Week 6 - In Being Different, We Are The Same

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by

demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die,

it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other,

we may even become friends.

Maya Angelou 

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/travel.html#HyCYYFCOvILyizgV.99  

Mile Post

Aberystwyth Train Depot

Travel, it is said, expands one horizons.  It does.  The train station at Aberystwyth transports one not only to parts north and then across the UK but it also pleases the eye and enlivens the imagination.  Yet those who live here, just see it as Aber with the glass-sided building being merely a second hand shop or Charity Shop as it is called here, rather than a repository of human stories.  I feel I've stepped back in time and would be unsurprised by a horse and buggy clip-clopping down the street.  It is becoming more than quaint.  It is becoming comfortable.  The sign post above, I pass by on my way to classes.

Language can be a bit of a barrier.  The neighbor referred the other day to a person being "turfed out."  Immediately golf course came to mind.  Must have been the look on my face as an explanation quickly followed that they had been evicted.  Teaching "your grannie to suck eggs" is to try to do the impossible.  I felt, however, that this expression translated pretty straight across when asked by a professor in class if I knew to what he was referring.  We all laughed.

What perhaps doesn't translate is distance.  In the US, at least in Oregon, we think nothing of visiting Portland and returning in the same day.  Approximately 90 miles away, it takes an hour fifty minutes to two hours each way.  This past Sunday found me on the way to Merthyr Tidfyl (Mur tha Tid vil), a journey of under 50 miles as the crow flies; however, crows did not design the roads.  Sheep did.  It was just over two hours when we arrived and it was said that we made excellent time.  There are A roads and B roads and motor ways.  It is difficult to upgrade to wider roads as porch steps often front the existing roads.  From Aber one must travel east for an hour so that one can travel north and south.  It is one of the prices for living in another place in time.  I for one enjoyed the ride and provided great entertainment to the others by exclaiming over hedgerows, sheep, and general terrain; and the fact that, when we arrived, there was actually a water cooler.  "Jan, you are hilarious."  "Well, it's the first one I've seen in Wales."  It was.  The Welsh do not have water coolers in their buildings.  The water comes in separate faucets sporting either frigid or scalding water (it actually steams coming out) and never the taps shall meet.  I can now wash my face but it is a process involving great timing.  When I asked about this, the estate keeper explained that having a joined faucet was a bit unsanitary; but that in the newer, posh homes, it appeared to be catching on.

 The first time I went to the market to get eggs, I couldn't find them.  When I asked, I was told to turn around for the eggs were right there on the shelf.  "Oh," I continued.  "I mean the real ones.  The refrigerated ones."  I consider myself moderately intelligent but that is not the look I received.  "Eggs are not refrigerated," I was told.  I wondered how all of the UK was not dead.  They don't refrigerate them when they get them home either.  They vaccinate their chickens against salmonella.  Clever.  After two weeks, the eggs were still quite good.  However, old habits won out and the new batch are now safely stored in the refrigerator.

Bacon is called rashers.  American bacon is called streaky bacon because it has so much fat in it.  The students, who have spent time in the US, love our crispy bacon and wish it was easier to purchase here.  I, however, love rashers.  Less fat and the flavor is amazing.  I've used it as a base for a bean stew as well as for potato soup and in a sudo-German potato salad.  Lovely.  Just lovely.

Tonight I try to make a lamb stew.  Wish me luck for I've never done it before.


Outside my window there is a cacophony of gwacks each morning.  I've been trying to figure out how to reproduce/spell the sound of these birds and that is the closest I've come so far.  I've been told that they are crows but they don't really look like and certainly don't sound like American crows.  Can crows have accents?

Further research reveals that they are actually Rooks, a member of the crow family.  Many have left the area but when I arrived there were swarms  which worked like a perfect alarm clock each morning.  I was sorry to see their numbers diminish with the departing leaves.

Fall color, drifting leaves, wind singing in the eaves comfort and lull me to sleep each night.  I do miss my laundry at home but, in spite, of sore muscles, I'm beginning to enjoy the pace, the walking to do laundry, check out a book at the library, learning to read a bus schedule; but mostly finding that people are kind.  They want your stay at Aber to be enjoyable and go out of their way to help a stranger.  The bus driver is Barry.  The librarian is Joy.  I'm beginning to fit, to breathe, and to mentally unpack... which is a good thing.
 

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J. R. R. Tolkien http://exploreforayear.com/inspiration/55-quotes-travel

Week 5 - Fall, Chimney pots, and the Undead

Fall Leaves on Campus

 Greetings as I finish Week 5 of my time in Wales.  How can I have been here over a month?

Who lives in the computer?

 My grandson, Rio, has looked
behind the computer screen as
well as upstairs for his Nana.  I finally took a picture of him talking to me on Skype, reversed the iphone, and told him he was in my computer... now I think he's really confused!  Ah, technology.

Each week has been full "sorting out" as they say here.  It's amazing how much we take for granted in the states.  We supersize everything, drive with abandon, and live lives so fast paced that when we sit on the side of the bed, we have to look out the window searching for daylight to remember if we're putting on our socks or taking them off.  Although I'm now sleeping through the night, I've found that I'm growing to like this slower pace, this enjoyment of time, looking forward to taking a bus to go shopping.  My muscles are becoming attuned to the hills and I become a bit antsy to take a walk on the slow days I have set aside for writing.

View from the National Library of Wales

The NLW (see above) was mentioned during my sorting interview (kind of like the Sorting Hat) and I admit to being unimpressed as I really didn't know what a copyright library was.  A Copyright Library (for it must really be capitalized) has the right to a copy of everything copyrighted in the UK!  When I found that they had an original manuscript of Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, I politely asked if I could see it.  "One would need a very good reason to see it?"  "What if I said please?"  I really hoped my smile and being the only one in the group who knew who Chaucer was would win the curator over.  "Not even with a 'pretty please'." He smiled.  "One needs a very good reason to see it."  We all laughed, me a little sadly; but I haven't given up.  I just need to find the right reason!  Suggestions?

After my visit to the castle ruins a few weeks ago, I was led to further research on the 'body' and the Eisteddfod Festival.  For an isolated university town, there is a wonderful jewel of a museum - The Ceredigion Free Museum.  If one is lucky, Jez will be on duty.  If you have time to listen, introduce yourself and ask him a question about local history. His salt and pepper stubble doesn't cover the

craggy laugh lines that seam his face as he regales you with stories of poachers, midwives, narrow escapes, the generally held opinion of the disposition of the skeleton housed for all to see in his glass crypt on the second floor, a Welshman's thrift that makes Scrooge MacDuck look like a spendthrift only to turn around and give away thousands of pounds to a complete stranger because he saw a need and met it.  And also an admonition (to the best of my memory) to be careful in repeating stories as Wales is a small country and you never know who in your audience is related to someone in your story.

Eisteddfod harps

Little concrete evidence is known about the skeleton.  He was about 28, in good health, good teeth, as mentioned in last week's blog.  I'd love to interview him.  What was his life like in the 1600's?  How did he met his death?  Nevertheless, it was odd to stand there, Jez's words running through my head that the skeleton should be buried - he was a man after all.  I found that the previous curator may know more as to what the scientists may have revealed.  No plaque commemorates this unknown man, just a chart identifying the bones that were found.  And then there is the mystery of the bones that are not there, which Jez just mentioned casually before continuing his storytelling.

The harps and crowns in the case at the end were from previous Eisteddfod Festivals and are beautiful, inlaid wood, geometric patterns.  I'm hoping to see one while here in Wales.  It will be held in Denbighshire in August of 2013.  The first woman to win the competition was Mererid Hopwood in 2001.  For more info:  http://www.eisteddfod.org.uk/english/content.php?nID=644

So back through the town I go, exploring each Saturday,  wondering what I will find that is new, old, what can possibly be recycled in my novel.  I've heard others say that Aber is dull and that there is nothing to do.  Just walking down the street brings me immense pleasure and sparks my imagination.

Of course, I haven't checked out the pubs... yet!  Though I've heard tales that Aberystwyth is in the running for the most pubs per capita in Wales if not the UK (Aber has over 50!)
   

The chimney pots are fascinating.  Each a little different.  I wonder at Dickens and his references to chimney sweeps.  Many were children for only the slightly built were small enough to enter the dark confined spaces and scrape out the clogging soot.  I enjoyed Mary Poppins and Dick Van Dyke's song, Chim Chim Cheree, but when faced with the reality of who and what, I am shocked at how little life was valued then and how "other" was defined and, unfortunately, still is throughout the world.

So a week of discovery and yet a new batch of questions.  Until next we meet in print, here is a glorious Aber sunset taken from the bus window on my ride home.

Week Two - Journey in Fairyland

October 1, 2012

Just east of Aberystwyth/University of Wales, a steam train stops at a reasonably level station - Wales consists of hills that go on forever.  It was only, however, a short walk to Devil's Bridge and Mynach Falls.

 There you will find three bridges.  The first was built by the monks of Strata Florida in Medieval times.  In the early 1700's the second bridge was built and in the Twentieth Century the third, a wider bridge for cars, was completed as the topmost bridge.  One can easily drive or walk across the narrow ravine oblivious to the hidden jewels that lie beneath the triple span.  Corroding iron turnstiles on either side of the road mark the way down.  Don't let the antiquity of the gates fool you.  It's still ₤2 to enter.

There is, of course, the name and the myth, which I will recount in my own words...  

In ancient time an old woman lost her cow on the far side of the river and was bemoaning her loss and how she could reclaim her property when a man appeared and offered a most miraculous proposition.  He would build a sturdy bridge over the torrent during the coming night but she would have to agree that the first living thing to cross would be his.  Wishing her cow back in her possession, the old woman agreed, turned, and journeyed to her home.  As the night wore on, she reconsidered the bargain she had struck; however, her need to reclaim her cow overcame her concerns as to how the man might accomplish all he offered.  The next morning, she rose, wrapped a loaf of bread in her skirt, and accompanied by her dog followed her way back to the river to find a fully completed stone bridge with her cow standing just on the other side.  It was truly amazing.  The woman, however, had not become old by being foolish.  She approached the bridge, unwrapped the loaf and threw it across the expanse.  Her dog joyfully ran to the other side of the bridge to gather his treat and disappeared.  The Devil, for such was the man, stormed and stamped his feet for the dog was the first living thing to cross the bridge and he had lost the woman's soul in spite of his cunning hard work.  It is said that the old woman and all who came after have used the bridge undisturbed, as the Devil, shamed at being outwitted by an old woman, was never seen in these parts again.

Built by medieval monks or the Devil, himself, to peer over the rail of the topmost bridge, the view is daunting.  There are two trails - a long and a short - both treacherous to say the least and one must choose based on how adventurous they feel.  The short trail, pictured here, takes only 10-15 minutes and, wanting to take my time and explore, I chose this one and was greatly rewarded by nearly unbroken solitude and a chance to stop, sit, listen, and write - pages of pent up emotions that softened the bands that bound grief and fear within my heart.  I wandered the trail, sat repeatedly to write, inhaled the green of Wales, the magic, the wonder, the eternal nature of the water as it swirled in the punchbowl and forced its path through the narrow divided cliff faces.  A newly turned autumn leaf floated down and with a soft but audible scritch landed on my open journal.  "Hello, mom," I murmured.  I could feel her joy that I was here in this place; and bittersweet, I knew that part of her joy was the renewed companionship of my father, who recently joined her on the other side of eternity.

Healing was not the only jewel I added to my collection of memories and wonders during my hour on the slate stairs.  The sound of fairies was in the rush of the torrent, the rustle and bite of the Welsh wind in the tree tops, and the sight that met my eyes around a bend in the path forced me to stop.  This was truly an enchanted place.

I had just framed a scene in my iPhone when I very nearly dropped it.  Peeking over the top, I questioned the play of light, a trick to my eyes.  Could I be seeing what I thought I saw?  Buried beneath the varied flora, I saw... what?  You tell me - a sleeping dragon, nose almost touching the iron rail that guarded the path to the falls.  I walked back and forth, peered into the depthless eyes, and finally in wonder touched the outstretched snout in blessing.   

     

Imagination is a powerful thing.  I had come on the student trip wishing only to see some of Wales, to overcome my fear of travelling alone, and disappointment that my husband could not yet join me as planned.  Instead, I found childlike wonder as I stood between worlds - the beauty of our Father's creation and His gift of imagination.  Until next time, I will continue to follow my path where it leads.

Lazarus Plant

This is a jade plant. It is old, leggy, and should be dead. It was in a sunny window for over two years without any water and without much in the way of heat throughout the cold winters. After the flood in June of 2009, it was abandoned.

When the workmen started in January of 2012 and informed me that the kitchen would be removed, I felt that I’d rescue the planter at least. It weighed almost nothing, just as much as the terra cotta pot. Thinking that I’d break off the leggy branches, I was stunned to find them bend and not snap. I set it outside on the porch in the dead of winter and ignored it - a puzzle for another less hectic day.

I found it in my office two weeks later. My office is the only partially functional room left in the house. A workman had taken pity and brought it in, perhaps it was in his way. It was on the floor… my hardwood floor. I lifted it and noticed that a few of the leaves were not so prunish. Odd, I thought. This plant is dead. It has to be.

I reached for my scissors, as once again, the paper-shrouded branches did not snap off. I proceeded to trim it back and nearly dropped the shears when I saw a juicy green center hidden in the middle of the seemingly dead stalk. How could this plant have survived over two years on ambient moisture? I know it is in the cactus family; but over two years without water?

I proceeded to trim, bring it outside for light and water, and it surprisingly is responding to being noticed and valued once again. I call it my Lazarus plant. It reminds me that in spite of living in close quarters, I can still draw on a wellspring of imagination and write. It is not the space, the block of time, or the fancy office that makes a writer. It is the love of words, the fortitude to keep rearranging them until they make sense, and the satisfaction of understanding a bit more of oneself when the words shine back from the page.

Scheduling writing... just another habit

Do you schedule your writing? Do you get your writing done or like 90% of "writers" do you stories stay in your head, materializing between waking and sleeping only to dissolve when your eyes open in the morning - that great idea becoming a distant and increasingly fuzzy dream.

Suggestions for creating a daily habit.

1) Keep a notebook by the side of your bed. I started doing this as a child and although the light flipping on and off may cause grumblings from the other side of one's bed, that scathingly brilliant idea remains in black on white when you open your eyes to dawn's early light.

2) Do you keep a morning journal? Perhaps one in the evening? A pocket/purse notebook that can be accessed easily to jot down ideas, inspirations, a new word, a single line from an overheard conversation that set your creative juices flowing. A quote by Mark Twain comes to mind - “The dullest pencil is better than the sharpest memory.”

3) How about timed writings? I set and recommend 20 minutes daily but sometimes I've only time for ten. Ten minutes of writing is 100% more than just thinking about writing.

4) Set up a file folder on your desk top (I've got three currently covering three genres) and then rotate between manuscripts as the mood fits. I get bored easily, love variety, and working hard. I love lists and ticking off the things I have to do. I get depressed when "I" don't make it onto the list of things that need to be done in a given day. As wife, mother, geriatric caregiver, business owner, project manager, CFO, mentor, researcher, editor, and friend (to name a few hats), my writing is often relegated to the back seat.

I now understand why Jane Austen was so prolific - she had no modern conveniences, children, or ran multiple businesses. But the reality is that we all live in today's world and face today's challenges. We have to decide what we will do with the 24 hours granted to us each day.

If we carve out ten minutes before getting out of bed in the morning, write while eating a sandwich at lunch, take a break or leave your journal on top of the magazines in the loo, jot down ideas in a waiting room, commuting (do not write or text if you are driving), or perhaps scribble a few notes the last thing before lights out, you will have accomplished 3650 minutes of writing in the course of a year. That's 53 hours of writing!

The best part is that over time, the idea of writing joins the ranks of brushing one's teeth and eating. It becomes second nature. It becomes a habit, an old friend, something that you just do and when done regularly, you begin to fill your own emotional well, become a happier person, and ultimately accomplish what you've only dreamed of for years.