the ravages of the volcano, and a few excursions by thieves, much of the two towns was discovered intact underneath the layers of volcanic ash. 

I was eager to discover Pompeii for myself, but even more than that, frankly, I wanted to escape the dreary British winter weather. Particularly the mud—this year's rains have been the worst in recorded history. 

And speaking of history: do your homework before you go to Naples, Pompeii, and Ercalano (Herculaneum). Even if you only skim through some websites, it's worth it to know what you're looking at. The book Pompeii by Mary Beard is a frank account of what exists at Pompeii and why, though Herculaneam gets short shrift in the book. 

Pompeii and Herculaneum were barely in existence a few hundred years by the time the first century brought its changes, including an earthquake in 62 AD. They became part of Rome around 80 BCE, and a few Roman citizens had country palaces in the area. Nero's wife, Poppea, was said to come from Pompeii. 

In February, there are very few visitors to Pompeii walking the narrow streets, some of which still have visible wheel ruts.

The streets in Pompeii are narrow, just wide enough for a donkey-drawn cart. You can still see the cartwheel ruts in some places, and archaeologists have even determined which way the carts were going, leading some to suspect that some cardos were one-way streets. At intersections you'll see large stepping stones, which allowed people to cross without stepping in the muck. Pompeii regularly flooded, plus refuse—the dung of animals as well as people—accumulated in the streets.

Roman infrastructure was plentiful: there were public fountains and public baths, while the larger private homes had their own baths. And their water system was ingenious—except for the lead piping that carried water to the inhabitants. 

Outside the city walls, in the necropolis, were monuments to the dead, and beyond that the wealthy built their suburban villas during times of peace. Inside Pompeii you'll also find both a large and small theatre, and a large amphitheatre where gladiatorial fights were held. But that's not my cup of tea; I preferred the House of the Faun, where a replica faun (the original is at the Naples Archaeological Museum) dances in his little garden.

The bronze faun at the House of the Faun dances alone in his fountain.

There are sad reminders everywhere in Pompeii of the fate of its residents. Next to the forum you'll see warehouses where thousands of archaeological finds are stored, including the casts of people who died there, and a dog contorted in death. 

Herculaneum is less well excavated. The entrance takes you past the "beach" area, where once the sea was close by. Skeletons were found in the boat houses there, probably people waiting to escape by boat when the poisonous gas arrived before the winds changed and they could sail away. 

People in ancient Rome lived simply, with most falling asleep where they could—only the rich could afford their own bedrooms. And only the rich had specialized dining areas; others ate "fast food" from the thermopolia, cafeteria-like shops with large heated food pots set into marble counters. 

Thermopolium in Herculaneum, with large earthenware pots underneath marble countertops.

See below for more practical tips for visiting Pompeii and Herculaneum, but don't ignore Naples itself, which, unlike the cities downwind of Vesuvius, wasn't covered with volcanic ash, at least not in 79 AD. The Greco-Roman ruins in Napoli, as it's known in Italy, are all underground.

There are several sub-terranean tours of Napoli, and we accidentally landed on the wrong one when the driver from the hotel drove us through the rainy streets of Naples to a piazza and let us off at a posh cafe (Gambrinus, if you're in the mood for coffee and pastries). A man was standing outside the entrance with a Napoli Sotteranea sign, so we assumed it was the one I'd read about, the one with tours in English. Instead, we were led around the corner for a tour of the underground WWII bomb shelters, given by a spry old man who spoke a few words of English, including "toilet" and "bombs." He ran up and down steps, through narrow tunnels, yelling "Andiamo Indiana Jones!"

This was probably one of the most surreal moments I've ever had, anywhere, especially when he turned the lights out in one of the caverns and told us to practice yoga. (I think he meant meditation—I was too scared to Om, frankly.) 

But the stories he told, and that we managed to grasp in our limited knowledge of Italian hand gestures, were interesting. Turns out his mother was seven months pregnant when she lived underground during the bombardment, and he was born right after the city was liberated. 

Inside the Greco-Roman tunnels underneath Napoli.

The other subterranean tour, which I highly recommend, especially if your appetite for surrealism is waning, is Napoli Sotteranea, not LAES Napoli Sotteranea. (I'm not sure if the similar names are a deliberate confusion, but I suspect they are, and I also suspect our driver was in collusion with the tour guide, as we were the only people on that tour.) It's found at Piazza San Gaetano, in the heart of old town Naples. It's a fairly long walk from either the port or the train station, so a taxi may be your best bet for getting there. It's also about a 15 minute walk from the museum, so you might combine the two.

The square itself is suitably touristy, with several restaurants, including the best pizza to be found in Naples at I Decumani and a limoncello "factory" where they make and sell the real thing, from real lemons. You can peer into the vats of alcohol and lemon peels, then buy lemon-flavored pasta, biscuits, and risotto to take home with you. 

The underground tour lasts a little more than an hour and was conducted by a very entertaining guide named Alessandro. When he found out we were from Britain he started making apt jokes about the Brits and the Scots, from his time living in Edinburgh. I suspect he's a stand-up comedian in his other life. (I wonder if he's tried the Indiana Jones practicing yoga in a bomb shelter shtick?)

But Alessandro knew his stuff: when I asked about the diamond shaped pattern on the walls, which I'd seen at Herculaneum and Pompeii, he explained that archaeologists think these were the Romans' version of earthquake proofing in seismic areas, since this type of construction is found nowhere else. Since I have never seen it before, in any of the Roman ruins I've been to here or in Germany, I suspect this is true. 

The cleverness of Roman engineers knows no bounds, I have discovered.

Diamond patterned Roman walls, designed to withstand seismic activity.

During this tour we saw the remains of the Greco-Roman theatre where Nero is said to have entertained a crowd during an earthquake. Our guide was suitably skeptical of this—after Nero died, he was reviled by his successors, who would have willingly spread such tales. But who knows? 

Don't be in too big a hurry to leave the square after your tour: directly across from the entrance to the underground tour is the church of San Lorenzo Maggiore. Go inside, pay the entrance fee (€9) and you can show yourself around the underground remains of the Greco-Roman market, walking down a Roman "cardo" paved with tufo (volcanic rock). You'll see the bakery, a winery, a laundry, and the tax collector's office. Then you can tour the museum upstairs, where the top floor houses a charming collection of 18th century doll-like figures representing ordinary Neopolitans. 

The courtyard of the San Lorenzo Maggiore church, with the excavation of a Roman theatre on the left.

Sadly, the rain that prompted us to leave Britain followed us to Naples. Our tour of Capri on Sunday was cancelled when a storm chopped up the seas and the hydrofoil operators decided the sea was too rough for passage to Capri. The afternoon turned out to be bright and sunny, however, and without any real purpose, we walked from the port to the Piazza Dante, where we struck up a conversation with a young woman and her dog, and then we ended up at the Museum again, where we easily found a cab for the ride to the hotel. 

If I have any regret, it's that I didn't schedule another day in Naples, so that we could have made it to Capri, or maybe taken a tour of the Amalfi Coast. I'd have liked to spend more time in the museum as well, perhaps when I didn't have a splitting headache. 

I'd definitely recommend going to Naples in February, despite the rain that dampened our journey almost every morning we were there. There were no crowds at the sites, and the weather was downright warm most of the time we were there. The temperature was 17C the day we left, and predicted to get to 20 on the weekend. 

For all my well-meaning friends' warnings, I found Naples far less dangerous than its sister city in Florida, and the weather very similar. I'd go back in a heartbeat—provided Mt Vesuvius has no plans to erupt. 

Because I suspect a pyroclastic cloud would be a real headache. 

For more photos of Naples, including Pompeii and Herculaneum, check out this photo set. 

Tips: 

To get to Herculaneum and Pompeii from Naples: Take an Alibus (limited stops) to the central train station, go downstairs and follow the signs for the Circumvesuviana. Buy a ticket to the destination you want and look for the platform (binario 3) for the train heading to Sorrento. They leave every 30 minutes (at least they did when I was there).

Check the train scheme on the wall to figure out which station is the one before Ercalano (the Italian name for Herculaneum) or Pompei so you'll be ready to depart; it's not easy to spot the signs as you roll in to the platform. 

Ercalano is about a 20 minute train ride from Naples; Pompeii is about 40 minutes. 

To get to the ruins from the Ercalano train station: go out and around the roundabout then straight down, past the MAV (an audio-visual tour of Herculaneum) about a half mile to the entrance of the ruins. Don't bother with a cab or shuttle unless you are impaired and want to save your walking for the ruins themselves, which really aren't wheelchair accessible.

Go to Herculaneum first, and buy guidebooks for both Herculaneum and Pompeii. Then study the Pompeii guidebook before you go. Consider it homework. You'll be grateful you have some idea what you're looking at, even with the assistance of the audio guide. 

Plan to spend a whole day at Pompeii. We were there five and a half hours and didn't see it all. Check closing times before you go. Herculaneum is smaller, and can easily be seen in a few hours. 

Don't waste your money on a guided tour, especially one that drives you from Naples and allows you only two hours. That's not enough time to see even half of it. (Unless you know a respected tour guide—don't bother with the touts selling tours at the gate.)

To get an audio-guide you'll need to leave some ID. If you've emptied your pockets and handbag of any extraneaus credit cards and ID, be sure to keep a driver's license or some other ID to trade for a guide. 

Many of the houses within Pompeii will be closed for renovation. Be grateful they're trying to save it and don't worry; there's plenty to see otherwise. 

Be sure you go outside the walls of Pompeii for great shots of the town and surroundings. (You don't actually have to leave the ticketed area of Pompeii to do this.)

At Pompeii there's a cafeteria-style restaurant that seems to have a decent selection of sandwiches, salads, and even pasta. There's little to eat at Herculaneum other than what's available in a few vending machines. The town of Ercalano has little to offer except a nice pharmacy where I was able to buy acetaminophen for a headache. 

Definitely make time for a trip to the Naples Archaeological Museum. It holds most of the treasures from both Pompeii and Herculaneum: marble statues (ground floor), mosaics (first floor), and wall paintings (second floor). We were able to see it after our visit to Herculaneum, since the museum doesn't close until 7:30.

Wrest Park: When You've Seen All the Rest

Wrest Park, one of the newest additions to the English Heritage roster of stately homes.

It says a lot about Wrest Park that not once during our lovely day out did either my husband or I comment on the weather. And we couldn't have asked for a better day—sunny, warm (around 22C, or around 80F is my guess) and no biting wind to knock off my sun-protective hat. It would have been a fantastic day if all we did was sit at home and stare at the weeds on my husband's day off, but instead we got in the car and headed up the M1 to Junction 12, from which we wound our way to Wrest Park.

Wrest Park is an English Heritage property, and about this time of year I'm always looking for more National Trust and English Heritage spots to visit—our membership isn't cheap, so I want to get my money's worth. But I've been to most sites in a two-hour radius. So it's a good thing English Heritage has acquired another: Wrest Park only came into their ownership in 2006, and was opened to the public shortly after. 

The last few years have been spent restoring the gardens, with the help of some photographs taken around the turn of the century. The last private owner of Wrest, a member of the de Grey family, was killed in WWI, and after that the property had a series of owners that included an insurance company and an agricultural research centre (visited by King George VI in 1948—there's some interesting footage of the visit on display inside the house).

Before that, though, the estate passed through several members of the de Grey family, a few of whom paid particular attention to the gardens. But it was Thomas, Earl de Grey, who built the French-style mansion that replaced the 17th century house.

Thomas was an amateur architect (a quite accomplished amateur, if Wrest is any indication). At a time when very few homes were being built in the French style—memories of Napolean were fresh even in 1834—Thomas nevertheless was enamoured by the style and built, from the ground up, the magnificant chateau that exists now. (One other French-style pile, Waddesdon Manor, is not far from here and was built by Baron de Rothschild a few decades after Thomas built Wrest Park.) I was also excited to learn that another property that I've visited—Wimpole Hall—had a Wrest connection: it once belonged to one of Thomas's ancesters, Amabel. 

That gives you an idea of how concentrated wealth was in early Britain. Only a few families owned vast amounts of land. I imagine anyone who was anyone knew everyone who was anyone. And quite a few of them shared the same gardener, it turned out.

The gardens at Wrest were first laid out by Henry, Duke of Kent, in the early 1700s, which accounts for the figure of William III that overlooks the Long Water. He also built the Pavillion and several other "outbuilding" in the popular Classical style. His grandaughter, Jemima, later colaborated with Lancelot "Capability" Brown to further enhance the gardens. It's difficult to find English estate grounds that weren't designed by Brown—he designed over 170 of them, after all. But being a capable sort, he managed to do a fine job wherever he went. 

The Chinese bridge over the canal, one of many waterways that Capability Brown used as "natural" decoration.

Several spots in the 92 acres of gardens captured my whimsy. I loved the Chinese "temple" and bridge that Jemima had built, inspired by the ever-popular Blue Willow china pattern. I tried to get a photo that encampassed both, but this is the best I could do. (The "temple" is to the right, behind a large bush. You can see it if you click on the photo to enlarge it.)

The pet cemetary, where 16 family dogs are buried, convinced me I'd have got on well with the family. These dogs were well loved pets, if their worn headstones are any indication. 

Sixteen dogs lie buried in the Pet Cemetery.

Our two and a half hour walk around the property brought us to many other one-of-a-kind sights. The Pavilion, built in the early 1700s; Bowling Green House, with its green Wedgewood-like interior; the faux-ruin Bath House; and most of all, the statuary hidden within the wooded walks like giant Easter eggs. 

And oh yeah, the weather was gorgeous. 

To visit Wrest House, check the website for visiting hours and directions. Bring a picnic, good walking shoes, and a camera. 

Click below for more photos, and to enlarge the photo, click on it. Unfortunately, you can't smell the flowers unless you visit Wrest. 

Lavender Hunting in the Cotswolds

No, not Provence—the Cotswolds, much closer!

On Friday a friend and I journeyed to the Cotswolds to see the lavender fields at Cotswold Lavender, near Snowshill in Worcestershire near the Gloucestershire border. It's less than a two hour drive, even with the inevitable A40 traffic. A perfect day trip, to one of most picturesque regions of the country. 

Lavender is one of my favorite purple flowers, along with wisteria and bluebells (which are sort of purplely blue). I have some in my front garden, but it's puny compared to these fields. This was proper lavender: masses of purple, sharp scented, and full of bees. 

The bees buzzed around our heads but were too drunk from lavender nectar to bother us. I was sort of drunk too. 

They were harvesting one of the nearby fields while we were there. A tractor pulled a trailer while a chute fed freshly cut lavender down to a trailer, where a man spread it with a pitchfork. Lucky guy. If I were a farmer, I'd like to be a lavender farmer, please. 

Check out the photo album for more photos, including some shots of the lavender being harvested. If only they smelled as lovely as the real thing. 

(And if you like the Cotswolds and English gardens, check out my author blog, where I wrote about our visit last weekend to Rodmarton Manor, an Arts & Crafts-inspired manor house.)

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 of 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.