Oxford Literary Festival - Sunday, April 5

Boo, Scottie, and Terrell enjoying the traditional Sunday "Carvery Lunch" in Hall at Christ Church College. This very large room is said to be the inspiration for J.K. Rowling's dining hall at Hogwarts in the Harry Potter series. But where was our messenger owl?

On our next to last day in Oxford we attended several events at the Oxford Literary Festival. Our day began with a fascinating interview of Ian McEwan (Atonement, Saturday), who was receiving the Sunday Times Award for Literary Excellence and was introduced as "Britain's finest novelist." This award has previously been given to the likes of Margaret Atwood, Tom Stoppard, Ted Hughes and Seamus Heany.

Ian McEwan's comments about being a writer were what Terrell most enjoyed...that one must read, and read passionately, to become a writer. And writing is not about a process, rather it is a very individual pursuit. She also loved the authors that informed his craft: James Joyce, Franz Kafka, Graham Green, Joseph Conrad, and Henry James. The three of us had very interesting conversations about many of the topics he touched on including that he is a self-described athestist and materialist and that he sees our time "here" as a gift: a brief period of conciousness. This relates well to Boo's study of Hobbes, who was also a materialist.

In between festival events, we spent time on our personal scavenger hunt around Oxford looking for the monumnet to Shelley and W.H. Auden's cottage.

Percy Bysshe Shelley Monument, University College.

According to Wikipedia, Shelley is "most famous for such classic anthology verse works as Ozymandias, Ode to the West Wind, To a Skylark, and The Masque of Anarchy, which are among the most popular and critically acclaimed poems in the English language. His major works, however, are long visionary poems which included Prometheus Unbound, Alastor, Adonaïs, The Revolt of Islam, and the unfinished The Triumph of Life."

W.H. Auden's Cottage, Christ Church.

Boo waiting to enter the "Off By Heart" Poetry Recital, a contest of elementary (8 to 11 years old) school children from across Great Britain. Kind of like a spelling bee, only poetry. Contestants all recited one poem that they had all memorized and then recited a poem of their choosing. (We now can recite Masefield's "Sea Fever," after hearing it recited many times!)

April 3, 4: Train and Shopping

Friday was spent on the train traveling from Scotland back to Oxford. (Surely wish America could come up with such a convenient mode of transportation.) We had fun just talking and playing Scrabble. Who won, you ask? Tee!! (Always have to report these accomplishments!) Our evening meal back in Oxford was at Loch Fyne Restaurant: http://www.lochfyne.com/ , an amazing place that boasts it is "based on the principles of good food, which is sustainably sourced and simply presented by people who care." Truly a dining experience.

Saturday began with a private tour of the Bodleian Library, thanks to Buie's association with the University. We were granted 15 minutes, but were able to snatch 30! Actually, we could have stayed for 30 days, devouring book after book after book. Unfortunately, we couldn't take pictures inside the stacks.

The former Divinity School at the Bodleian Library.

The Camera at the Bodleian.

Lunch at the Corner Club.

Lunch was nearby the Bodleian at the Corner Club, a cozy, frumpy, friendly, funky club that Buie belongs to. Then, the afternoon was all about shopping, window and actual! Consider the British economy stimulated!

A picture of the tiled wall in the loo at the Corner Club. Scottie, who is all about purple, had to snag this shot to make her mother proud!

We decided to ditch supper for high tea at The Rose. Tea, finger sandwiches, scones with butter and jam, and cake made for a less than healthy meal! Maybe not the healthiest, but definitely YUMMY.

Tonight we've vegged out...catching up on emails, watching TV, and reading. Tomorrow it's off to the Literary Festival again. Fun stuff in store. Stay tuned.

Journey to Jura - April 2, 2009

Journey to Jura – April 2, 2009

“There is a certain pleasure in going to a place which takes some time to reach. Most places in Britain can be reached very easily, and quickly, with the result that there is no great sense of making a journey; it is just too easy…Jura takes a little time to get to, and at least one journey across salt water. When you reach its shores, with the bare hills rising sharply above the road from the ferry, you know that you have crossed over not just a strait but a subtle, invisible boundary. Something is different here.”

by Alexander McCall Smith, “The Music of an Island,” Jura: Taste Island Life

We rose before dawn to drive over an hour and a half south of Oban. We left our B&B with no map, sketchy directions and only our patron saint of the Scottish road, Woof! to save us. Unlike the road across Mull the day before, this road was two-lane, but it was dark, winding and unknown. With Boo driving like a bat out of hell, we arrived at Kennycraig right at 6:30 a.m. to queue for the ferry to Port Ellen on the isle of Islay (pronounce Ila.) Once on board, and still very tired, we ate our B&B breakfast that we had packed with us, then settled down in the reclining lounge chairs to nap during the two-hour crossing. Napping in the aisle across from us was a sweet Kairn Terrier, named Benny, traveling with his owners.

We could write a book on the dogs we have met getting on and off ferries. We all wish we were traveling with our dogs – past and present, but instead we have a picture of a Westie that we propped on the dash of our little car to which Boo regularly says, “he’s a good dog” whenever we come to a stop or wait in a queue or get back in the car. Our patron saint of the Scottish road takes in all our feelings of nostalgia and longing so that we are not overwhelmed with how much we miss all our loved ones – human and canine, both living and dead.

Like the trains, the ferries in Scotland depart and arrive to the minute of when they are scheduled to do so. Passengers are required to arrive 30 to 45 minutes ahead of schedule to queue – and you don’t want to be late or you could lose your reservation. That was not an option as we’d already come so far to reach the “Motherland.” So upon disembarking from the ferry at Port Ellen, we took off across Islay to Askaig to catch the ferry to Jura. When we arrived in Askaig, we could see the Paps of Jura – we were so close, but early, and so waited; first in line to get on the smaller ferry to cross Jura Sound and arrive at Feolin on Jura. This ferry was only a five minute trip, so that by 10:30 a.m. – five and a half hours of travel that morning, we were on Jura. Thirty minutes later we had made our way on a single lane road to Craighouse where the distillery was just opening at 11:00 a.m. – sips of peaty Jura whiskey and it wasn’t even noon.

At the distillery, we met Maggie Shaw. In its most recent history, the Shaws and the Buies were quite numerous. But Ms. Shaw told us that Dougie Buie and his son, Duncan, both of whom Boo and Tee (with Dorothy) had met some 47 year earlier, had passed away. Duncan only the previous summer. Tee’s diary from the summer of 1962 records the pleasant visit with the Buie family, who took us in like the family we were. When asked about her favorite spots on Jura, Maggie mentioned that she was originally from the Keils and had returned to Jura for two years to work at the distillery (summer season was to start in a couple of days). She recommended that we just drive down the road and visit the cemetery just above the Keils where Dougie and Duncan were buried as well as many Shaws and one or two Buies. She said it was a lovely time of year, what with all the daffodils.

And indeed we found the old cemetery and gravestones new and ancient – with sir names of Ferguson, Buie, McLean, Shaw, McGillvary, McDougall, McDonalld, Duncan, and first names of Annie and Mary and Margaret. We felt that Anne Buie Ferguson was probably the best named child representing all the family names laid to rest here. The cemetery sits on a hill, just above a rocky stream running down from the mountains that lie above it. Off in the distance and through the trees, you can see the ocean. Many of the stones were of young men who had fought in World War I; one was of a young woman whose fate was told upon her stone: she had died from injuries sustained from a fall from a third story window. One old fellow had spent 180 Christmases in his home on Jura. (Yes, 180.) Many others were too old and worn to read.

Leaving the cemetery, we followed the stream down to the beach where we found a lovely picnic table on which a plaque stated, “Our lines have indeed fallen in pleasant places…and indeed they have.” It was a beautiful day – the loveliest of our trip; so warm and sunny. It felt as if our ancestors were pleased we had come to pay them a visit. Sitting at the picnic table we enjoyed the lunch we had packed – ham and cheese sandwiches, tangerines, dark chocolate and hazelnut cookies. Our pace had grown more leisurely, more relaxed as we soaked in the history, the sunshine, the beauty of sea and air.

After lunch we decided to make our way back to the ferry dock, but at our new found leisurely pace. We stopped again in Craighouse to use the loo and poke around the hotel. Then another stop along the way at the ruins of a boat builder’s house, right on a point overlooking Jura Sound. The wind was picking up adding a little chop to the sea. Then back in the car to Feolin – early again and first in line for the ferry back to Askaig.

From Askaig we were able to catch the ferry back to Kennycraig – no need this time to drive across Islay. On the ferry to Islay, we met up again with Bennie and his owners – across the aisle in our lounge chairs, all of us ready to nap after a spot of tea (read “tea” as beer for Boo and kibble for Bennie). It had been a long and lovely day.

Day One in Scotland

Probably I should point out that the three of us are taking turns writing these blogs. Tonight it is Tee. And before I share about our first day in Scotland, I should point out that there are two things really going well for us. First of all the weather...Buie prepared us that it would not be good: chilly and rainy describe what we expected. In fact, I thought all of those rainy days back home before we left were preparation for this trip. How wrong I was. The weather has been incredibly beautiful. The second thing is how compatible we three are as travelers; we laugh and talk and gossip and laugh and just thoroughly enjoy being where we are!

But, on with our story...the bed and breakfast where we're staying in Oban, Scotland, is on a hill looking out over the Sound of Oban, a beautiful blue sea with sailboats dotted here and there. We've all agreed we could live here.
After a breakfast of kippers, eggs (boiled and scrambled), bacon, ham, cheese, yoghurt, granola, toast and jam, black pudding (do look it up), fruit and croissants, we waddled out to rent a car and head to the Isle of Mull on a 45-minute ferry ride. We drove across Mull for an hour on one-lane roads that scared the doddle out of us, but good job on Buie's part to get us back alive. From Mull it was onto a ferry for about 15 minutes to Iona, the first Christian establishment in Great Britain. The old abbey, nunnery and daffodils made Iona a very special stop. (Of course we repeated the trip back to Oban, which included the hour's drive back across Mull, again scaring the doddle out of us.)
View from the ferry to Iona. Abbey on Iona.

1000-year old Celtic Cross on Iona.Nunnery on Iona.

Needing a literary moment here...We came across a woman on Iona walking a beautiful Golden Retriever; I asked what was the dog's name. The reply, "Tess." I asked, "As in 'of the Dubervilles'?" And she said, "Yes." Ah, Thomas Hardy would be proud.

A wonderful, wonderful first day in Scotland.

Train of Consciousness - March 31, 2009

Train of Consciousness

Writing a story across England. We’re on the train going out like the Lion of March having come in long since a Lamb, headed on to Oban, Scotland. Terrell, Scottie and me. Three free, loose on the landscape . . . Spires of Oxford yielding to The Cotswolds, Coventry, Birmingham . . . into the old rust belt of England. Writing our stories together, a game of Scrabble © of the heart. Strange awarenesses of returning to the Mother of our emerging at the end of the long rail line at a place called Oban. Oh, but, much life to live and tell of before then. We’re not nearly out of letters; yet I can’t find a triple letter score for my Q or Z. Knowing how to spell your own name is hard enough, connecting self to the story of another harder still and all with the chance of multiple fates beneath, impossible.

We’re changing trains at Wolverhampton and onward then to Glasgow. I’m beginning to remember who I was as we Scrabble © our way across the platform to our next waiting time and space machine. Moving in an Eternity of silence now so seamlessly it seems we’re light beams in a thought experiment. Tee equals Boo times Scooter squared, more or less, as without poetic license, the Lake District leaps, lapses and is left behind, a relatively space of mind. Carlisle Station, ancient walls of ancient towns protected now not by fortification but by a total irrelevance to history. Grade rising toward the Midlands. Great betweens of light-beams and clouds and streams, onward on unto Glasgow.

Racing out of Glasgow Central to find a way to Glasgow Queen St. and finding a cabby chap who is thoroughly pissed at having copped a fare for only three blocks and two Quid. Fish and Chips and off on Platform 4 to the Western Isles. Low sun along Loch Lomond, the dying embers of remembered gloamings of long ago and love within the heather-thistled hills. The work of glaciers evident in Scottish wonders as the land lends rapture to our pressing on against the grain of eons. ‘Til there is Oban, the Gaelic safe harbor of Kings and Lords, gateway to the Western Isles and home of Aros Ard B & B. Night graciously pronounces benediction on eight hours of training on how to leave Oxford and become Haggis in the Highlands.

March 31 - Early Morning on the Thames

Last night we had a delightful meal at The Perch. Check it out: http://www.the-perch.co.uk/
Joining us was Karen Essex, who is also delightful! Check her out! http://karenessex.com/

Below are random pictures taken along the Thames this morning. Tee actually got up early to join the biker and runner! Now it's off to catch the train to Scotland.

Poking Around Oxford - March 30, 2009

It was in the wee hours of the morning that we went to bed following the smashing victory of the Heels over Oklahoma.

Boo and Tee watch game thanks to CBS Online.



Boo gets the bull by the horn....

Terrell gets the bull by the.....

Julie Irving and Buie at St. Antony's College

In the afternoon we had lunch with Boo's St. Antony's colleagues. Julie Irving is Director of the Senior Associate Members Program. She is amazing and has helped Boo acclimate to life in Oxford -- find a doctor to remove his stitches, find his luggagge lost by Air India, survive his rental car-bus incident and his bicycle-car incident. For more details, you must comment! Otherwise we are happy to report he is still with us.

And we continued to soak up the town's ambience and are loving that spring is arriving -- daffodils and all.

"Daffodils" - by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line ,

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company!

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.