One thing about that very comfortable bed

I had a nice view of the town center from my bed, except when one of the local buses pulled up outside. It was apparently the end of the line, as the bus sat there for several minutes before leaving again, and I got to watch the people sitting on the upper deck right outside my window.

I never noticed anyone looking back, and honestly I didn't care. I just thought it was funny.

Faringdon

This is the main street in Faringdon, a historic market town on the edge of the Cotswolds, about 20 miles from Oxford.

I ended up staying there for two nights after my case of suspected appendicitis derailed my plans to go to Yorkshire. I spent the last night of the Oxford program in the John Radcliffe Hospital, and when the surgeon agreed to release me the next day, it was “on a lead”—on the condition that I stay in Oxford for the next 48 hours and return to the hospital immediately if my symptoms got worse. Unfortunately, that meant that I had to find a last-minute hotel room in Oxford on a summer weekend, ideally one that wouldn't cost as much as an Uber to Yorkshire. (I had actually checked the cost earlier that morning, when the painkillers and anti-nausea drugs had kicked in and I was delusional enough to think that maybe I could still go to Haworth if I just didn't have to haul my luggage on and off the three trains the usual journey entailed. It would have cost £700, and I wasn't delusional enough to be willing to pay that, even before I'd received the doctor's orders not to leave town.)

So that is how I ended up in Faringdon. After I was discharged, I took an Uber back to Merton, where they had kindly delayed clearing out my room. I took a shower, checked out Hotels.com and decided that Faringdon, though not technically Oxford, was close enough, and more importantly, had an available room in an old coaching inn at a reasonable price.

The town is charming, the inn was lovely, and once the Uber dropped me off I crawled into the very comfortable bed and slept for twelve hours.

Sunday bird blogging

Finally, here's another one of the cygnets I saw on the grounds. Those little fuzzy wings just slay me.

Well, this was unexpected

In the midst of the furniture-paintings-knickknacks parade were these purple ice skating costumes worn by Torvill and Dean in their gold-medal winning ice dancing performance at Sarajevo in 1984. (And adding to the incongruity, Ravel's Bolero, the music they had skated to, was playing on a loop.)

This seemed a little strange, to say the least. But I hadn't realized that Newstead isn't a National Trust property; it's actually run by the city of Nottingham. And so basically anyone famous from Nottingham—like Torvill and Dean—might get an exhibit there.

This also explains why there is a bust of D.H Lawrence next to the bust of Byron in the gardens—I spent much of my time in the garden trying to figure out the connection.

Some interiors

I admit that I do get bored very quickly wandering through historic houses looking at furniture, paintings, knickknacks, furniture, paintings, knickknacks. And much of what you see in Newstead today wasn't there during Byron's time; Thomas Wildman, who had been at Harrow with Byron and bought Newstead from him in 1818, did extensive restorations.

I did enjoy the exhibit on Ada Lovelace—mathematician, computing pioneer, and Byron's daughter—in the library. Ada never knew her father; her parents separated when she was only a month old. Although her mother loathed her father (probably with good reason) Ada doesn't seem to have had negative feelings about him. She named her son Byron, and was buried next to her father in the Byron family vault. And though her mother was a less than ideal parent—in letters, she referred to her daughter as “it”—she did encourage her interest in mathematics as a way of avoiding the insanity she believed Ada might have inherited from her father.

The grounds

I felt a little like Elizabeth Bennet visiting Pemberley for the first time as I walked through the woods and gardens on the estate.

But while she was thinking, If I had accepted Mr. Darcy, I could be mistress of all this, I was thinking, How come I didn't have a great-uncle with a barony and no other heirs?

Saturday reflections

Reeds reflected in one of the pools in the Newstead gardens.

More Newstead Abbey

Some exterior shots of the enormous main house, plus a bust of the poet in one of the gardens.

Newstead Priory (it was never an abbey, but the owners who acquired it after Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries thought that an abbey sounded grander than a priory) dated from the 12th century, founded by Henry II as part of his penance for the murder of Thomas á Becket.

Boatswain

This memorial in the gardens at Newstead is for Byron's beloved dog, Boatswain, who died of rabies. Byron had wanted to be buried nearby, but when he died in 1824, he no longer owned Newstead and had been living abroad for many years because of the backlash to his scandalous lifestyle. He ended up buried in the family vault at St. Mary Magdalene Church, with a somewhat less impressive memorial than the one he had erected for Boatswain.

The inscription reads, in part:

Near this Spot

are deposited the Remains of one

who possessed Beauty Without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferosity,

and all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

if inscribed over Human Ashes,

is but a just tribute to the Memory of

BOATSWAIN, A DOG,

who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,

and died at Newstead Abbey Nov. 18, 1808.

Lifestyles of the Rich (or at least Titled) and Famous

Lord Byron's bed at Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. Byron inherited the estate along with the title from a great-uncle when he was only ten years old, and it is impressive: a huge Gothic house, gardens, a lake where the previous Lord Byron had staged mock naval battles.

Unfortunately there was no money to maintain it and during the brief periods when Byron actually lived there, he reportedly slept with this gun next to his bed because the state of the windows and doors made the house impossible to secure and the ruffians in nearby Sherwood Forest were an ongoing threat.

More urban poetry

A sunny day in October on Tenth Avenue in Manhattan: restaurants just opening for lunch, a biker pausing to make a phone call, and a stove that has for some reason been abandoned at the curb.

Urban poetry

I loved the warning signs on this building in Windsor—not Keep Out, or Caution, but If you really must proceed, you clueless pillock, go DEAD SLOW.

I also liked that the company name on the window at the top is Junk Design. I think they've succeeded admirably.

I did see an Amazon truck pull up while I was taking pictures. The driver parked well away and made the delivery on foot.

I am still here

Sunday bird blogging

King penguins and seals at Elsehul Bay in South Georgia on New Year's Day.

I've mentioned that I've been taking many more buses this year because my bad knee keeps me from walking as much as I'm used to. I took a crowded bus down Broadway on my way home from class yesterday, and though I had a book I was too tired to look at it and watched my fellow passengers instead.

And was struck, surprisingly, by the basic decency I saw. People were jostling for standing room along with several large suitcases, a stroller, and one overloaded shopping cart, and maneuvering your way to the rear door to get off wasn't for the faint-hearted, but everyone was—nice. They tried to move out of the way where they could, and a blind man and a woman with a walker boarded and were immediately given seats.

It was a little bit of reassurance in these very dark times.

Urban poetry

Here's an old picture: a foggy wharf in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 2019. It has been so unrelentingly humid here recently (like 90% or close to it) that any outdoor exertion, however mild, leaves me literally soaked to the skin with perspiration.

Which for some reason reminded me of the thick fogs in Nova Scotia, which were just as drenching but not nearly so unpleasant.

Sunday bird blogging

Another towhee (or maybe the same towhee) in Berkeley a while back.

Yesterday I was waiting for the bus down Fifth Avenue after class—the knee was very achy and there was no possibility of walking all the way home—and when a bus finally came, it was so crowded it didn't even stop. The MTA app said the next bus wasn't due for another ten minutes, so I sat down on a bench by the park wall and closed my eyes. And one of my fellow passengers came over to get me a couple of minutes later. “A bus is coming! And it's empty!” I would probably have missed it if she hadn't alerted me and that little kindness made my day, almost as much as the student who'd told me my class was “awesome” earlier that afternoon.

It's difficult to feel optimistic about anything right now, so I try to revel in the positive moments when I can.

Wild, wild horses -- we'll ride them someday

With the country growing progressively more insane by the hour, I find this picture of a wild horse wandering along the top of a ridge in Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota very calming.

Just for fun

I took this picture at a rest stop somewhere in Minnesota: Doritos in mustard, ketchup, and pickle flavors. I've never seen these in New York—or the taco pizza, baby back ribs or fried pickle ranch potato chips in the next aisle—so I had not realized how much American ingenuity goes into coming up with new kinds of junk food.

The highway convenience stores in the Midwest are quite an experience. Some of the bigger ones have a hundred different kinds of prepared food, as well as the packaged stuff, but even the smaller ones have an amazing variety of different flavors of chips, cookies, beef jerky and candy, while those of us hoping for something slightly healthier are limited to a few shriveled salads dying of loneliness at the far end of an aisle that might as well be labeled Afterthoughts.

I have been to 7-11's in Tokyo that had candy offerings in some truly unexpected flavors—and colors—and in the UK you can buy crisps (potato chips) in roast chicken or steak, ale and caramelised onion flavors, but I think the United States remains the undisputed junk food capital of the world.

Sunday, oops, Monday bird blogging

A snowy egret wading in San Francisco Bay.

I really did mean to post this yesterday, but the amount of work after the first class of the semester is not much smaller than the preparation before the class. I have to grade the assessment tests and the writing samples. I have to post all the class materials in Google Classroom. I have to send followup emails to the students who registered but didn't come on Saturday. I have to verify all the email addresses and phone numbers and create a WhatsApp group. I have to crop and label the photos I take of each student so we can all learn each other's names. I made a good start yesterday, but need to finish up today. This week I have two tutoring sessions, several appointments, and a professional development class, and, oh, I also need to finish prep for the next class.

I love love LOVE this job, but it is part-time only in theory.

Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam

Classes start on Saturday, so I'm buried in prep. My theme this semester is folk tales and folk songs, so I've found myself walking around singing Flies in the buttermilk, shoo fly shoo and Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, strummin' on the old banjo. I don't know if kids even sing those songs anymore, but I still remember all the words.

I don't have any pictures of deer handy, but here's a buffalo and an antelope, home, home on the range of Custer State Park in South Dakota.

Sunday bird blogging

A California towhee enjoying the sun earlier this summer.

Saturday reflections

I took this picture as we were trying to navigate our way out of the car rental lot at Minneapolis-St. Paul airport in June. I liked the abstract weirdness of that grid and the reflections on the car.

Black and white Black Hills

 

More Black Hills woods and water

The Black Hills

Since I was looking at South Dakota anyway...

The Black Hills are a national forest rather than a national park. I was expecting some interesting geology, because I never knew that the “black” in the name refers to how the hills are so covered with trees that they appear black. (Well, if you say so.)

But it is quite beautiful, and very different from the eastern half of the state.

Long ago and far away

That's how it feels, anyway. But this was less than two months ago, in South Dakota.

This is Spearfish Canyon, in the Black Hills. The waterfall was a short hike through some beautiful forest.

Saturday reflections

Here's something more recent and local for a change: cars waiting for a light on Walker Street in Lower Manhattan on Thursday.

I had just had my annual eye exam, and with my eyes dilated the patterns on these windshields looked practically psychedelic.

Teddy Hall

Continuing my peeks through the porter's lodge gates at some of the lesser-known constituent colleges of Oxford, here is St Edmund Hall, rather charmingly known as Teddy Hall.

This is one of the older colleges, dating from sometime in the 13th century, and alumni include Keir Starmer and Terry Jones. That large tub of flowers in the middle of the lawn is actually a medieval well (obviously.) I believe that the newer building you can see behind the quad is student accomodations; I like that while the gable shapes on top echo those in the quad, it looks modern and practical and comfortable. Much as I love staying in Mob Quad, you can get a little tired of the 14th century.

Urban poetry

A street of colorful houses in Oxford, near the Mathematical Institute.

Still more Holywell

The last two pictures. I'm assuming the stick cross is some kind of memorial for the Irish philosopher because of the green ribbon.

To kiss and tell

That's what is carved on the stone on top of the stack in front—an odd sentiment for a cemetery, I think.

What's almost as odd are those leaning crosses. At first I assumed they had been mounted on monuments and had fallen, and someone had propped them up, but there's nowhere to mount them on those stones. So I am assuming this is deliberate, and as those stone stacks don't have any names and don't appear to be headstones or monuments, maybe the crosses have some other purpose or meaning?

I found a lot of information about this cemetery online; in the 1840's the churchyards in Oxford were full, and, like Highgate Cemetery in London, Holywell was one of several new cemeteries that were built to meet the demand. It was opened in 1848 on land donated by Merton. But I can't find any mention of these stones with the leaning crosses. I'll find someone to ask when I'm back there next summer (going back is the plan, anyway.)

More Holywell