After a long drive on curving, narrow roads across the Yorkshire Dales on the rural A684, and after
negotiating the horrendous traffic on the A1, we arrived at last in York. Not having reservations, it took a
few stops and phonecalls before we found the spacious and rather grand 19th Century Byron Hotel. The
owner/hostess was charming and helpful. She got us settled in, then gave us information that had us taxiing
quickly into the old city to catch a walking tour.
The tour was the perfect introduction to a city literally built upon history. We saw Roman walls and
fortifications, we saw the ruin of an abbey sacked by Henry VIII, and we walked on the high medieval wall
of the city with views of gardens, the grand York Minster, and famous houses dating back to the 16th and
17th C. One of the fascinating details of the walled city is the "Bars" which are the main Medieval
gate/towers that provided entrance to the city. We were able to walk through these and to hear details of the
history involved with each.
After the tour, we were left to wander the narrow stone streets, to take in shops and restaurants located in
timbered houses 4-500 years old. I also visited the somewhat hokey Viking Museum which reconstructed
the Viking village at York on an archaeological site.
I was moved especially by York Minster. When we entered the vast cathedral, music was playing; a choir
and some organ music conjured up a distant past that once existed in this glorious interior.
We took a taxi back to the hotel since we had walked all afternoon. However, after resting at the hotel and
having a drink in the pleasant bar with Mom, I decided to walk back to the walled city. The evening stroll
was easy, and I was soon crossing the River Ouse, entering the main "Bar" to the old city, and walking again
the quaint streets. I had a beer in one of the old pubs, talked for a while with one of the locals, walked to the
famous Monk Bar, then made the walk back to the hotel. I slept well after so much hiking.
Saturday, June 10:
Cambridge
For once, I have a moment of leisure to reflect on my travels. My aunt has departed for Washington, and
both Mom and I feel relieved to be free of her long-suffering complaints about food, accommodations, and
her health, not to mention her financial woes, as if either Mom or I were better off.
Cambridge has not been a friendly place, to say the least. I had always thought I would prefer Cambridge to
Oxford; yet my first impressions are the reverse. I was moved by the solemn atmosphere, the coherence, the
other-worldliness of Oxford. Once in the domain of Oxford, the outside world vanished and seemed
irrelevant. Here, by contrast, noise and the chaos of the present penetrates, often overwhelms, the
University. The separate colleges seem more separate than at Oxford, and appear like guarded fortresses,
protecting what precious privacy remains within each quadrangle. The "Backs" are lovely, of course. The
Cam also far surpasses the humble Cherwell. The gates are more ornate and imposing, signalling the
influence of Henry VIII and Tudor grandeur. The Chapel of King's College is a harmony of light, color,
arching space, and stone that seems weightless. For all its splendor, though, there is here a feeling of mean-
spiritedness, a dissatisfaction and resentment that I did not sense at Oxford. The chaos of the town, with its
countless cyclists competing for narrow street space with endless autos, and with all the hurried commotion,
must aggravate the tension, making those who work here crave solitude and quiet.
Today, I hope to find such quiet in the large botanical garden and in the
Fitzwilliam...
It is now the evening of the same day. My mother and I walked through the bounteous gardens this morning,
refreshed by roses of every variety, fragrance gardens, vast trees from sycamore to fir trees, and a wealth of rare flowers, hedges, rock gardens, fen plant life and pond plants. The botanical garden went far in restoring a favorable impression of Cambridge.
The Fitzwilliam went further still. The building itself awes the spectator, from its broad staircases to the
high ceilings lit by domed skylights. There is a superb collection of Impressionist paintings, as well as Post-
Impressionist, including some lovely Pissaros and Cezannes. Of course the major artists of the past five
centuries are well represented, especially Rubens, Reynolds, and Rembrandt. Rembrandt's Lady With A
Fan is a sumptuous work, glistening as if just completed.
Mom studied the collection of manuscripts, from the medieval illuminated works to the elegant books
from the fine presses of the 1920's. The book written in William Morris' script was stunning.
There is also a generous collection of Greek, Egyptian, and other ancient art, and an overwhelming
collection of porcelain. The interplay of period furniture, including gorgeous old clocks, with the paintings is
effective.
After the museum, we walked again to the "Backs" and stopped for Cornish pasties and beer at the Anchor
Pub overlooking the Cam. The pub completed my feeling of reconciliation with Cambridge. There, with
good food, we sat watching the variety of punters on the river. Later, we had tea and crumpets at Aunties,
and I climbed old St. Mary's Tower for the view.
June 11:
Royal Tunbridge Wells
"Evening spreads out against the sky..." A half moon glows an ever deeper white, suspended in a sky as
clear as English windows. Dashes of cirrus cloud catch the pink, gold, and red of a sun that seems reluctant
to set. Twilight continues as birds sing a chorus of what has to be sheer content.
It is my last evening in England. I, like the sun, am reluctant to depart. Today was a veritable story of spring
profusion...
After breakfast, the owners curiously absent as the nephew and stepson attempted to organize service,
Mom and I made the rather easy Sunday drive around London via the D Tunnel to Kent. We stopped at
Sissinghurst
spring's triumph in every flower imaginable. I climbed the Elizabethan tower for an overview of
the gardens, took photos, and gazed into the Bohemian rooms where Vita Sackville-West dwelled. What a
transformation of Nature into Art her gardens are.
This afternoon, we drove on to Knowle, the Elizabethan home in which Vita was born. The contrast, from
cozy simplicity and intimate Nature to imposing �formality and antique splendor was fascinating. A
charming guide told us intimate details of the history of the bedrooms and the gifts of silver and gold.
At tea time we arrived at Ravenwood Road, hidden atop a maze of roads crisscrossing Tunbridge Wells. We
had dinner at an Indian restaurant in the Pantiles, a curious anachronism, quaintly reminding one of the
gaiety of 18th and 19th C. spas. The town though is filled with parks and gardens.
Monday, June 12, 1990:
Gatwick
Hell is an airport. The three levels are getting there, getting to the right terminal, and finding the check-in
point for the car rental. What made this car return particularly hellish was Avis: first, I had to go back
outside the airport to fill the car to full with gas. 15 Quid. Then, I was over-charged for insurance I
specifically rejected, since I was covered by VISA. I did not discover this mistake, hidden in fine print and
obscure costs, until after boarding the plane.
Then there is the plane itself: well over 100 degrees because the engine had to be shut down. We sit, packed
like cooked chickens ready to be canned. Hot, the plane will not go, or will it? The piped music slurs, the
tapes are melting, and so am I.
Heaven is two rum and cokes
With lime and lots of ice,
Being in flight, ahead of schedule,
With cool, cool air wafting through the plane,
And the prospect of cooler than normal
Weather in Atlanta.
Later: The Air
It is 1 P.M., Atlanta time, and I have just seen the film "Rain Man." My neck is cramped from staring
straight up from a seat in front of the screen.
I know I am fatigued because the film brought tears and conjured up feelings about Jim and about my own
brother, as well. There seemed to be several implausibilities in the film, making it difficult to suspend
disbelief. Yet under all the specific unlikelihood and contrivances, Hoffman and Cruise conveyed the
essential connection which the film was about, genuine love that defies logic and comprehension.
In my mellow, melancholic mood, I know that such love must ultimately be connected to God. God is not
the insufferable father "out there" that today's Christians more or less worship. God is our heart, our deepest
connection with others, the core of meaning, love, feeling or whatever that sustains us when all other
superficial horror and emptiness of everyday life fail.
Another drink arrives. The stewardesses are sheer pleasantry, their faces are masks of good will and care.
There is the English perseverance in their every move, the determination to "make do," to endure. That
stoicism is missing in me. I'm afraid that what I have is the worst of English traits, a sense of privilege, of
feeling superior to the bulk of mankind; only without a sense of "noblesse oblige." I expect privilege solely
because I have intelligence, because I appreciate and am moved by such things as art, music, even history
and ideas, when most people look on blankly. I use to find most people contemptible for their insensitivity.
Now, I just want to be free of their importunity, as Lawrence would put it.
In England I have visited many gardens, from Stourhead and Kew to Sissinghurst. Seeing Vita Sackville-
West's and Harold Nicholson's home, the cozy tower, their lovely library decorated with cobalt glass and a
lapis lazuli table, I felt myself projected into the magical Garden of Epicurus I have always desired. As I fly
back to Atlanta, to my little abode in Virginia-Highlands, I doubt that I shall ever have such a garden. I have
only a curious fabric woven of memories and fantasies, memories of sacred moments of joy and fantasies
built upon real experiences such as the bright morning at Sissinghurst.
