by Teri Ong
I am typing this as I sit on a train heading to the North. We are riding today just for the fun of riding. Later we will catch a southbound train and head back into London so we can be with our friends at the Metropolitan Tabernacle this Sunday. We have used our four train days to see England coast to coast (Ravenglass to Sunderland) and border to coast (Carlisle to Penzance). We have had some rain and cool temperatures everyday for the first nine days of our trip, but the weather has only added to the atmospheric qualities of what we have seen and done.
Sitting at the bay window in the breakfast room at Hollins Hall, which is old-style elegant with evident patina, one can imagine Chuffy Chuffnell negotiating with an American to sell his precious but expensive Chuffnell Hall for a hotel. And indeed, the grounds are large enough for a golf course! Then again, looking at some of the expensive cars in the car park, one could imagine the motor car fever rampant at Toad Hall. This is especially true when sitting outside enjoying the wind in the willows.
Visiting the harbour towns along the west coast, we almost were persuaded that we might hear a conversation between Captains Wentworth, Harville, and Benwick as they longingly looked out to sea from the quay. Having a bowl of soup in the Long Boat Inn or enjoying the carvery at the Williams Arms made me think members of the Pickwick Club might be just in the next room in the comfortable chairs next to the hearth.
Passing through Haltwhistle made me think the Hanbury Estate must be nearby. Seeing the sign for Lothwithiel made me think there must be a mystical valley over the next ridge.
Traveling from south to north, I was struck by the stark contrasts between the living hedgerows of the south and the dark slate walls of the north. The white plastered walls of the south and the gray stone block houses of the north. The thickly thatched roofs of the south and the moss-crusted tile roofs of the north. Fishing villages and market towns of the south and the large industrial powerhouses of the north. But there are still roses in the hedge, if you look hard enough.
Tramping around in a little northern town, we saw some imposing stone walls that enclosed old, dark manor houses that might be worthy of the name Thornfield or Mistlethwaite. One could even imagine them enclosing a secret garden with an ancient gnarled tree.
One day the train ran for miles beside a beautiful river– sometimes deep and placid and sometimes bubbling with life. Several fishermen in their waders realized it was a river worthy of a complete angler or perhaps even of Dr. Watson on holiday. We were far enough north that my imagination ran to little Sir Gibbie making his pilgrimage up Daurside.
I am sure the day I saw the little engine that could, I also took a walk in the Hundred Acre Woods. Then I saw the farm where Shaun the Sheep lives. I know that because I recognized the farmer by his jacket and his rubber boots, and by the faithful sheep dog at his side.
When we went through many of the towns, we saw a lot of “the backs.” Almost all of them had little conservatories or green houses. The ones that didn’t usually had a garden at least. Some of the towns had property set aside for gardeners who don’t have their own land. They have little plots roped off and are full of little makeshift potting sheds and greenhouses. I wondered which one Bertie Wooster might be sleeping in, and I had this urge to push the beeper and arm the security system to protect the precious veg for Lady Tottington’s Giant Vegetable Competition.
I wrote most of this blog while sitting at a table on a grassy terrace in front of the old section of Hollins Hall. As I sat there overlooking the valley, I was not sure if I should expect Mr. Knightley to ride up for an afternoon visit or call for Jeeves to bring me another cup of tea.
TTFN! (Ta Ta For Now)
