wolfsonteaparty: October 2006

Coals to Newcastle

So, Chris Cannon had very graciously invited me to attend the biweekly Medieval Graduate Seminar here. I happily accepted and tried to be as small as possible. Derek Pearsall gave the opening lecture "How English Was Chaucer?" and it was a truly splendid performance. [Short Answer: "not very English, more 'European'].

This pink box is where the real business of English Lit. gets done at Cambridge. Its color signifies the Salmon of Wisdom, I'm told. . .because I wear a shirt that says "Gulli-Bill."

So, I was dithering along with my project when Helen Cooper phoned to ask if I would give this week's lecture; the scheduled speaker was sick.

So, I happen to have a few articles on my hard drive. Helen recommended that I present the most controversial one. How could I say "no". . .but after she said good-bye, I thought of five or six very plausible lies I could have used.

So, last night I gave a fifty-minute lecture on Chaucer's anti-Semitism. I can't recall the last time I gave such a long formal reading--if ever. My bifocals fogged. I felt like Keanu Reeves in "The Replacements," and I was probably every bit as articulate. I think I said "so" much too often. But then we all had some wine, and the Q&A session went very well--I think. Frankly, I owe some of my best ripostes to H2P; an en passant reference to the inscriptions on the Dome of the Rock can be a real show stopper.

So, I got a free dinner at the India House for my pains. . .and will gladly do it again. But I do look forward to just listening and learning next time.

There's no place like Durham

Yesterday, I headed north to Durham via Peterborough. The first train departed at 5:59 a.m., and much to my surprise I made it, having avoided the big bad wolf on my dark and lonely walk through the fens to the Station. Three and half hours of training before sunrise requires a nappy-poo, sort of. . .the nod and jerk awake again sort that gives you a sore neck. I also did quite a bit of reading.

From the Durham station, I took a quick walk about,

but went more or less directly to the Palace Green Library which is. . .well, on the palace green between the castle and the cathedral.

I spent four to five hours studying Cosin MS V. ii. 13; I hope my notes still make sense to me, but if not I’ll just need to go back. I had the extraordinary good luck to meet briefly with Professor A. I. Doyle, who is so brilliant and generous. He answered several of my questions, and found my line of inquiry "curiously interesting”–at least he didn’t tell me to throw myself off the bell tower.

From the library, I went straight across the green to the cathedral which sits atop a quasi-island promontory of bedrock. It screams "Sanctuary!"

No photographs are allowed of the interior, and it is off-season so there are no guided tours. . .upon hearing which, I gave my best Willy Sheep Dog pout, and one of the guides said she could take me for a quick ten-minute look-see. An hour and a half later, we were still chatting. She explained the history of Norman “prince-prelates” brilliantly. This Norman/Romanesque structure is both inspiring and reassuring. The roof (72'9" up) is supposedly the first attempt to provide a stone roof which mandated a transition to Gothic vaulting–I smells an H2P lecture brewing. I saw the replacement (Boo Henry VIII!) shrine of Cuthbert and the tomb of Bede. I even was taken literally through an Early Modern clock (which still works) at the end of south crossing through the "slype" and into the chapter house which is off-limits to the public.

Reluctantly leaving, I crossed the green again to the Castle which was “closed” in the sense that it is used as a college of the University of Durham.

Between terms, however, including most of the summer, you can rent rooms in the castle for surprisingly low costs.

Then, home again without incident–except for the train being overrun at Peterborough by hordes of college-age girls apparently planning the cold and damp Euro-equivalent of Spring Break. They reminded me of Catherine, and I wanted to tell them all to stay home with their parents. . .but silently accepted that they wouldn’t listen either.

Piles o' Rock: Christian and Pagan

So today was unexpectedly wonderful. I had been a very good boy in the UL Manuscripts Room all day yesterday, and I was thinking about going to Durham to look at another Chaucer MS. But, because of my own failure to contact the research librarian soon enough, I wasn’t sure of my welcome. Plan B–go to Salisbury. Plan Ba-go to Stonehenge from there.

I got a VERY early train to King’s Cross, then the Metro to Waterloo Station, then on to Salisbury. I expected all druid-creepy fens, but the city is actually quite jumping. . .at least by my standards. The cathedral is amazingly beautiful despite some “renovator’s” decision “to chap” the medieval glass because it was too dark. But the spire is breathtaking.

Unfortunately, I was forbidden to photograph all the stuff in the Chapter House that’s most interesting to me (an original Magna Carta, a frieze illustrating Genesis and Exodus, etc.).

A double-decker bus circles to and from Stonehenge hourly, probably more often in high season. It cost less than £6. What can you say about this pile of rocks? One simply must see the circle as it is situated in the plain.

If, despite all the hubbub, you can focus on the rocks, they are as impressive as advertised. But the site is also quite touristy, and you are simply not allowed to run naked among the stones anymore. Bother!
So I spent about four hours traveling each way, about three hours at Salisbury, one at Stonehenge, and I almost did myself in by ordering fish & chips for lunch.

Tricia told me I should have ordered steak instead.

American Standard

This is my shower.

First you must set the inner dial to a desired temperature--something between warm and warm.

Then, in order to get any water, you must turn the outer dial six or seven times.

Then you must pull the ceiling switch that allows you to turn on the pump that turns a mere tinkle into a roaring trickle.

Food Cont 2. START WITH QUEST

Through the Old Schools, and voila: on the corner of Green and Sidney Sts. your quest is fulffiled.

It seems to be a two mile hike, but maybe I'm just getting old(er). I'm trying to calculate the calories expended to calories purchased ratio. Actually, I'm just hungry.

Food Cont.

Then off to walk the back way, turn right at the laundry stalls and bike racks, and mosey through Selwyn Gardens to turn left onto Grange Road, past the UL, turn right onto Burrel's Walk which turns into Garret Hostel Lane once you cross (watch out!) Queen's Road, "over the river and through the woods" (actually in the opposite order):

Still a bit more in "Food Cont. 2"

Quest for Food

I figure that for 18 days out of 20, I’ll be sitting here at this lonely desk typing or at the UL reading. One day every two weeks may offer a truly blog-worthy adventure; and one will consist entirely of the must-do tedium of laundry, groceries, etc. So, yesterday I got up at 6:00 a.m. in order to beat the rush to the laundry machines. The whole process took about an hour and a half; I also tried ironing three shirts–burnt offerings. I also reviewed some French, and I’ve decided Napoleon lost because of the too easy confusion of “dessous” and “dessus.”

Then, it was off to Sainsbury’s because the cupboard was bare. So here are some pictures of the most mundane (but still very attractive) hike that I must take just to get some macaroni and cheese. Let's start at my residence, the Sir Vivian Fuchs Bldg. (a.k.a. "The Penguin Palace"). It was suitably foggy.

The small garden is still in bloom, and there are large spiders (all answering to the name "Charlotte') everywhere. Who doesn't love a cliche come true?

The blog site won't allow more pictures here, it seems so look for "Food Cont."

Ely

Ely is luverly.

As a first excursion for a rudderless Irish monk, this day trip could not have been more perfect. I awoke at 6:00 a.m., “got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head,” washed and ate without wasting a therblig, hailed a cab, and caught a train after only a ten minute wait. . .so I was in Ely by 8:00 a.m. Unfortunately, the tourist office didn’t open till 10:00. But no matter.

Just looking out on the countryside of East Anglia en route was enchanting: sheep, horses, scullers–you do expect to see Hogwarts around the next bend. You exit the routine train station in Ely and climb to the cathedral. Just follow anyone else who looks lost, but watch out for the aggressively mendicant geese. It was a bright cool morning, perfect, just perfect.

Thursday is market day in Ely, a type of shopping that, as ever, seemed both quaint and frustrating to someone as addicted to Wal-Mart, nay Sam’s Club as myself. Seriatim, you peruse lady’s lingerie, then fish, then chairs to assist the elderly out of a tub, then random junk, then fresh vegetables, then tools, and so on. You simply won’t believe what English butchers can do to a once quite respectable cow.

The first guided tour of the cathedral starts at 10:45, but I went in to poke around on my own around 10:00ish. A brilliant strategy!. . .because it was much easier to take unblocked pictures. But at 10:45 I did join the group guided by Malcolm who was a very learned and charming docent. He quickly realized I had an unhealthy interest in all things medieval and tended to frown whenever he said “Henry” or “Reformation” or “Cromwell” or “Victorian.” The tour was only supposed to take an hour, but we were nattering on for at least an hour and a half.

Afterwards, I went back to the tourist office, which happens to have been Cromwell’s house in Ely. Cromwell had married into the (newly) wealthy Stuard or Steward family, who wanted to claim affiliation with the royal Stuarts, but whose ancestors were probably “Pig Keepers” (i.e., “wardens of the stews”). I suspected as much.

Anyway, I crossed myself three times and entered the Cromwell house. I wish everyone worked for British Heritage. I asked one simple “where is?” question and exited with ten maps, twenty coupons and a lollipop.

I walked through the meadows to the river front. This was when I most missed the company of my wife and my kids. My camera battery was dying. My lack of sleep was catching up with me. So I headed back to my Cambridge. . .hardly home as yet. Weep, weep.

Back in Cambridge at about 2:00 p.m., I decided to try to walk from the train station to Wolfson and so save the £7 cab fare with tip–about double the “return” (or “round-trip”) train ticket. It was a brisk 30 minute walk. Given my (utter lack of a) sense of direction, I’m surprised I made it, actually. I remember every sight along the way, but I have no sense of “the way” itself. I smell an allegory in the making.

Blog Smoke

I really don’t have much to add to the blog as yet because, well, frankly, I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to be doing–reading, writing, eating spaghetti–and it’s all rather dull. I plan to take my first excursion Thursday.

On Sunday, I attended church at St. Mary and the Martyrs. Incense must be extremely cheap in England. I bet someone tries to sue the Church on account of second-hand smoke inhalation. Afterwards, I ate lunch at “Charlie Chan’s Restaurant”–no joke. I expected more arcane nomenclature from Cambridge. But so far British cuisine seems a well-deserved stereotype. The company was great (Cy and Elizabeth Pulapilly from Notre Dame, and their nephew), but the food was only so-so and expensive.

I spent the rest of the day in my room typing till I started to cough on smoke again; some guy across Barton was burning yard trash.

OK, I’m boring myself.

I am the Walrus

And I get my tan from sitting in the English rain. And it rained pretty much all day today, mostly wimpy drizzle with occasional spurts of genuine wetness. So, I kept my camera encased except for the one shot of myself writing this entry. . .dizzying self-referentiality. . .or narcissism. Tricia wants me to take a picture of myself in the gown, but my arms aren’t long enough.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, probably could ‘ve, should’ve gone back to sleep. But I started to push papers around and actually got quite a bit done before going for my first bus trip to a visitors coffee sponsored by the University’s chaplain. It was an hour of very sweet conversations about bikes and biscuits.

Came back to my room and wrote for another two hours. Had soup for lunch (leek and potatoes, very British) and a bagel with cream cheese (not so much). Went back to Sainsbury’s for another load of supplies; this store is much better stocked than Punto, but its selection of patent medicines simply baffled me. I was looking for baby aspirin and couldn’t find any aspirin at all, though you can readily buy KY jelly by the quart. . .I don’t want to know.

Anyway, back to scribbling what I should be scribbling. Coo-coo-ca-choo

You are the Walrus.

Charmed

Today. . .I'm afraid everyday for awhile. . .consisted of this and that. My primary and successful task was to get my U[niversity]L[ibrary] card. This is the key to riches and fame. I was given M[anuscript] A[ccess] privileges which repeatedly seemed to surprise the staff. But everyone was spectacularly friendly and helpful.
The cataloging system remains deeply mysterious to me--and to everyone else apparently. But I'll spend this evening trying to crack the code of "Newton," the card catalog[ue]. When, on a lark, I visited the Manuscripts Room this morning, I was handed this extraordinary handwritten catalog[ue] of holdings designated "Poetry." So, I already have too many leads to follow in a mere year.

Today I also trekked to Sainsbury's, the Stanza of Cambridge for my Rome buds. Actually, Sainsbury's sells only food and beer/wine but no 50c box o'wine. In a fit of efficiency, I remembered to ask for a discount card. I already have 74 pts. towards some unknown reward--very Calvinistic.

As suggested above, the Brits seem to love abbreviations: "UL," "MA," "PP" (per person), "Mtg" (meeting), etc. These little linguistic humps make you feel not quite at home. Yesterday, I was called a Yank, which used to be true. The porter is now consistently calling me "Squire."

The pictures today are the pile of bricks that is the UL and some lads playing football in ties on a pitch right next to library. How can you not love England?

Pics

Here are some pics I took today. Again, I have no idea what I'm doing, but blogger on. . . This is a picture of our common kitchen, There will be about seven sharing the house. Everyone else can cook. I can order pizza.

This picture is more probably the ohh-ahhh postcard you want. It was a sparkling morning today.

Oops, kitchen again.

My room.

Ooh ahh.