Carlisle

I took a little adventure up to Carlisle today. I have lots of pictures to share and I will in the next blog, along with the usual travelogue-esque commentary. For now, I just want to talk about the actual experience of going to Carlisle.

This was my first solo adventure here in England. Well, I suppose that's not technically true. My research has been a solo adventure, but this was my first trip away from Preston all by my lonesome. And I had a very nice time. But I had issues.

When traveling, I am used to being a pair. I'm also used to Steve carrying most of the stuff, because he's a gentleman like that. Although I wasn't over burdened with stuff, I was carrying a camcorder bag, my handbag, and eventually a carrier bag of purchases. So that was a bit annoying, especially since I pretty much hate carrying anything - including a handbag. But the big issue with me being a onesy and not a pair was I was forced to multitask and I was really bad at it.

My father-in-law offered me his camcorder, thinking I might like making a video of my jaunt. I'm primarily a photograph person, but I took him up on the offer. I figured I could share my video with Steve and my folks when I got home, so they could see a bit of Carlisle, too. I'm usually a pretty good videographer. I use the fade-in and out feature and create a fairly cohesive show. Usually. Today, I discovered that trying to learn the history, take photos of the stuff around me, and video record everything with a running commentary on what I was seeing and what historical data I had thus far gleaned made me a really crap videographer. I botched the fade-in more than once. I rambled. I couldn't remember the names for the different parts of the castle. My 20-minute video is probably a mess. I hope to
God my photos turn out okay.

Other than my multitasking failure, I had a good day. I enjoyed being on my own, but I wasn't really lonely. I carried all kinds of folks in my head. And before that makes me sound too looneytunes, I shall explain. Steve is always on my mind. The longer we're apart, the more I think about him. So I carried Steve with me all throughout the day. I also carried other people at differing times.

When I was exploring Carlisle Castle, I thought of Andrea. It reminded me of a smaller Edinburgh Castle, and as I was snapping a photo of a cannon, I remembered taking Andrea's photo with one of Edinburgh's similar guns. And when I was wandering through Carlisle Cathedral, I thought of both Karen and Dr. Sheffler. Whenever I see an old church, my thoughts immediately go to Karen, because I know how much she likes them. Carlisle Cathedral is a gorgeous church and I found myself trying extra hard to imprint the experience in my mind so I could share it with her here. And Dr. Sheffler sprang to mind when I caught the scent of incense on the air. They had celebrated a Celtic Mass that morning and the incense smoke still clung to the air. Dr. Sheffler had shared how much he loved the smell of the resin incense used in church, so I immediately thought of him. And I now appreciate the scent. It truly is lovely and seems to heighten the spiritual atmosphere.

So even though I was by myself, I really wasn't alone.

Now on to Carlisle itself. Since I was hoofing it, I must say that I have come to appreciate medieval cities. Although modern Carlisle spreads well beyond the original city walls, everything I wanted to see was still within their confines. It was such a pleasure to walk from the train station, which is just outside the southern boundary, to the castle, which is on the northern boundary, in about ten minutes!

I so glad the weather kept me from going yesterday, because there weren't a lot of tourists about. I shared the castle and cathedral with about ten people. Which meant I didn't have to rush to get out of other people's way. I could meander to my heart's content and just revel in Carlisle's historical splendor.

My favorite spot, without a doubt, was the cathedral. It's small compared to other churches I've visited, like Yorkminster. But I think that's to its advantage, because it contained both a feel of grandeur and a sense of intimacy. I would have been happy to sit in there for an hour or two (and almost did later), it felt so . . . comfortable. It's definitely one of my favorite churches. It might even be nestled closely with Yorkminster in the top spot. Which says a lot. York has been my favorite for ten years and no other church has come close. Not Notre Dame, not Westminster.

So all-in-all, Carlisle is a nice place to visit. I will definitely have to return there with Steve some time.

It's funny. I was thinking about this blog on the train ride home. In my head, I wrote such an eloquent piece. Then when I actually sit down to write it, it's not nearly as great as it was in my head. I need to start carrying a notebook with me, methinks. Either that or figure out how to do a telepathic blog.

Tomorrow I return to the Records Office. I will go through all the photos I took today and post them in a blog soon.

Stage One complete

I finished my research in the Harris Library today. It was a very weird feeling when I scratched the last item off the list. My time here really is coming to an end. Next week I'm in the Lancashire Records Office. And after that, I'm done. Ten weeks of research will draw to a close. Yes, it's a very weird feeling.

History of an unexpected sort

When I came to England, I knew I would be knee-deep in history. If I wasn't researching my thesis, I imagined I would be rummaging in the branches of Steve's family tree. And for fun, I was sure I would visit a castle or two - at the very least. What I didn't expect to do this trip was make a journey through my own history. But that is exactly what I did yesterday.

First off, a little background. When I was a youngster, my great uncle Robert Beaumont (my Dad's mother's brother) began researching the family tree. He began with his parents, Albert Saunders Beaumont and Dorothy Darling Beaumont of Massachuseets, and managed to take the branches back beyond the Mayflower. I am descended from several of those brave Pilgrims (such as Isaac Allerton and William Brewster). After Robert's death, other family members continued the work.

When my Aunt Jody (one of Dad's sisters) found out I was visiting the British National Archives during this trip, she suggested I see if I could find anything on one of our English ancestors. Peter Bulkley and his second wife (his first wife died after birthing MANY children) fled to the American colonies after Peter, a church rector, got into trouble for nonconformity. Peter went on to found Concord, Massachusetts, and one of his sons was one of the first graduates of Harvard University. His grandaughter was the mother of Ralph Waldo Emerson. But enough name dropping.

Jody thought that since Peter was essentially run out on a rail that some record about it might exist in the archives. So I said I'd look and I did. But I came up empty. A couple of weeks ago, Jody contacted me with some online research she had done. It turns out that the church in which Peter was rector still stands. On top of that, his notoriety is well documented there. In fact, when the church celebrated an anniversary back in the 80s, the church Peter founded in Concord, MA, donated funds to help with renovations. And several families descended from Peter (the man was quite adept at the whole fathering children thing) have visited the church over the years to pay tribute. Jody said we'd have to go there one day and sign the visitors' book as descendents of Peter.

I thought, 'why wait for one day?' Unfortunately, the village is too remote for me to reach via train or bus, so I contacted Jackie and Nick and asked if they'd be interested in taking a trip down there. Yesterday (Wednesday) we did just that and spent some time in Odell, Bedfordshire, at the All Saints Church.

I took tons of photos, but I'm going to post them at the end of this blog. I want to try and convey my experience without interrupting it with visual commentary.

First off, the village of Odell is quite charming and picturesque. The church sits on a small hill. It dates to the 15th century and, according to the booklet I bought about it, is "described in England's Thousand Best Churches (2001) as 'unrestored and charmingly atmospheric.'" The phrase fits the church to a T, which I think is what gives it its charm.

We parked in the grass outside the church walls and walked into the churchyard. I immediately began checking dates on the gravestones. Although Peter wasn't buried here, his father (also a rector here) was, as was Peter's first wife, and some of his children. Unfortunately, the stones I saw dated to the 19th century. They were too new, because Peter left for America in 1635.

The church usually isn't open during the week and you have to go get the key from the rectory office in town. But as luck would have it, some roof work was going on and the church door was open. So we went inside. The first thing I noticed after I walked inside and wiped my feet on the bristled mat was the massive pipe organ dominating the left end of the church. Above it were the cords that operated the six bells hanging in the tower above. Pews filled most of the space before me, and in the right end of the church was the chancel, which featured some memorials, a beautiful stained glass window and the Table (which I would have called an altar, but have learned from the church handbook is an inaccuracy).

I began walking around the room, snapping photos, and trying to get a feel for the place. I love visiting old churches and I like to open myself up to them. Many, like my fave Yorkminster, have a sense of serenity about them. I feel at peace in most churches and religious places (like stone circles). Others - not so much - because they've been bombarded by tourism and have lost that peaceful quality in the tumult of other energies. But I digress . . .

All Saints had that feeling. But I was looking for more. I was looking for a connection. Members of my long-ago family once sat in that church. Two of them were rectors there and led the congregation. Surely I would find some link to that. But I didn't. As I said to Jackie and Nick, "It feels like a church." But I was excited to be there and went a little crazy with my picture taking. I'm normally picky with what shots I take, but I was just snapping away like a woman possessed. I also did something I don't usually do - I sat for awhile in one of the old pews.

Once I had exhausted my perusal of the interior (which included a plaque naming the past rectors and a print of a portrait of Peter), we went outside and checked out all the gravestones. One thing Jackie commented on as we circled the building was you could tell the windows were original, because they were crooked. It gave the church such a rustic charm seeing such flaws. As for the gravestones - none were earlier than the 19th century. But Nick had it figured out pretty quickly.

In the earlier period, graves weren't marked by vertical headstones. They were covered with flat sheets of engraved stone. Sure enough, along a path near some of the first headstones I had examined, Nick found a flat stone overgrown with grass. After scuffing carefully at it for a bit, we found writing. This grave was also from the 1800s, but it was from an earlier date.

We moved back closer to the church after Nick mentioned earlier graves would be placed nearer the church. Sure enough, he uncovered a couple of flat stones from the 18th century. What broke my heart was mere inches from where Nick uncovered these grave markers stood the church's garbage cans. Grass had grown over the entire area and obscured the graves marked there. More than likely, the graves have been covered over for decades. I knew that I was not going to find any family gravestones this day, and wished I lived nearby so I could volunteer to find them. How many other families are similarly obscured by time? Of course, the current rector probably has a plan somewhere noting where the graves are. He probably figures let them rest in peace.

As we left the church (with me snapping photos until the very end), I was buoyant by the experience. It was a lovely church, and it was nice to have a tie to it. We had lunch at The Bell pub, which is across and just down the road from All Saints. The thatched-roof pub dates to the 17th century and gets its name from the church's bells. We had a nice meal and I took photos inside the pub, which garnered its charm and ambience from its low wood-beamed ceiling.

And then we came home. It's now the next evening and I've had time to reflect on my visit to All Saints. I think the reason that I didn't feel a connection to the church when I was there was because it was just too much to process. What made me an historian was my enthusiasm for historical places and things. When I walk into an old church or castle, I have always bore a thought about the people who once stood where I stood and what their lives were like. For instance, when I see the Traitor's Gate at the Tower of London, I always stop and consider how terrified Princess Elizabeth must have been when she was brought through it to the Tower at her sister's command. So when I was standing in All Saints, my mind was already thinking of the people who once worshipped there. I think it may have been too much to try and fit in the notion that some of those people were family, to boot, and that their history is actually my history, too.

When I sat in the pew yesterday and looked around the church and toward the chancel, I was doing what Peter's wife and children once did. And although the current pulpit and Table date to after Peter's departure, the screen that separates the chancel from the rest of the church dates to the 15th century. So when I walked through the door in the screen, I was walking in the footsteps my ancester took nearly four hundred years earlier. And that, my friends, is an awesome feeling. And one that creates an undeniable connection.

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Here some of the photos I took at All Saints in Odell.

All Saints Church in Odell, Bedfordshire, which dates back to the 15th century. The clock was added in 1820.

The back of All Saints.

Looking toward the chancel.

The Table within the chancel.

Standing in the chancel and looking toward the bell tower.

The pipe organ. Above it are the bell cords, which are really difficult to see.

The pews date to the 17th century, but the seats of these are from the original medieval pews dating to the 15th century.

The plaque listing past rectors. Peter and his father, Edward, are listed in the right column third and second from the top, respectively.

A close-up of the Bulkleys' listings.

A framed print of a portrait of Peter Bulkley.

The bell tower.

One of the crooked windows.

These are the 18th-century graves I mentioned that are next to the garbage bins. Heartbreaking.

The visitor's book that I signed as a descendent, twice-over, of Peter Bulkley. The twice-over is because the children of Peter's son, Gershom, had children who married. So Gershom shows up in my tree on two different branches.

Visiting the Lake District

Several of Steve's siblings own caravans in the Lake District, and this past weekend Jackie and Nick (Steve's sister and her hubby) invited me to spend the weekend with them at theirs. Tina and John (one of Steve's other sisters and her hubby) were also up there with their youngest, Kiara. The caravan site is in or near Silecroft and is just a few minutes' walk from the sea.

This is the view from the kitchen window of Jackie and Nick's caravan. A thick cloud crowned the summit of the tall hill there for the entire weekend. The hill has a name, but I don't know it.

You hear a lot about the Lake District when you're in England. It's a huge holiday spot reknowned for its incredible beauty. Beatrix Potter lived in the area and worked to preserve it. I agree that it's lovely, but I must admit I didn't see what all the fuss was about. To me, the area was just as pretty as anywhere else in England. And then we took a drive to Keswick and I discovered what all the hoopla is about. As we drove, rolling hills (mountains to this Florida girl) flowed right into pristine lakes. The air had a serenity I could sense even as we roared down the motorway. Keswick sits on a lake and we tried to park near it, but the town was heaving with people and we ended up parking closer to the town centre. So we weren't able to actually walk along the lake. If we had, I would have taken pictures. Instead, you'll just have to trust me that it was beautiful. I would very much like to visit the area again if possible, and maybe spend a day or two along those gorgeous lakes.

On our way to Keswick (pronounced with a silent "w", by the way), Nick spotted a sign mentioning a castle in one of the villages we were passing. He turned off the road to check it out. What he found was Egremont Castle, the ruins of a 12th-century red sandstone castle that served as the seat of the barony of Copeland. It was an unexpected treat on the long drive.

What remains of the curtain wall of the castle.

I also saw several poultry farms along the way with free-range chickens. It's quite bizarre to see acres of fenced pasture land dotted with chickens instead of cows or sheep. In some places, it was chickens AND cows and sheep. I took this photo of a field of Buff Orpingtons (like Hyacinth, Daisy, Rose, Violet, and Onslo at home). It's not a very good photo. The chickens are tiny blobs. But I was in a moving car.



The weather was quite brisk over the weekend, and windy. Despite the chill, I was anxious to take a walk along the seashore when we got back from our trip to Keswick. Nick and John obliged me. I found the walk wonderfully invigorating.

Several men were fishing along the shore. I said to Nick, "Fishing is that good here?" He smiled at me and said, "No."

This is the beach. Not a grain of sand in sight.

Another view of the hill as we walked back from the beach. The gang has climbed that thing.

Some wind generators nearby.

I had a nice weekend away. Much thanks to Jackie and Nick for their hospitality. At long last, I think I understand why folks love the Lake District so much.

Don't even want to think about it just yet

I got an email from Dr. Closmann over the weekend telling me about a GTA symposium being held by the history department in August. I know he sent it to me, because I was the one who first approached him about the issue of not having any kind of training for the next round of GTAs. What's being offered sounds really good and I'm very happy that we're getting some instruction before we're thrown to the wolves. And the reception being held sounds lovely, too.

But I don't want to think about school right now.

All I want to do right now is finish up my research, visit the church my ancestor once ran in Odell, buy whatever goodies I can get into my suitcases without having exceeding my weight allowance, and get home to my sweetie. Once I accomplish that small list of tasks, I would like a nice week of tv time. I have A LOT of shows that need viewing. And, of course, squeeze in as much time with Steve as possible.

After that, I will quite possibly ponder Year 2 of grad school. I have some reading I'd like to do and I do need to get some writing done on my thesis before school even starts. I'm carrying a heavy load of classes this fall AND teaching, so God only knows how I'm going to find any time to actually write my thesis once that hellacious ball gets rolling.

So, yes, I will be thrilled about the symposium.

Just not right now.

Separation Side Effect

I have developed an unpleasant side effect to being apart from Steve for so long. I have become rude. I have become one of those people surgically attached to their cell phones.

I am not anti-cell phone. I am quite fond of my little "pinkberry" (so called because it's a Blackberry and it's pink - duh). But I find it very rude when people are gathered together and someone spends that time texting or otherwise fiddling with the mobile rather than being engaged with the people with them. That's why I try not to do it. Granted, I'm not perfect with it. When a bunch of us is gathered waiting for our 6 o'clock class to commence, I will take a call from Steve. But in my defense, it's usually because he's on his way home and we've not talked much all day. It's our chance to connect before I head off to class for three hours.

So I suppose it's not really a surprise that I've become a rude cell phone user now that I'm apart from Steve. It's the same mentality as the call before class. I take the time to connect with Steve then, and I use the phone to feel connected to him now. See, my phone has Windows Messenger on it, which is the instant message program Steve and I use to chat. Even though we aren't talking on it 24/7, we stay connected to it, because Steve has it on his phone, too. I find it a comfort to be in Messenger when Steve's in Messenger - even if we're not talking.

Which is what's made me so rude. My phone is with a fairly newish service. As such, coverage isn't fantastic and Messenger drops a lot. So I check the phone a lot to make sure it's still connected. Another problem is that when Steve does send me a message, the phone just vibrates. I don't always feel that, so I pull the phone out of my pocket a lot to make sure I've not missed anything. So between those two alone, I have my phone on me at all times and often in my hand. And, to top it off, if Steve does contact me, I answer him.

Like this past weekend. I was up in the Lakes with Jackie and Nick. Tina, John, and Kiara came over and we had dinner together and watched the telly. I sat the entire time with the phone either in my hand or next to me. And when Steve did message me, I answered right away. Now, often I'd share what Steve was saying with everyone and I never checked messages in the middle of talking to anyone. But still, it was a bit rude.

So, my apologies to everyone who has had to share me with my cell phone lately. Please understand that it's not because I can't stand being away from the Internet. It's because I can't stand being away from Steve. Fear not. This rudeness will disappear in just over two weeks.

Treasure trove

One lesson this trip to England has taught me is that just because a document or book sounds promising does not mean it will hold any value to your research. More often then not, the book or document I am chasing winds up a dead end. Every time I go to the library or records office, I am armed with a long list of items to investigate. When that list is exhausted, I consider myself really lucky if a third of the items prove useful.

On days where I'm not that lucky, I often find myself copying down information "just in case." For instance, I wrote down information from the Earl of Derby's rent receipt books for 1839, 1840, and 1841 "just in case." But, to be honest, I don't see needing to know that Paul Catterall failed to pay his annual chapel pew rental of four pounds in 1839 for my thesis. In reality, the "just in case" is really a so-it-looks-like-I-got-something-accomplished-today maneuver. There's nothing worse than returning from a day of research with only one or two pages of notes.

In light of this trend, I was superpsyched with the amount of usable material I discovered today. Dozens of pages of information that actually will come in handy with my thesis! It was crazy! It was exciting! It came out of . . . a phone book? Okay, not really a phone book. But close. I found a collection of directories from Preston in the nineteenth century. In addition to lists of all the businesses in the town, the directories provided a variety of data, such as the names of the gentry, church information, postal information (including prices), public buildings, and population figures. The collection was an unexpected treasure trove of information. I even found Steve's great-great-great grandfather's listing for his wheelwright shop! I selected directories for three different years spread across the century: 1818 (the earliest one available), 1841, and 1889. This way, I can see the changes in the businesses over the years. In particular, cotton manufacturing and taverns.

I also found a wealth of information about pollution and the River Ribble, including one of four volumes from a commission established by Queen Victoria in 1887 to investigate how to curb pollution in both the Ribble and Mersey rivers. Now this doesn't have anything to do with my thesis, but I've been keeping my eyes open for Ribble info in case it might prove useful for the research paper I'm sure I'm going to have to write for my environmental history class in the fall. So I was really excited to come across this gem - although making copies of the pages I found interesting is going to cost quite a bit. And result in me hogging the copier for ages, to boot! Muwahahahahaha! Sorry. I just feel the evil urge to get even with a certain copy machine hog I encountered today. But that's a different story. I didn't make the copies today, because I want to see if the volume is available somewhere else first. And I'd also like to get my hands on the other three. So I have some computer investigation to commence shortly.

So today was easily the best day of document hunting I've had yet. Here's hoping the remaining two weeks or so of actual research prove nearly as good.

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Addendum: I just began researching that River Ribble source. Talk about small worlds. The University of Florida has the collection! Of course, I need to suss out where and how to go about being able to see it. And if it's even going to help with whatever Dr. Closmann assigns. But it's in Gainesville - 45 minutes from my house! :-D

Cultural differences

When I travel abroad, I make every effort not to fall into the it's-wrong-because-that's-not-how-we-do-it mindset. I know a lot of my fellow Americans do fall into that trap, and that's one reason we have such a miserable reputation. So I try to appreciate the differences - even if they baffle and/or annoy the hell out of it.

One of the latter is the issue of personal space. In general, Americans prefer a larger area of personal space than Europeans. In Europe, especially on the continent, the personal zone is very small. I have no idea where this cultural difference originates. Is it because we come from such a big country? Or is it something else?

Whatever the reason, the result is if you're in Europe you end up with people standing or walking really close together and, here's the rub, close to you. This is a problem for me, because I like a big circle of personal space. And I like strangers to stay well out of it. Having it violated tests me to my last nerve. Last year, we were in a tiny shop in Edinburgh when some tourists from eastern Europe came into the store. The women shoved in and, despite there being enough space, hovered literally about three inches from me. I withstood it for about fifteen seconds before I was out the door. If Steve and I are walking down a European street, chances are someone is walking right on our heels. Needless to say, it's not long before I grab Steve and pull him off to the side so the people pass.

Lately, I've encountered a variation on the personal-space theme. When I ride the bus home in the afternoons, it's crowded. So more often than not, someone sits next to me. No big deal. It's the way it is on public transport. Back home, on a bus or on a subway, when seats open up, people sitting next to strangers move to them. We spread back out as soon as we are able. I've noticed that here, even when half the seats are empty, the people stay put until they reach their stops. They, like their fellow EUers on the continent, apparently have very tiny zones of personal space.

You know, I wonder if that's why the crowds at Disney get so packed sometimes. At least half of the visitors are from Europe. To them, being in a cluster is normal. To me, alas, it's just annoying. I guess this is one cultural divide I will simply be unable to cross.

Taking a stroll

We've had some glorious weather here lately. And I try to take advantage of it by walking as much as I can. So Friday, after I finished at the library, I decided to walk home from the city centre. I took pictures as I walked and have posted them on Facebook. You can see them here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2039236&id=29803339&l=e89ed51b18

When I post photos on my Ashton Land website, I take time to research the history of featured buildings and locales. I didn't do that with these photos and it feels . . . wrong. It's like I'm failing viewers by not providing the who, what, where, when, why, and how.

The photos I posted are not all the photos I took, though. I have some shots of churches and pubs, too. But I'm saving those up and will publish individual albums of them later. But I want to share a story about St. Wilfrid's.

St. Wilfrid's was an ancient church in Preston that was eventually torn down. It was rebuilt in a new location in the 19th century. I had read about it in a blurb somewhere, but had no idea where it was located. As I strolled down Winckley Street on my way to Avenham Park on Friday, I noticed a sign indicating St. Wilfrid's was in the same direction. Shortly thereafter I passed by a wrought iron gate and just happened to notice a sign mentioning that the church was open. I stopped in my tracks, took a step backward, and peered through the gate. Was this St. Wilfrid's?

It didn't even look like a church. The gate opened onto an alleyway that could comfortably fit one car. I felt hemmed in by the tall buildings on all sides. A multi-story shop building loomed on the left. A sign on it gave the hours for St. Wilfrid's Roman Catholic Church, a parish of the Society of Jesus. Wow. St. Wilfrid's is a Jesuit church. I had no idea! I stepped through the gate and looked at the building to my right. Sure enough, it was a small church. Over the years, it was surrounded by other buildings, leaving it nearly hidden.

I snapped a couple of photos and looked longingly at the wooden doors before me. I wanted to go inside. But I ended up chickening out. Although a sign said the church was open to anyone until 5 that day, I just felt wrong wanting to go inside just out of curiosity. Next time, I'll find the courage. But today, I had a long walk before me and no desire to disrupt the sanctity of the church. I plan to do a tour of Preston churches before I head home. St. Wilfrid's has been added to the list.

The walk home was long (it took me 65 minutes at a pretty steady clip), but pleasant. Many people were enjoying the beautiful day in the park. My route took me into Avenham Park and along its main field toward the River Ribble. I then walked along the river through Avenham and Miller parks. Then I crossed the old pedestrian bridge into Middleforth Green and up the hill toward home. The route is somewhere around three miles, I think. Steve can say better than I.

Some observations from my walk:

A couple in their 30s were having a picnic on the riverbank. A blanket was laid out next to a picnic basket. They were returning to their spot from a little concession stand nearby. The man carried two cups and the woman carried . . . a tea kettle. Only the English would have a tea kettle on a picnic!

Once out of the park, I walked through an attractive neighborhood nestled against the riverbank. One cottage was named Ferry House. Before the bridge was built in the late 18th or early 19th century, a ferry used to shuttle people across the Ribble to Preston. I wonder if the ferry used to cross near here and the cottage was somehow attached to it. The cottage next door is called the Boat House, so who knows, really?

I miss a/c the most after I've done a long walk like this, because the last 1/8 mile or so is uphill . . . in the sun.

I have three weeks and three days until I fly home. I'm anxious to get home to Steve, but no longer worried that I won't get enough research done. With a welcome assist from Dr. Furdell, I have narrowed the focus of my thesis and have a pretty clear idea of what else I need to accumulate.

Famous last words, I'm sure. I imagine I'll think of something else I need when I actually start writing. I'll just have to cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I'm relieved that the end of this trip is fast approaching and I'm actually going to be ready for it.

Preston

A couple of weeks ago, Kiara, our 12-year-old niece, asked me why I'm writing about Preston. To her, Preston is boring. Her mum, Steve's sister Tina, explained that it may be boring to Kiara, because she lives here, but others who don't may not agree. She used Disney as an example, saying that Kiara would be super excited about going there, but where I've been so many times, it wouldn't be as exciting for me. Although Tina's reply was a good one, I admit Kiara's question stuck with me, because she's got a definite point.

I ride the bus a lot, as folks here know. I drive at home, but I'm not about to attempt the whole left-side-of-the-road thing. One day . . . just not now. Although I must admit that I'm getting used to the road reversal to the point that when I think about driving at home, it seems odd. Anyway, I'm traveling further afield on the bus now, and I'm seeing many sides to Preston. The result: Preston is not all that great.

It has some beautiful areas with gorgeous houses, like Fulwood. And some beautiful parks. But it also has some downright scummy areas with rough-looking inhabitants. And even the nicer areas are marred by trash. I was walking along the Docklands a few days ago. A blue-green algae bloom made the water the color of Biscayne Bay - a rather lovely shade of turquoise. It was sunny and warm, but with a cool breeze, and I was just enjoying being out. Then I noticed all the garbage floating in the water - cups, cans, bottles, bags. It was disgusting. It reminded me of the big cities back home.

Traffic is miserable. Vehicular traffic downtown is thick and noisy, with people cutting others off. Pedestrian traffic on the high street is just as bad. And, no matter what the European news media may say, Americans do not have a monopoly on stupidity and self-centeredness. Don't believe me? Just walk down the sidewalk in Preston. You won't get one block before you encounter stupidity, rudeness, or both.

Modern-day Preston is a city (officially as of a few years ago)and it bears all the marks thereof - good and bad. Obviously, what makes it remarkable to me is its history. But on the surface, Preston's history is not that big of a deal. Like most English towns, it has some old churches and houses. It's a medieval town, but none of its medieval structures remain. No wall surrounds the town and dredging has changed the lay of the river. So it doesn't look historic.

Obviously, Preston fascinates me because it's Steve's home town. Through him, I am connected to it. Just as my ancestry gives me a connection to colonial America, Steve's pedigree connects me here. And in tracing his family tree and exploring Preston's history, I have discovered the diamond under all the industrial coal dust. Famous, and not-so-famous, points of history have touched Preston. It has experienced many firsts and been the site of battles, riots, and royal visits.

If it weren't for Steve, I would have never discovered the Preston behind the grimy city facade. (Okay, if it weren't for Steve, I probably wouldn't even know Preston existed, but that's not the point.) I would have taken one look at it, probably grimaced, and moved on. Instead, I dug beneath the surface and discovered a treasure trove of history just waiting to be appreciated. And I think that's a lesson we could all stand to learn.

Not every city or town wears its history on its sleeve. You can't have a Buckingham Palace, Notre Dame, or St. Paul's Cathedral in every locale. But if you're willing to peer a little closer, you just may find something worth looking for.

Rough on the eyes

After several productive hours in the Records Office today, I've learned one thing: Newsprint in the 19th century was tiny! I don't know if Prestonians in the 1800s had bionic eyesight or what, but reading the three days' worth of newpapers I read this morning just about did my eyes in. But it was worth it, I guess, because I did get some information that may be useful.

I also found a map from 1835 today that spoke of recommendend changes to the River Ribble. The Ribble was eventually dredged, which changed its course. While my thesis is a social history and, thus, unconcerned with environmental issues, I am taking an environmental history course in the fall. So I thought I'd do some work in that field, as well, in anticipation of a research paper for the class. While the map, itself, is interesting, the main thing I discovered is the cost of getting copies is outrageous!!! The map was too big to copy, so it would have to be scanned. It's actually the largest type of paper available. Which meant it would cost me 19 pounds for a black and white image. 19! Luckily, the lady helping me said I had a much nicer option. For 5 pounds, I can get a photography license that allows me to take as many photos of documents that I want (assuming said photographs are within copyright terms). It's 5 quid a day, but if I'm organized, I should be able to get copies of many documents. Since it's 50p a copy for normal-sized documents and a blooming arm and a leg for larger ones that need scanning, this is clearly the cheaper option. And with the dollar falling to the pound, cheaper is necessary.

So tomorrow I'm back with camera in hand ready to pounce. I not only have the map waiting for me, but a couple of boxes of documents from the estate of Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby - a powerful and influential nobleman of 19th-century Preston. Look out documents, it's time for your close-ups.