Gardens –Part 1 – The soul and heart of place, gardens nurture earth’s creatures on many levels of awareness.

Approaching the house through the gardens at Giverney

In Paris, the first garden Jon and I encountered was a small internal garden in the open-air atrium of our apartment building. We had the experience, after entering through the blue-painted door sandwiched between a café and a shop, of seemingly going into the heart of this 300-year-old building. We went up one flight of stairs and followed the banister that ran by open French windows to the next flight. The window was open to the atrium with the potted plants and stepped plantings so carefully placed. Our apartment, up another flight, had a tall French-casement window that allowed me to air the apartment and look down to the garden. The atrium also allowed conversations to gather in the garden space and bounce around so that I needed to be careful and be certain my voice was soft when I sat by the window.

On our first excursion to the busy intersection of Rue de Rivoli and Blvd. de Sebastopol, we discovered the gated garden around the tower dedicated to St. Jacques. It was typical of the various small gardens we happened upon around the churches and in corners of comfort along Blvd. Saint-Germain  and other streets. The fence held the bushes and trees safely in place and these surrounded paved walkways around the monument and led through the various gates. Benches were placed so as to let the shade pillow shoulders and comfort those who gathered there. This was very much an adult meeting space. The children in strollers were hurried through, and there were not many young people. With all the grandparents watching, snogging was not as rampant as in other areas. As we walked, feeling ungrounded and awed by all that was around us, these little gardens were blessings to our “senior” joints.

One image of the Water Lilies at Giverney

Our time in Paris was short, and there was so much more to explore than we were able to during our stay, but we exerted ourselves to visit Giverney via the Fat-Tire bike tour. Oh! What a garden!

My love for Monet and other Impressionist painters began when I was young. I loved to sit in front of the Water Lilies at the Cleveland Museum of Art. It became a part of me. I felt I breathed blue and purple when I took my  time with the painting. The chance to see the gardens of inspiration was a golden light for our trip.

We began at Gare St-Lazare, the very train station Monet used for his exciting painting of smoke and steam.  On our morning visit, we did not have the same colors and bustle of late 1870s, but we stood on the platforms looking at the trains and knew we were part of the stream of existence, part of the bustle of technology and modernity that had attracted Monet and continues to demand expression by artists today. Our tour guide, Peter, had a blue book under his arm that he referenced and shared during our train ride to Vernon. He was obviously in love with his subject and the sharing excursion that we were undertaking.

The Old Mill on a remnant of a bridge in Vernon

The day was cloudy, but we had been promised a bike tour rain-or-shine. The clouds were being temperamental.  We would be drenched in a steady rain, and then the sun would break out in a blue sky. We collected our bikes from garages in a courtyard that was not far from one of the old churches that Monet had painted. We biked in the wobbly shadows of the half-timbered houses that seemed to lean into the road as our guide led us to a market. At the market stop, the booths were set up in the center of a busy area that was lined with shops and bakeries. The booths were filled with fresh produce, and one shop had grilled chicken. We found fruit and cider; Jon found a lovely bakery and grabbed the last brie-stuffed baguette. With lunch stowed away in our backpacks, we were ready to continue to our picnic spot. The sky, blessing us with sunshine, gave us a chance to cross the Seine – it seemed a fairly calm river in Normandy – and find the park by the Old Mill and the Tourelles Castle.

Walking past Hotel Baudy toward the gardens.

After lunch and more stories about Monet  from Peter, we continued through a few more streets to a bike path in a park. The park road wound behind the houses, and the atmosphere changed. Even the weeds seemed to preen and boast of their nearness to Giverney, and the sun kept visiting us. I could hear the birds, but they stayed covered. We biked on Rue Claude Monet into the site, past the Hotel Baudy, and stored our bikes by a field.

Nothing can actually describe the garden. The visual impact would necessitate too many words. One breathes in color, light, and the essence of nature’s grand beauties assembled through each small bloom. The plants here do not have the pompous display of the crowned colors of a bird of paradise that seems to want to stand alone.  The blooms seem to be grown to enjoy each other.  Entering the garden one notes the points of color that tempt one to release the paint from the brush tip. 

Poppies next to the church by Monet's grave site

After touring the gardens and the house, we stopped by the church where Monet is buried with other family members. Everything was white: the marble cross, the church stones. The most touching memorial, for me, was the spray of poppies growing between the church wall and the gravel. We retraced our way back to Vernon. Returning to the train station. Again, it began to rain.

The gardens prepared me for the visit the following day to Musee de L’Orangerie only by intensifying the impact of the rooms of Water Lilies. Every moment of love and wonder I had felt since I was twelve, each moment of visual joy experienced at Giverney, every ounce of empathy I had shared as an artist washed over me when I entered the first room wreathed in four versions of Water Lilies. I cried.

All the pictures were taken by myself and my husband.

Romance, yes, it is Paris

The Eiffel Tower lit with a charming display of lights
as we floated by on Le Calife. Jon is watching from our
dinner seats on the boat.

Romance.  

Think “evening in Paris”  and music starts to play from some magical element, the evening shadows soften for intimacy, and thoughts of tall flutes of champagne are so tangible as to chill the tongue.

Jon and I had the ultimate romantic setting for our 40^th wedding anniversary. We had an apartment in Paris in Le Marais neighborhood, unstructured time around a scheduled tour of Giverney, reservations for an evening dinner cruise, and on our Anniversary evening, music and dinner at Petit Journal Saint Michel. The Hot Antics Jazz Band was performing in the intimate space. This small supper club had a charming ambiance that spoke of secrets and music to kept your heart beating. The tables around the band where we were seated were well lit in an arched space that reached back into the soft light of a darkly carpeted collection of booths and tables that filled with patrons who enjoyed the music over cocktails or wine.

Paris is so different at night.
This is a view of the Sarah Bernhardt Cafe.

The jazz was charming: American tunes with a French accent.  We enjoyed a lovely Beaujolais with our dinner.  The venue was mellow, a bit of a contrast from our usual haunt at the Barking Spider with Hot Jazz 7. There, my most elegant drink is an ale from Great Lakes Brewery.  Since Jon is usually playing, I it would be a stretch to say the  situation is romantic, but music always brings a good time.

We came out into the dark evening of streetlights. The club is directly across from the Jardin du Luxembourg, so we walked a short way until Jon Jr, who had flown from Manchester to join us, grabbed a cab. It was a blessing for the old legs that had walked up Sainte Michel to the club, but we sent the poor cab driver into the heart of the music festival. He came to the corner at Rue Saint Denis and Rue des Lombardes and literally drove into a wall of people. We assured him it was fine to let us out in the midst of it, and he made it to Blvd de Sebastopol only a few seconds before us. He was happy to turn to a more sane setting, and we returned to the champagne in our apartment for a toast. Then, Jr headed out for the nightlife.

A few days after returning to Cleveland Hts, I asked Jon what he found most romantic on our trip. I got "that look" that implied "I am going to avoid any argument" when he threw the question back to me. After 40 years of marriage, we are not always on the same page. No, I will confess, we do not think alike. However, after some prodding we agreed that the evening walk along the Seine on our first night in Paris and our dinner cruise the following night were probably more romantic than even our anniversary dinner. Whereas Jon acquiesced that Giverney and Bath were romantic settings, he was, by that point of the trip, having problems with his asthma and his knee. Truly the first few days of magic, when we were slowly opening our eyes to the wonder of the corner of the city we had embraced, were comfortable your-hand-feels-good-in-mine times. We had planned the trip at our own pace, so it was fortunate that we could stop and change our itinerary as needed. Through the trip, we only had to cancel one dinner reservation because of the limitations of senior bodies on evening strolls.

This is a view of the side of Le Calife. You can almost
see Jon through the window.

We both agreed the evening dinner cruise on the Seine was marvelously romantic, though our long-married behavior did not send off as much steam as the young couple sitting next to us. We were seated in the upper, smaller part of the boat between a four-some, about our age, and a young couple, late 20s-early 30s. There were probably 50 patrons on our level. The lower level had a bar and a large party.

The weather promised rain, so the plastic windows were zippered down. I had not known that Paris was so frequently rainy, but the contrast to the bouts of rain was brilliant sun, usually in the afternoon.  For tonight, the world was gray, and the other boats were only filled as much as they could accommodate the patrons in covered space. We were surprised to see others taking pictures of our small boat, but as I looked out the window at the lanterns that lined the sides, remembered the shape and dark green and gold paint, it was quite obvious that Le Calife was the charmer, sweet and romantic. The reviews had promised excellent food, and it lived up to the reviews.  The setting, wine, food, and of course my husband's company earned a gold star rating.

Our first evening in Paris, and we walked
the old city to familiarize ourselves with
the neighborhood.

The night before the cruise, we had found the boat docked in the quay. How can one sit still on the first night in Paris? We were enchanted to find the walk from our apartment to the Seine so short, and since it was Sunday evening, it was calm. There were not too many people on the sidewalks, and traffic was not heavy. A lovely, whispering dusk. People lined the steps and sat on the banks. We crossed the bridge and walked along the quays. Here we were in the old city, the heart of Paris. Across the river, I had a clear view of the Conciergerie and other grand buildings pinioned next to each other. The elegance of the Louvre differentiated itself, and we took one of the staircases down to the river. I didn't quite know what to think of the small boats that were docked, quietly draped on the river’s side.  It was a different world from American rivers where businesses and boats are so obviously linked to industry in dusty, sooty corners of towns and cities. Then we saw our charming boat with the dancing calife on the prow, we laughed, charmed in anticipation of our cruise. We strolled down further and found stairs up and crossed on Pont du Carrousel into the Louvre’s courtyard. I was interested in Pont de Arts that was covered with locks. There were all types of key locks linked to the chain-link railing. They were accompanied by ribbons and other fluttering color. I was charmed by this public art, but is seemed incongruous next to the historic buildings.

Our romantic stroll wound through streets until sun had set and the city was lit. We found ourselves at Saint Michel and turned to cross the river, again. Notre Dame was lit, and the city was magical. We found our street which was an every-evening-party street, but we were jet lagged. Our small apartment had tall windows that opened onto an interior courtyard. As noisy as all of the night-spots were, inside was quiet. We were happy to let in some of the warm evening air and relax.

We were in Paris. The very stairs, uneven 300-year old steps, were romantic.

Beds - Part 2: Beauty and Simplicity

This elegant cradle (above) in the Louvre does not have the ornamentation of a cradle of  le Roi de Rome, but I forgot to note the historic significance of this bed. The veneer presents sea images, and there is a dolphin at the base. The organic form extends the metaphor of a child as hope and future.

This elegant, royal promise of greatness is in direct contrast to the bed in Marie Antoinette's cell (below). The recreation of her cell, complete with mannequins presenting the doomed queen and her watchful guard are simple and shabby. The only comfort left is prayer.

The inner courtyard was designated as the women's walk, a place where the female prisoners could leave their cells and get air and exercise. They would be escaping, momentarily, the filthy straw bedding and fetid air that helped breed disease and despair. This corner (above) presents the teethed ledge of blades that circled the courtyard and is directly above the gated area reserved for Marie Antoinette. She would have looked out on the courtyard (below) at the women who shared her fate.

Beds - Part 2: Beauty and Simplicity 

           also The wonder of Sainte Chapelle

Beds of the rich and famous are always of interest. In the Louvre, the rooms of Napoleon III presented a grand richness that was overwhelming. As we progressed through the apartment, it seemed there was a challenge to build a bigger and grander chandelier with each room. It was the type of elaborate decoration that numbs the senses. The baby cradle, though elegant and draped in satin, presented a simplicity and elegance. It was presented as a work of art, and the woodwork and inlay present sophistication and artistry.  Of course, we were frequently reminded that many of the occupants of this former palace were despised.

The prison, La Conciergerie, and Marie Antoinette's cell

At La Conciergerie the stark plainness of the displays added to the somber, almost reverent, tone of the heritage site. This is a site of memories, and the sudden openness of the sub-street-level passageway presents the visitor with the uplifting arches of the ceiling, the sturdy pillars, like shafts of wheat, the glow from lights that implies a blessing. But this is the entrance to a prison, a site that has long held people who knew they were waiting for death to greet them, whether it was masked by the plague after a long wait in dank, fecal strewn straw or death in  the guise of a guard wearing a Phyrgian cap to escort the doomed to la guillotine. The lighting was gentle, but the mood of the chambers was not golden.

Through the hall and up a short stair, the guardroom is to the right. When we passed through a group of primary children were clustered about a table with a small rendition of La Conciergerie's floor plan. The children were pointing, and the teacher spoke quickly before covering the model and shooing the children to the next position. It was obviously the wooden model for a Montessori lesson, and I so wanted to lift the tarp to examine the plan which seemed to include the Palace de Justice and the chapel, Sainte Chapelle that were part of the complex. Instead, I turned to the pewter tinged light of the guardroom. It was armor and weapons and forbidding. True, it would have been a raucous hold of cards and irreverent jokes, camaraderie and long stories, but I was not interested in tarrying.

The stairs and the hallways are winding and surprisingly short. The path is confusing because the series of compartments and clusters of cells or rooms are meant to be separated. The paupers or those without resources to pay for their rooms would have been at a lower level. Displays of busts and educational cartoons were strategically placed. The building had seen violence and encountered upheaval and unrest of generations. As we had waited in line, I took a picture of the pock marked sandstone that seemed to be bullet marks from an unknown century. Take your pick. Guns have been fired down Boulevard do Stepha... since they were invented.

We came into a courtyard labeled the woman's walk. During the reign of terror, the women prisoners would be allowed to walk and take the air, away from the stuffy, claustrophobic cells. There was a little garden in the center that I doubt was part of the amenities the prisoners enjoyed. A basin with a spigot, like a watering trough, was on one wall. Looking up, pointed blades bristled from the walls just below the 2nd floor windows - old-fashioned barbed wire. I could imagine them coated by the blood of some desperate soul who tried to escape, but I could not imagine the desperation any more than I could image the herculean attempt to maintain a sense of one's personhood in such a place. Marie Antoinette's walk was a corner, triangular in shape, that was barred from the rest of the courtyard.

We went under and arch, through a doorway, up a stair to the room where Marie Antoinette had been held. Mannequins were dressed to represent the queen and a soldier. The queen was draped in black and seated before a table; a soldier stood behind a chest-high screen. Maybe the queen had some privacy if the soldier sat. Remnants of fleur-de-lis wall paper, dark blue and gold, hung from the wall against which the table, set like an altar, and the headboard of her bed were placed. The bed was roughly made, but it was a bed with a mattress and had a pillow and coverlet. This was luxurious in comparison to the other cells displayed. The warm yellow lighting that gave the limestone a friendly blush did not alleviate the feeling of doom. One room had a pallet, one room was only covered in straw. Even though Paris rain can feel as though the sky is dumping buckets,  being in the knife-fringed courtyard would be preferable to the small room that might be shared by numerous people, some were simply left in their cells to die. These rooms held uncomfortable beds.

Sainte Chapelle: breathtaking stories in the Palace of Justice complex

Somber and thoughtful on the overcast morning, I was anxious to reach Sainte Chapelle. A friend had described it, with that enthusiastic tone of someone who liked to recall a vision, as walking into a stained-glass window. To reach the chapel we exited La Conciergerie and passed the glossy black, gold tipped gate of the Palace de Justice. Business suits were moving with purpose through the gates and the courtyard. A special security check was required because of our proximity to the very active civil building. Exiting security we were more than a little lost in-the-middle. The courtyard, cobbled with the uneven pavement of this side of the ocean, rose five stories and presented nondescript surface. Signage was limited. When in doubt, follow someone who is walking with purposeful stride. We went through a passage and noted signs.

The small doorway, by Paris standards, for this chapel was two narrow arches. The carvings were not memorials to kings or saints but panels of story. Everything about Sainte Chapelle is about telling a story. Stepping into the church, my eyes needed to adjust to the darkness. I was standing in the lower chapel reserved for the common people. Everything (walls, ceiling, pillars) is painted with royal colors and coated with the ubiquitous gold fleur-de-lis. Sainte Chapelle was built by Louis IX, the only French king to be made a saint.

 We were standing in the lower chapel reserved for the common people. As lovely as it was, the stained glass windows were small and simple. Appropriate for common people who would still glory in the gold paint and the paintings, but this was not the glorious reliquary to house Christ's crown of thorns. This was not the celebration of kingship. What bed can any king lie in peaceably? All the concerns of ruling, of being the champion and servant of the people, of being in a position that needs to be affirmed even while claiming divine right will make the highest featherbed uncomfortable.

We walked up the curving stair to colors that rose on every side. The little pieces of glass, a mosaic of story, embraced the space. I was inside laughter, song, poetry, parable, and all wonder. There truly is no way to describe the way these windows presented light, broken into narrative. In spite of being encased in windows, the chapel was dark. The marvelous, dominant blue was warm, and the reds pure, but lights were needed for the altar. The services, warmed by the many people and the necessary candles, would have been quite warm. Incense would have tried to purify the air, and all that soot and smoke would have darkened the light. The king and the priests both needed the stories to be told. On my right, an opening panel presents Saint Helen discovering the true cross. I read the images that relate the stories of the relics. King Louis, later Saint Louis, clearly presents the connection, through story, of his link to the ancient Kings of Jerusalem. We saw the connection continued, validation of the divine right of kingship affirmed in the statues that coated Notre Dame. The story needed to be told in multiple ways to the people.

In the grand upper chapel, angels are in every corner, not Baroque cherubs, but gowned, draped youths with short curls presenting images of helpful, youthful squires instead of chubby-cheeked babies. They are strong, supportive like the apostles that stand as pillars around the chapel.

The upper chapel that Jon and I viewed was in its restored condition. Its history had been as rocky as the reign of France's kings. The whole complex of the Conciergerie, like the buildings of the Louvre, had undergone numerous stages of building, destruction, reorganization and reuse, and renewal. This was a pattern we recognized as we marveled at everything we experienced. 

We walked on very old roads but, everything was new to us.

Beds – Part 1: Paris, a low ceiling

Looking down the stairs from the apartment's landing. The stairs showed signs of years of wear. They were heavily varnished and clean and fascinating if one stopped to think of what stories they would tell. Below, I am standing on the corner of Rue des Lombards and Boulevard de Sebastopol. Everything, even the cobblestones, spoke of history.

The initial planning of a trip centers on two main concerns: the actual movement from place to place and the acquisition of places to sleep before, after, or during the traveling. Food and other amenities can be assessed and gathered after those main issues are secured. During our excursion through France and the UK, Jon and I slept in four very different beds; we also saw beds that were distinctive for who slept in them. Not all of the sleeping facilities deserved the hoopla Shakespeare’s “second-best bed” willed to his wife had earned, but each bed we encountered was important for the comfort it gave.

When Jon Jr. acquired his Manchester apartment, he assured us of a separate bedroom for when we were to visit. He told his sisters and friends that he had a bed for guests, but they had to find their own way across the Atlantic. Cousin Greg had already enjoyed Jr’s hospitality, and we knew the second part of our trip would be with Jr. We did not have to worry about accommodations there, but we had to secure a room for the stay in Paris and then decide how many other places we would stop overnight along the way to Manchester. Jon and I considered other touring possibilities in France, but the more we planned our Paris activities and what we wanted to experience, the clearer it became that a central place in Paris for the week would be best for our plans. It would allow us to move at our own pace.

Our daughter Marian had enjoyed a bike tour in Dordogne few years before and had taken an apartment for a few days in Le Marais neighborhood in Paris. She was so positive about the location, that we selected an apartment for the week which was conveniently located for both walking and the Metro. It did have one concern that the advertisement was very clear about, there was only 4.5 feet of clearance in the sleeping area. In other words, don’t plan on standing next to the bed, and be very careful about sitting up in bed. The price, however, was right. The pictures were positive, and it provided a sleeper-sofa for two nights Jr would join us.

We arrived in Paris on Sunday morning and had specific directions for the key pick-up. Jet-lagged and discombobulated, we secured our keys from a lock-box with various codes and then turned to walk the few blocks to our apartment. It was 9-ish on Sunday morning and the evidence of extensive partying was everywhere. The brasseries were closed, but the trashcans in front were overflowing with bottles and other fragrant items. The streets were practically deserted. We found Rue des Lombards after getting turned around at Les Halles, literally 500 feet away, and located the blue door of our building. It was slightly set into the building and there were more codes to enter the hall, another code for the glass door, and two flights of curving stairs to go up. We had trouble with the lock, but a charming man with an empty shopping bag over his arm helped us. We had to remember, he told us after correcting my French, that the building was over 300 years old. Merci! We were in.

The apartment was very small, but quite sufficient for two tired travelers. Up the stairs to the loft we received exactly the height of the ceiling we were promised. We had to laugh. The bed (I should say mattress) was quite comfortable but was not in a bed frame. That would have taken up too much room. Our 300-year old ceiling had thick irregular beams painted a pristine white. It was not time to sleep, not yet. We had to be sensible and tour the city before we had the chance to settle into the bed.

Stonehenge - a pivotal point in our tour

Much of Stonehenge is a mystery, and we are drawn to the sight by the impressive ability of a people to erect such a monument without the machines and resources we have in our modern era. Taken at dusk 24 June 2013.

The crows flew in, interrupting the stillness of this treeless plain. They were neither ominous nor sinister, but alive.  The only natural movements around the site, aside from the birds and the tourists,  were in the wind and the grass.  They landed atop the larger stones that are about 25 feet in height.

Now that I am back home, time is going to pass even more quickly because the routines and chores of life are layered under what I want to process and write about from the trip. I cannot, yet, think sequentially. The images flood in when I pick up the gifts and souvenirs we bought, and the experience comes back. This is the first of my tour reflections, and I am starting in the middle.

We had planned to tour Stonehenge and Avebury from Bath, but booking availability and time constraints controlled our choices. Jon found a wonderful tour, Scarper Tours, that left Bath in the afternoon. Our only destination was Stonehenge which allowed us more time in Bath and a slower touring pace. There was no reason for us to rush through to another activity since we were on our own time to absorb and enjoy our experiences.

Time had its effect on us. Stonehenge was, generally, in the middle of our touring since Bath was the transition city between Paris and Manchester, our two anchors. This ancient circle of stones let us turn from the rush of the various museums and travel concerns to being grounded by the UK sites and visiting with Jon Jr. So, like the roads that circled our old cities and pivoted out like spokes on a wheel, I will begin my reflections with Stonehenge. We toured the site on June 24th.

We had been touring the city of Bath on foot and met with the tour group at a fountain in front of the Bath Hotel. There was a lovely ice cream shop on the corner and a kiosk on the square with artisan glass trinkets and jewelry items. Across the busy road, the land dropped to a private park and the River Avon. If we were to cross the bridge and go through the right-of-way, we would come to the steps that led to Sydney Buildings, the street our Bed and Breakfast was on. The sun was out (It had drizzled of-and-on during the morning.), and everything was lush. The Georgian buildings brightened, a glow on their creamy surface.

The tour bus had a purple color with brightly patterned interior, a 70s feel. As we travelled, the hills rolled up on the left, with sheep by the road, clusters of buildings in the distance, and hills appearing beyond that. Everything changed and returned with the winding road, the round-a-bouts, and the hills we rode up-and-down. Our attention was called to one of the Wiltshire White Horses that was quite clear on one of the distant hills. And we passed through a small town that still had a prison room on the main road.

Both Jon and I had heard the disappointment from various friends about the Stonehenge site. We were prepared for viewing them from a distance because of the space being cordoned off. We were prepared that the stones might not be as large as we might expect.

The day had clouded over and was darker than it should be on an early evening so close to midsummer. There were glowing patches in the sky where the cloud cover was not as dense, but the day had gone decidedly gray. We saw the stones in their stark solitude on the plain that seemed quite flat. As we approached, we say the evenly shaped mounds like upturned bowls at irregular places around the site.

No, the stones did not tower to the height of Notre Dame's ceiling, but the size was not inconsequential and the starkness of their positioning, not huddling or even seeming to converse with each other, evoked a silence. I was glad that we were only a hundred or so people at the site, and we had it to ourselves. We could stand with the wind wrapping around us as a murder of crows swooped down to coat one of the cross beams. The texture of these weathered megaliths with their gouged sides and the sense of having been aged by more than time and wind drew me in. No, I did not need to be any closer. To touch the stones would have been a different experience, but this was sufficient.

Leaving the site, I noticed the surrounding hills with more of the burial mounds, larger but of the same shape as the smaller ones within the cordoned area. I noted the groove that the audio tour referenced as the parade walk, and I looked at the people scattered around the path and through the fields that were open. I walked back to bus followed by blackbirds, the jackdaws were prevalent as was the strange black-and-white bird magpie that seems to be everywhere.

In spite of warnings from friends, we were not disappointed by our tour. The experience of Stonehenge is something to contemplate. Jon bought a glass paperweight with the image of the standing stones etched within the glass, suspended in space as the site itself seems to be suspended in reality and in time.

It was a pleasant drive back to Bath, and the sun came out. We listened to the peals of the bells from Bath Abby as we ate dinner.

Planning a trip, making it real

Planning a trip starts months before the actual morning of the drive to wherever the first take-off is. But for certain trips that have taken on a special meaning even before the first map-search is typed in, the planning and dreaming have been accumulating for years.

I cannot remember how old I was when I heard Ma Gibbs  say, “Only it seems to me that once in your life before you die you ought to see a country where they don’t talk in English and don’t even want to” (Wilder, Thornton, Our Town; I.192). The sentiment, the truth of the statement seemed so right to me. I remember accepting that statement with the same wholeness as I accepted being able to deliver a letter that has “the mind of God” in the address.

I have a box full of gathered maps and notes. It is time to order the wishes and promises and enjoy the reality of traveling.