East with the Light: October 2013

In an act of unprecedented self-care, I took a week off from my grueling research schedule. Well, I didn't so much take off as take advantage of a gap in my archival plans. I had tentative plans to go up to Hertfordshire and investigate some local archives, but 1) I was skeptical of the actual payoff my efforts and expenditure would bring to the project and 2) I was just bone-tired and road weary. I'd been in archives for five months straight, my back was killing me from all the sitting, my skin had turned translucent from lack of light, and I thought if I had to spend another week bent over a yellowing volume, I might just die. I wanted to take full advantage of my 3 weeks in Scotland (where, in my last archival trip, I had been too exhausted to really dig into the rich resources in Edinburgh), so I knew that I needed a recharge.

I had a bit of trouble deciding where to park myself for a week. I really wanted to go back to the lovely Dartmoor National Park where I'd spent a few days back in 2008, but I also really wanted to see something new. The Lake District was an obvious choice, but even at the beginning of October was a bit out of my price range, because I didn't just want a change of scenery, I wanted a retreat. I wanted a place all to myself, where I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. An archival research trip like this can be really painfully isolating, but I had also been staying in places that weren't "my space." Shared kitchens, shared bathrooms, shared lounges, etc. I wanted to sing loudly as I did my laundry. I wanted to cook real food in a real kitchen without worrying about monopolizing the space. I wanted to take a long, luxurious bath while reading a good book. So I wanted a little cottage. I found the perfect place in the Peak District National Park, a place I knew very little about, but with which I am now in love.

But first.....Meet my little 60mpg Cerulean Chevy Something-Or-Other. Isn't she beautiful. Even more beautiful is the fact that I drove it around for a week on the elusive left side of the road without once crashing.

The hardest thing about driving on the left side of the road isn't right turns or roundabouts, or even shifting gears with your left hand. These things require a lot of concentration ("Left, Left, Left...."), but are surmountable. What was much harder was retraining my brain's spacial reasoning. I always felt like I had plenty of room on the left (curbside), when in fact (as evidenced by several side mirror incidents) I had no room at all. I was continually running off the road and nearly (and sometime actually) hitting stone walls, parked cars, and any number of other things. I did get better at this as time went by, but it was a bit disconcerting. However, it was an absolute joy to have a car and be able to explore the Derbyshire country side without walking holes in the soles of my shoes and waiting hours on country buses.

I went to a bonafide American-sized grocery store where I filled my cart with all the delectables that living in London without a car had denied me.

Milk in a Bag! It isn't just the Canadians anymore.

I didn't actually buy any pulses, but I was very amused
by the use of the word, which I've only really heard in farming
manuals and scientific journal articles.

A cartful! More than what can be carried in your two hands!
Also note the existence of Dr. Pepper Zero, something we most
definitely do not have in the US (I would know).

Now meet Bumblebee Cottage on a twisty little road between Darley Dale and Stanton Moor on Warren Carr Farm. It was an old 17th century barn, converted into a one bedroom cottage. It was the perfect place. Just what the doctor had ordered. Kitsch and Cozy.

An old school vanity (I think). This was the only place in the house where you could get the wifi signal from the Big House.

The lovely bathroom window.

The even lovelier deep bathtub (with a little door) where I took

at least 10 baths in a week.

The AGA is somewhat of a cultural icon of middle class country living in Britain. I'm not sure why this is, since it certainly isn't the most convenient or easy to cook on or energy efficient. Essentially, it works like a wood stove. The whole thing heats up when you turn it on. So if you want to cook on the stovetop, the oven is going to be on as well. It was, however, deliciously warm, which was important during this wet, cold week in early fall.

Living in a place where 12 people share a kitchen means that you rarely have the luxury of a long culinary production (or a short one for that matter). The kitchen in the floor where I lived was also usually pretty disgusting. So this was the first time I could really go to town. First thing on the menu, hearty chicken soup with egg noodles, with a right smart of fresh thyme and cumin. I've never tasted anything so good.

A view of the kitchen into the living room.

The hideously ugly living room, with French doors opening into the garden and views of the hills beyond.

The Garden view.

Best of all was curling up on the floor and watching Downton Abbey a whole four months before it was bestowed upon my American brethren. (*Gloat*)

Ha! Got your attention!

While my day has been somewhat less than a no-good-terrible-horrible-very-bad-day, I nevertheless have found opportunity to wallow in a little self pity, as I have in the past 24 hours:

1) Sprained an ankle and fallen flat on my face into a gritty puddle in front of no less than half the population of Edinburgh at a popular bus stop, where two very nice gentlemen helped me from my Prostration in the Puddle as I spit out bits and pieces of Edinburgh rain, dirt, and rubbish.

2) Fallen into the grips of a nasty Scottish chest cold.

3) Been forced to throw out seven pairs of washed socks because after five days hanging on my radiator rack, they are still soaking wet and starting to grow mold and smell terrible. Ain't nobody got time for that.

4) It has rained for 14 days straight.

I, of course, blame Obamacare for these misfortunes which have befallen me.

So to cheer myself up, I will write of happier days: my week in Eastbourne, "The Sunniest Spot in Great Britain."

You really can't appreciate it in this picture, but I'm very close to the edge of a cliff with a 5,000,000 foot drop.

I'd always wanted to visit the South Downs in East Sussex, where some of my very favorite British mysteries (Laurie King's Mary Russell novels) are set, and walk along the white chalk cliffs. I had a few local archives to visit, but needed to be relatively close to London, so I took the chance to convalesce by the sea.

For a long time, the seaside was considered bad for your health (too damp), but by the early 1800s (as cities were becoming grosser and more densely populated), doctors began singing a different tune about the health benefits of the seaside. So little fishing towns all over the South of England were revamped (or created anew) into fashionable resort towns for the upper and middle classes to escape to. In Eastbourne's case, the soon-to-be Duke of Devonshire, William Cavendish, poured a bunch of money into building a town "for gentlemen by gentlemen," complete with huge sandstone mansions, pavillions, bandstands, promenades, and big creepy pier.

The whole town is very Victorian, and a little other-worldish. I can't really explain it properly. Sunny and Eerie.

Demographically, all the gay folks went to Brighton (England's version of Provincetown) and all the elderly folks went to Eastbourne. I'm pretty sure the average age of an Eastbourne resident is 60 (I hasten to add for the benefit of my 60-year-old father that 60 is not in and of itself "elderly," but as an average is quite high). It's the warmest place in England. It's relatively cheap to live in. And it became a popular spot for convalescent hospitals in both World Wars, hospitals which have now been converted into retirement apartments. Every other house, it seems, is either a guesthouse or an assisted living home (Unlike in the U.S. where assisted living facilities are almost exclusively run by non-local corporations, in the UK, assisted living facilities tend to be family-run in small buildings or houses, overseen and with costs paid by the government.) The charity shops all deal primarily in used bikes and used Jazzy Scooters. As you walk down the Promenade, you can always hear the hum of a Jazzy Scooter. There are even Jazzy Scooter recharging stations throughout town.

Here's me on the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus (the only way to get to Beachy Head by public transport):

I'm obviously very bad at selfies, but you get my point.

I rented a bike from a really nice old couple, which made getting around a bit easier. Except for BeachyHead, which is practically up in the clouds, Eastbourne is pretty flat. The pitiful lock it came with wouldn't have lasted a night in Hyde Park, but it held up in Eastbourne. There were some junkie types and angry youths about, but, like I said, mostly geriatrics.

They have little bike seatbelts on the trains.

Beachy Head is Britain's highest sea cliff (or cliffs more like), rising at some points, nearly 600 feet above sea-level. The White Cliffs of Dover are more recognized because they are always pictured in WWII movies, but Beachy Head and The Seven Sisters are much more dramatic.

You really need people in the picture to give you a frame of reference.

The angle of this shot makes it feel like everyone is about to slip off into the ocean.

Nothing but sky and the deep blue sea.

These cliffs are actually pretty scary since until you are right at the edge, the landscape looks like this:

Looking across the Downs to Birling Gap (the only place you can access the beach below from without falling to your death).

But, the first time I went, there was a fog so heavy that it was hard to see ten feet in front of you at times. At one point, as the bus made its ascent, you really just had to trust that the driver could see the road, because it felt like we were barreling along into a cloud as the guide recording told us about the dramatic cliffs we were supposed to be seeing.

So if you weren't really paying attention, you could conceivably just walk right over.

And as a bunch of crosses on the edge eerily remind you, Beachy Head is a very "popular" suicide spot. One of the crosses marked the place where a 13 year old boy jumped off.

Creepy in a different way was Eastbourne's entertainment pier, which has been standing (without much renovation, it seems) since the 1860s. This isn't a fishing pier like we have dotting the coastline of South Carolina. It's more like Navy Pier (except more rickety) in Chicago. It has a huge pavillion, a theatre, a few shops and restaurants, a camera obscura tower. Now, I have a kind of phobia of big metal things in water, so I felt quite brave walking on this contraption.

The Pavilion in the mist.

A little rickety looking, right? It's not just me.

A view at sunset. My guesthouse was only a block away from the Promenade, so I caught a few sunsets.

A view from the edge.

You could see the green water below, between boards that sometimes wobbled.

I get a bit woozy just looking at this. I feel like someone would probably get murdered here in Foyle's War.

The best part about the Pier was taking pictures of it from afar and getting off of it, to have a nice seaside lunch: Fish and Chips without the fish (the fish was a bit too authentic for my liking...I don't like scales).

On one of my last days, I took a bike/train ride to Arundel Castle, a bit inland. Arundel is a restored medieval castle built in 1067 by one of William the Conquerer's cronies, Roger de Montgomery. It got passed around a lot in the Dark Ages, but eventually became the seat of the Duke of Norfolk after the English Civil War. It's been a Roman Catholic house for ages, and has a real Brideshead Revisited feel to it, lots of marian statuary and elaborate triptychs.