Books, books, books!

Every day, between 9 and 5, Cambridge's main square fills up with market stalls and sellers of fresh vegetables, flowers, bread, cheeses, scarves, old fashioned candy, tourist traps from Cambridge and Oxford sweatshirts (in the same stall! utter heresy) to socks with the British flag on them, and secondhand books. While I can usually be talked into marching over to purchase some fresh raspberries or still-warm bread, it is the last item that usually draws my attention. Yesterday, Jessica and I spent about an hour wandering from bookstall to bookstall, debating about whether we should buy this or that book- 'of course you should, because it's a beautiful edition of a classic, and for only a pittance!' 'Then again, the suitcase weighed exactly 49 lbs when I came to the UK....'
Despite some self-restraint, we both returned to Basing House feeling triumphant and slightly guilty, hands full (in my case) of Dickens, Scott, obscure Agatha Christies, and the British version of the 7th Harry Potter book (which, the flyleaf informs me, is also available in Gaelic, Latin, and Ancient Greek). I put in an obligatory few hours reading JSTOR articles for the research paper due Tuesday, then abandoned myself to the enjoyment of my purchases. The 7th Harry Potter book being the largest and the one, therefore, that will not be accompanying me as carry-on literature for the trip home, and being in a somewhat whimsical mood, I proceeded to sit down after dinner and read the entire thing from cover to cover. Perhaps I'll start in on the Dickens today after lunch. I figure I can afford to indulge my literary whims for the time being- while the bookstalls nearest me still have books in English available for purchase, and before law books bury all thoughts of wandwork and invisibility cloaks irretrievably!

"Here's to the land of the mist and the mountain..."

"...loud roarin' torrents re-echo my song, deep as her glens or a source of her fountains are the brave hearts that guard thee old Caledon." ~ George Hope Tait, a Scottish poet

(note: Caledonia was the Roman name given to the land now known as Scotland)

Scotland was everything I imagined it to be. That is, it fit the portrait of a beautiful, yet wild, land and tenacious, freedom-loving people that the active imagination of my childhood, early exposure to Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe and Robert Burns' poetry, and my inherited fondness for plaid (really, as I was chastised by many a Scottish museum, tartan) had created. Much to my satisfaction, there is a historical basis for my perception of the Scottish people and quite a lot of visible proof regarding the beauty of the country.

I thought St. Andrews, in the region of Fife, right on the eastern coast of Scotland, was the most beautiful part of Scotland we saw in a whirlwind week-long tour of the country. Undoubtedly, I'm biased by my fondness for bodies of water: the coastline of St. Andrews was absolutely stunning. One could look out, from the ruins of a tenth century cathedral over beaches, fishing coves, and ocean.

That said, we certainly enjoyed Edinburgh and would have loved to be able to stay for this weekend's Scottish Homecoming and highland games. I saw and did far too much in a week to be able to detail all of it for you, but here are some highlights:

A pack of eight of us (DJ, Jonathan, Thomas, Chelsie, Jennifer, Katie, Sarah, and I) arrived in Edinburgh midway through the week. Not unexpectedly, it was raining a bit. We spent part of the afternoon in the Scottish National Gallery until it cleared up a bit, then walked the city, from the fantastic Edinburgh Castle overlooking the entire city, to Jonathan, Chelsie, and my climb up the 287 stairs to the top of the Sir Walter Scott monument. We've learned to capitalize on the free offerings of cities in the UK, and there was certainly a lot to see in Edinburgh! Given my love of Ivanhoe and the fantastic view from the top, however, the 3 pounds we paid for access to the Scott Monument was generally agreed to a fantastic investment.

Edinburgh has the best to offer of both a historic and modern city. After rambling over the city's monuments and cultural offerings all day, we treated ourselves to an amazing dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant and set off in pursuit of authentic Scottish nightlife and whisky (mostly for DJ, as none of the rest of us like it). Some friendly Scotsmen at our hostel in Inverness had recommended a place called Wetherspoons, which after an hour or so of walking and asking strangers for directions, we were inclined to believe was simply the end to a wild goose chase on which the locals enjoyed sending tourists. When we finally found it, Wetherspoons proved to be a singularly uninteresting bar. DJ did get his whisky, however, which he declared to be excellent, and we spiced up the evening with Jonathan's "Cliff Notes" reading of David Copperfield (the second part of which was glued to other second hand books of the walls to serve as decor). In other words, he provided us with a dramatic reading of the first and last sentences of three or four chapters until we resorted to playing 20 Questions and Never Have I Ever and determined in the end that Wetherspoons hadn't been a waste of an evening after all.

Inverness was our chosen starting-off spot for visiting the Scottish

Highlands, including Loch Ness and Cawdor Castle (Macbeth in Shakespeare, if you remember, was the Thane of Cawdor Castle). (I'm going about this a bit backwards, by the way, as we went to Inverness before Edinburgh. But while Inverness was not quite the cultural experience of Scotland's capital, it is definitely worth a mention.) Our stay in Inverness began when we arrived at the Eastgate Backpackers' Hostel, where we had eight beds reserved in a sixteen bed dormitory. (In all fairness, before I tell this story, I ought to mention that my experiences with hostels in Exeter, Edinburgh, and St. Andrews have been fantastic; only Eastgate Backpackers' was another bird altogether.) The owner had spent the weekend away, with the result that one person had taken our first reservation, another altered it when we increased the number of people in our group, and someone entirely different checked us in.

A good bit of number juggling happened on paper, a good bit of sheet juggling happened on random beds, and a rising doubt that any of the linens had been washed since two or three occupants ago was checked by the sheer relief of the owner's acknowledgment that the hostel could, after all, put us up for the night if the girls slept in double beds. We acquiesced happily, until we returned at bedtime and discovered that the girls' double beds were surrounded above, in front, and to the side, by a large pack of Scottish guys watching a terrible film on a computer approximately twelve inches away from my pillow. In the end, they agreed to turn off the film, we went to sleep, and they proved to be nice enough charity workers who gave us the recommendation to go to Wetherspoon's in Edinburgh. Hmmm... (see above story).

Inverness did prove to have other attractions. Loch Ness was gorgeous- and had interesting tourist shops offering stuffed "Nessie" (aka the Loch Ness monster) animals, Nessie bumper stickers, and Loch Ness' local brew, Nessie's Monster Mash (!). We found an excellent pub with excellent live Scottish music and an excellent name: Hootananny's (!). Incidentally, Hootenanny's also offered good Thai food (!), though we did not sample it, but the proof of the good music and atmosphere was in the fact that we were entertained happily for an hour or so while sitting on the stairs until we could get a table (hence, the picture to the left).

From Inverness, we also explored Cawdor Castle, still inhabited by members of the Cawdor/Campbell family. Cawdor Castle- where the Macbeth's supposed murder of King Duncan took place-proved to be a pastiche of eras, decor, and furniture. The original 14th century castle was extensively expanded in the 17th. However, as members of the Cawdor/Cambell family still live there today, there was a some '70s decor and yesterday's National Geographic thrown-in. I thoroughly approved, as I like my history lived in. Had the castle been museum-ized according to one particular period, the visible remainders of the other historical periods of the castle would have faded away and, worse, the un-lived in castle would have lost the vibrancy of a place that continues to be used according to its original purpose. There was plenty of history to be had, however, including a secret dungeon for "unwanted visitors and the ungodly" (so said the placard for tourists) that had been forgotten for a hundred years or so and rediscovered in the 20th century.

But the best part of Scotland was the Scots. The white-mustached Scottish conductor of our train to Inverness, even while in London, could have won me to the love of his countrymen by his accent alone (he was also overwhelmingly friendly). So too could the nine-year old boy in Edinburgh who proudly wore his kilt with his Converse Allstars and the bagpipers, all living under the shadow of Walter Scott and the freedom-loving character proclaimed from the Declaration of Abroath in 1320 to "Braveheart." From tartan plaid to Scottish history, I couldn't have been gladder to have some strain of Scottishness in my heritage.

(note: The Declaration of Abroath states that "For so long as one hundred men remain alive, we shall never under any conditions submit to the domination of the English. It is not for glory or riches or honours that we fight, but only for liberty, which no good man will consent to lose but with his life.")

Perhaps it's true, as Robert Louis Stevenson said, that "the mark of the Scots of all classes [is] that he stands in an attitude towards the past unthinkable to Englishmen, and remembers and cherishes the memory of his forebears, good or bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation." Or perhaps it's only true of those of us who are history majors.

Much Ado about Shakespeare

The season of Shakespeare has begun! July and August in Cambridge are famous for the Shakespeare Festival, in which small casts produce six or so different Shakespeare plays in the gardens of the various colleges. Tonight, at least half of our group packed a picnic and headed to the Fellow's Garden of St. John's College (otherwise not open to visitors) to see "Much Ado About Nothing," which happens to be my favorite Shakespeare play of all time.

It was brilliant.

Many of Shakespeare's comedies take part largely in outdoorsy, somewhat pastoral or fantastical settings, so placing "Much Ado" in a garden adds a delightful element to the production. My worst fears were allayed when Benedick proved witty, masculine, and in every way as he ought to be. The theater critics- from whom I heard so much on the subject during my Shakespeare class this past semester- would have been pleased to know that the famous "kill Claudio" line evoked "the" laugh from the audience, thus diffusing the dramatic tension of watching a comedy in which an innocent and beloved female character has been defamed and the heroine has just asked the hero to murder his best friend.

It only rained twice during the production- it requires torrents to push these actors off their grassy stage- and our group was generally so well pleased that we intend to attend at least one or two more performances, perhaps "The Merchant of Venice" or "The Merry Wives of Windsor," as comedies are best set off by gardens and summertime.

Where in the world is....?

I just returned from a three-day trip to Bath, Exeter, and Dartmoor. The whole program traveled to Bath together by "coach" (bus) on Thursday morning, then we parted ways on Friday afternoon to begin our own weekend adventures. Bath is, of course, famous as the city about which Jane Austen wrote two of her novels, Northanger Abbey and Persuasion, and in which she lived for five years (though she hated nearly every minute of it). As we learned on our many walking tours, Bath was a city that people visited for the winter season every year in order to "see and be seen." We contented ourselves on this trip with simpy seeing- the very inauthentic Jane Austen museum, the Georgian house museum of #1 Crescent, the Pulteney Bridge nearby our quarters at the (surprisingly nice) YMCA, the Bath Abbey, the Roman Baths and assembly rooms, etc.

My favorite walking tour was actually the one that Jessica, Sarah, and I took on our own on Thursday afternoon. After hitting the key sites, we continued to wander until we reached car dealerships- a sure sign of extreme sketchiness or suburbia, neither of which we had intended to encounter- and decided perhaps we didn't quite know where we were anymore. Witness, the "lost-but-at-least-we-have-a-map" photo of Sarah and me, above. That was only moments before our faces wore expressions more akin to a "too-bad-we've-walked-off-the-righthand-corner-of-the-map" look. Luckily, it doesn't get dark here until 9:30 or so, and it was only about six. We eventually meandered back to the centre- note the British spelling : ) -of town, but not before stumbling on an incredible Norman church and cemetery. The group ventured out together that evening, first for delicious Thai food, then for some "pubbing and clubbing" that culminated in Jonathon, DJ, Katie, Jennifer, Chelsie, and I abandoning ship to eat pizza by the river at midnight- not a bad ending to the day!

The next morning was an early one, but well worth it, because Jonathon, Sarah, and I snuck in a morning run that took us up a hill overlooking the city. We spent the rest of the morning touring Georgian edifices and museums; the group picture is of us sitting on the "ha-ha" in front of the Crescent. This was the wealthiest area of Bath, designed by John Wood the younger to look like an Italian palace. The Crescent is divided into 30 separate, but adjoining, houses. A large park stretches in front and is split into an upper and a lower ground by a sunken rock wall- the so-called ha-ha. The lower ground contained sheep and cows and the ha-ha was to prevent the cows from meandering up to one's front porch. The intended effect was for the inhabitants of the Crescent to look out their front windows, see the park in front, and feel like the lords and ladies of a country manor and park.

Shortly after noon on Friday, 12 of us split off, heading for Exeter. We essentially acknowledge Jonathon as our fearless leader (whether he wants to be or not), as this was not the first weekend that some of our group realized he simply had the best plans and therefore decided to accompany him. Those of us who are natural-born planners (like Jessica and yours truly- plus, let's face it, most Davidson kids have just a little OCD-ness in that department) have tried to help, but usually we find he's already one step ahead of us. Since Jon's pretty laid back about who accompanies him- more than happy to have the company, but going to do his own thing whether you come or no- traveling in a pack worked pretty well. We arrived in Exeter only after Jessica, Josh, Sarah, and I found ourselves settled in the baggage/loo hallway for the duration of the train ride, and were greeted with blustering rain. So, out came the lime green rainjacket and the pink umbrella (there was no hiding our tourist origins now) and we all trekked to a very homey hostel. That said, we were misled initially by the fact that an underling made us stand out in the rain for ten minutes because they weren't "open" yet. But then the owner found us and let us come in.

The main Exeter attractions are the Exeter Cathedral, an old Roman wall, and underground passageways that we were unfortunately too late to go through. We also did a roundabout walk through the city- without getting lost, this time, as Jonathon was in the lead- and ended up at Quayside, of which I have provided a photo below that doesn't do its beauty justice. We slept well that night, and headed out this morning to Dartmoor National Park, perhaps better known to you as the infamous moors of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles. There was just the right amount of mist for it to feel authentic, though the moment was disrupted by laughter when we found our footpath taking us straight through the Dartmoor Golf Club green, backpacks, rainjackets, and orange Sainsbury bags proclaiming our American- and tourist-ness. And yes, several elderly Dartsmoorians had to set aside their putters and drivers and waited grouchily for us to get out of their way! (Sainsbury's, by the way, is the lifeline of the college student studying abroad in Britain. It's a rather reasonably priced grocery store, found nearly everywhere, and we have feasted happily many times on bread, apples, peanut butter, and such from our Sainsbury bags rather than paying for a meal in a restaurant.) In the afternoon, we divided forces again and the self-designated "fab five" (Josh, Billy, Sarah, Jessica, and I) headed back to Cambridge while the rest of the group stayed in Exeter. We have our own London adventures scheduled for tomorrow, of which I hope to provide an account later.

Wait... this is summer school?!

There is one aspect of life at Cambridge to which I have not given much attention. That is, the work. Certainly, in comparison to the work required at Davidson, a few reading packets and three papers in six weeks is hardly strenuous. Amid the bustle of settling in, weekend traveling, and the ever-present delightful distraction of British accents, however, I managed to mentally shrink our assignments out of existence. It came as something of shock- to all of us, I think- when we read the fine print on our syllabi "first paper- due July 8th" and hauled out our laptops yesterday to begin. Apparently, I signed up for summer school. But if you're going to be writing papers in July, summer school at an 800-year-old European university is definitely the way to go!

Dr. Dietz, the Davidson professor who created this program and appears in Cambridge as the director every third year, created the program so that our class structure would model an actual Cambridge University student's experience. Every morning at 9, we attend lecture with a Cambridge professor- usually a specialist in some aspect of British history or literature from 1750 to 1850, which is our period of interest. We have a different lecturer every day and have so far covered topics from the British reaction to the French Revolution to the shift from classical to romantic music. In the latter, our lecturer, both a professor and a concert pianist, played snatches of Clementi and Haydn on a harpsichord in the marble entry-room of Houghton Hall, the grand manor house that belonged to England's first prime minister, Sir Robert Walpole.  (Yes, I'm bragging just a bit.)

While the lecturers change daily, we have two Cambridge graduate students, Tom and Laura, who teach our tutorial groups twice a week. They assign outside readings to us, edit and grade our papers, and guide our discussions in tutorial. They also showed us around the Cambridge University Library (abbreviated the UL), hang out with us at local pubs, and are chock-full of good British wit. So, while part of our Cambridge education is historical and academic, there's certainly a popular culture component as well!

Of Rembrandt and Strawberries & Cream

Today, Sarah, Eissabeth, Jessica, and I woke up at 5am and went to London. You would have woken up that early as well if you intended to travel the hour from Cambridge to King's Cross Station and see Shakespeare's Globe Theater, Hyde Park, Westminister Abbey, and the National Portrait Gallery all before lunchtime! Needless to say- dedicated travelers and tourists though we are- we didn't quite manage all that. We did manage quite bit of it, though, and were able to get to Wimbledon early enough to get ground tickets on Murray Hill to see the women's finals at Wimbledon- pretty amazing! The trick to having seats on Murray Hill is to NOT sit on the sloping part of the terraced lawn so you don't slide down the hill into the person in front of you every five minutes or so. We didn't know this when we sat down. Having had some experience in the area now, I would recommend scrunching your knees under you and leaning forward should you ever find yourself in this position- this is surprisingly comfortable and has the added advantage of slowing your downhill slide to about half a foot every fifteen minutes. Our location notwithstanding, being at Wimbledon was pretty awesome. Strawberries & cream (provided by Haagen Daaz, surprisingly enough) and Pimm's abounded, as did sundresses and, in Jessica's case, sunburns. The Williams sisters played each other and had some excellent rallies. They were neck and neck for the first set, so we thought we were going to be there for a while, but Serena surprised us and won in the second. Me and my three travel buddies returned somewhat exhausted to Cambridge (it was  6 o'clock by then and we'd walked many a mile) for a Fourth of July picnic on Jesus Green with our program-mates who returned from Brighton and an overnight trip to London this evening as well. I've posted pictures from Cambridge and London adventures so far on facebook, so please feel free to check them out. Happy Fourth to everyone in the states!

Running on Quayside

I just got back from my first Cambridge run and found it entirely blog-worthy. Perpendicular to the street that runs in front of Basing House, Magdalene Street, runs the River Cam. The docks and sidewalk that run alongside the river are called Quayside and it's popular hangout spot in the day for those selling rides down the river on punts and, at night, half the local and tourist population of Cambridge turns out for some harmless enough drunken revelries on the stone steps next to the Quay- or, in other words, right below our bedroom windows. I think we're all getting used to the noise that continues till 4am- it's really nothing to the garbage collectors that come to start dumping broken bottles into their trucks at 6!

Be that as it may, when I left Basing House for a Quayside run this morning at 6:30, the quay was as quiet and peaceful as could be desired. I met only 4 to 5 other runners and a few bikers heading towards work in the city center. There's a good stretch of sidewalk running along the Cam, which is nice as several silent dramas unfolded on top of the water in my half-hour or so of pounding the pavement. I counted no less that 16 Canadian Geese sailing in a perfectly straight single file line downstream, and concluded that they must be British look-alike cousins to the Canadian variety. No goose family from North America could compete with the absolute British sense or order, symmetry, and propriety with which these particular geese comported themselves. I was also accompanied by a women and men's university crew team practice, which were directed by a cheery Englishwoman on a bright orange bike who directed them from shore. Even she didn't distrub the morning peace much, though, because- as our British program director, Carol, reminds us, it is not the British way to shout.