Oxford: The People and the Methods

My wonderful classmates for the AP course were not as international as I had originally predicted.  In my American ignorance, I hadn’t realized how North American AP is.  IB is the more international direction – although we at NDP determined, a few years ago, that IB would not allow us to educate young woman in the particular direction that is our individual charism ….   There were 16 of us, including 2 Canadians, and those who taught further abroad (England, Berlin, Istanbul) were Americans teaching at American military-based schools or in comparable situations.  However, we were a marvelous mix of age and experience.  Although there were, of course, common readings, I came to realize, quickly, that for every work I had not read, there were works I knew better than many others.  (This is the kind of situation in which it is easy to feel yourself inferior when someone says, “The last time I read Virginia Woolf’s letters all the way through,” if you don’t perform an immediate reality check re: your own strengths.)

As I mentioned earlier, most of my colleagues have more hours/week scheduled for AP.  Many of their schools subscribe to the AP Equity Statement which stipulates that AP should be open to any student who is willing to put in the amount of work required.  I feel a bit guilty when I hear comments such as this:  “Students who score a 4 or 5 would have done so despite your teaching.”  I can’t help wanting to take a bit of credit for the eight 4s and eighteen 5s my 2011 students earned ….

Additional discovery:  the Oxford education operates on an intriguingly different pathway. I did not experience this in my Americanized AP class, whereas Al did in his course.  An Oxford (and, I am assuming, a Cambridge) education consists of courses in which one attends seminar classes on a particular topic.  However, each student also engages in a tutorial with the professor.  The professor provides a set of readings to the student.  Each week (or twice a week) the student writes an essay and meets one-on-one with the professor.  The meeting consists of a presentation/critique of the student’s essay and discussion of further direction.  There is incredible accountability, as well as an incredible relationship potential, in this model of education.  I now understand the source of the university model which dictates that a professor teach only 2-3 courses and maintains a large number of office hours (although I believe that the university tutorial model has devolved drastically in the US).  I also finally appreciate, 40 years after the fact, what my dear mentor Dr. John Hertz was trying to do when he asked me to skip the usual undergrad second-semester senior Chaucer course in favor of an independent study which involved a weekly meeting/discussion of medieval lit and which resulted in my thesis on water imagery in The Pearl.  My niece Carolyn is gearing up for a semester at Oxford which includes 3 tutorials; I think the experience will be an incredible turning point in her education.

Oxford: the academics

Begun July 15, 2011

Packed up to leave Worcester, but waiting for Al to finish, so sitting by the pond on this glorious Friday morning, with a predicted temp of 75 (highest yet) for this afternoon.  Time to reflect on my brief time as a student at Oxford. (Does seven days entitle me to consider myself, along with Jay Gatsby, “an Oggsford” woman?)

Full English breakfast in the high table in the Great Hall each morning:  eggs, sausage, mushrooms, bacon, beans, tomatoes (stuck to the first three), plus fruit, toast, coffee and tea.  The Great Hall, though not quite as extravagant as the Christ Church Great Hall recreated for Hogwarts, was cavernous, light blue, stained glass windows, long tables.  From 9-10:30 we had class in the Rose Garden Room, followed by coffee/tea break in the medieval buttery.  Class from 11-12:30 and again from 2-3:15.  A visit from the Siamese cat of some Worcester professor each day, usually characterized by a leap through or from one of the garden windows when we least expected it.  The sixteen of us sat at a huge conference table which was punctuated down the center with piles of wrapped toffee candies which diminished steadily through the week.  Open windows and the occasional scent of roses.  Would be perfect for my AP classes.

Our director for the class was James Cross, from Whittier, California, AP teacher, college lecturer, and AP test reader and mentor for AP teachers.  James is about a year older than I, former Catholic high school teacher. Graying hair, ruddy complexion, glasses.  He reminded me sharply, especially after two days of listening to the rise and fall of his voice, of my dear mentor, Dr. John Hertz, as he was during the days I spent studying with him at Marywood.  With James, we studied The Tempest, the poetry of Keats and its link to Scott Fitzgerald, Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights, Heart of Darkness, Brave New World, Mrs. Dalloway, Going After Cacciato, Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia, Alice in Wonderland, and short stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  Many strong packets (I will be paying extra on the plane) filled with good ideas; I particularly appreciate ideas about the pacing of lessons since I tend to go slowly.  However, I have discovered that, of everyone there, I have the least instructional time.  Most everyone else has at least an hour and, in some cases, longer each day for AP.  Which may account in some respects for the fact that I seem to take a while to cover the texts.  But I became aware, very quickly/sadly, that James’ plan of 22 days on a particular novel would take 35 or so days for me, even if I taught at his pace.  Not possible.

We discussed the four levels of narrative:  What does it say?  What does it mean?  What have I learned [lesson, theme]?  What am I going to do about it [action]?  This last idea, which James referred to as part of the hidden agenda of English teachers, led to much vigorous discussion, especially spinning off from Frankenstein and Cacciato.  I enjoyed the conversations, particularly as I agreed with his politics in most cases, but some of my friends squirmed at what they viewed as digressions from the literature.  I do see literature as inevitably leading to such conversations if the books are to affect students’ lives in a way that matters beyond AP.

On Tuesday, we had a class from Tim Fossett, AP teacher/reader from North Carolina, who focused on the 2011 AP test rubrics and range-finders (the essays which the AP scorers determine are exemplars for the scores of 0 through 9).  He was an engaging ex-Marine, an alum of this AO Oxford conference, whose insights were wonderful.  More time with him would have been lovely.

We spent Wednesday morning “at the feet of” David Bradshaw, quintessential Oxford Don, “BA, MA, DPhil, FEA, is Hawthornden Fellow and Tutor in English Literature at Worcester College and Reader in English Literature at Oxford University. Dr [they don’t do periods for title abbreviations here!] Bradshaw is a specialist in the literature of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. His research interests include modernism, politics and literature, eugenics, dystopias, censorship, and contextual readings of authors such as Virginia Woolf, W.B. Yeats, Aldous Huxley and T.S. Eliot” [Let’s just  say that’s the tip of a huge C.V. iceberg!].  A mane of rumpled grey hair, a purple-flower print shirt; wanted to go barefoot in our group picture, but James, in his prep-perfect long-sleeved shirt and tie, remonstrated.  David lectured on Heart of Darkness, Huxley and Brave New World, and Virginia Woolf and Mrs. Dalloway with the easy authority that comes from having read all their letters and edited most of their texts.  A fascinating, sacred time.  Of course we all spent part of our free Wednesday afternoon running down to Blackwell’s (incredible temple of bookstoredom) to buy his books, A. because they are superb resources, and B. because he had promised to sign them at our tea break and photo session on Thursday.

This is getting much too long for a blog post.  All in all, an amazing experience.  We students wished for a bit more time sharing our own classroom and curriculum ideas, but the week was truly invaluable.  More about the non-classroom side of the experience to come.

First impressions of Oxford

Cab to Paddington Station on July 9, followed by a train to Oxford.  I have never encountered butterfly bushes growing in the wild before, but we passed hundreds of bushes, heavy with purple blooms, in the most unlikely spots along the tracks. I cannot imagine anyone choosing to plant them there, but they were 10-20 feet tall in some cases, well-established despite my musings as to their appropriate placement. 

Every backyard adjacent to the tracks, no matter how humble the home, had its gem of a garden.  I have become more determined to follow the European custom of referring to the property at 427 as “the garden” rather than “the yard.”  I mean, really, “yard.”  Churchyard (ok, spooky).  Barnyard.  Railroad yard.  Stockyard.  School yard.  Nothing lovely there.  On the other hand:  "the garden."  A lovely prospect.  Tranquility and repose.  Color and fragrance and peace. 

Now all that remains is to work for the rest of the summer to make sure that "the garden” at 427 lives up to its name!

When we arrived at the Oxford rail station, we rolled our three heavy bags over the Hythe Street Bridge to Worcester College.  Worcester, like most of the colleges which make up Oxford, is a walled close with a Porter’s Gate, although the kind gentlemen who met us there were nothing like Macbeth’s comic relief. 

Worcester College is built on the site of one of the oldest centers of learning in Oxford.  In 1283, this was the site of Gloucester College, founded as a place of study by the Benedictines.  The oldest surviving buildings here are 13^th century “cottages,” each bearing above the door the blazon of the specific abbot who sent seminarians to study here.  Worcester College itself was a reincarnation which emerged in 1714 (part of the hiatus in between had to do with Henry VIII’s efficiency in dissolving centers of Catholic learning).  The chapel, redesigned in the 19^th century, contains each of Darwin’s animal species carved on the ends of the pews.  The catalogue of animals includes the dodo (now extinct, except for Alice in Wonderland, also created in this town) and the unicorn, which seems rather puzzling as a Darwinian species.  Apparently Oscar Wilde himself commented on the beauty of this chapel although, as our professor rightly wondered, what Wilde was even doing in a chapel remains a mystery.

Passing through the Porter’s Gate area, one emerges into an outdoor cloister which overlooks one of the most incredible feats of gardening and architecture the world has to offer.  On the left, the 1242 “cottages.”  On the right, the 18^th century building where I took class in the lower level Rose Garden Room, opening onto the Provost’s private rose garden.  In between, a prize-winning quad of lawn which is mowed every morning in a chessboard pattern, surrounded by glorious borders of lavender, climbing roses draped over medieval  and Stuart archways, lilies, and flowers beyond my knowing. 

From our 18^th century classroom building, at the top of the hill overlooking the quad, we look across to a small, vine-draped archway on the other side of the quad, which leads to another walled garden.  Our professor told us that when Lewis Carroll taught here, he looked out the window toward that arch and used it as the inspiration for Alice’s rabbit hole.  So of course, all of us whose living quarters are on the other side of this arch have wandered through the rabbit hole each morning on the way to class.

On Saturday the 9th, we settled into our dorm room. Rather more 20^th century than medieval, although my comments about Brit bathrooms stand.  The dorms are designated by staircases rather than building names.  We were staircase 21, room 5, each staircase having 2 rooms on each floor.  Very comfortable L-shaped room separating sleeping and studying areas.  Al and I have had to take turns with the Ethernet cord, but otherwise it has been wonderful.  The man who came in to service the cold water faucet explained to us that the windows, long panes of glass that push outward only about 4 inches, are so constructed in order to prevent intoxicated students from jumping out.  Honestly, this had not occurred to us as an option, but then we had not yet begun our studies here.

Al and I walked up the street and around the corner to his college, Oxford University, for his registration.  On the way “home,” I roamed a bit and discovered the Oxfam second-hand bookstore, where I bought a commentary on Tom Stoppard’s plays and a bar of dark chocolate for the road.  Later, I roamed the gardens and the pond at Worcester.  Dahlias, cosmos, noble purple acanthus, exotic red crocosima, some amazing tropical succulent in black, and, of course, the heady fragrance of lavender hidcote.  Many years ago, I discovered e e cummings’ poem, which I sent (from the novitiate) on a handmade Mother’s Day card to my mother – and now it came tumbling back to me, a generation later, as a wish fulfilled at Oxford for myself:

“if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have

one.  It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of blackred roses”

Blackred roses and more, an intoxicating garden for walking, sitting, reading, imagining.  A gift for the week.  And as I intend to recreate recipes from this journey, I hope to recreate a few tiny garden spaces at 427 which will carry me for a precious moment back to this sacred space.

I warned you that the garden maniac would emerge.  More about the literature soon.  Let’s just transition by noting that on Saturday I had the first of several dinners at the Eagle and Child Pub on St. Giles’ Street. This pub, established in 1650 and used as a playhouse for Royalist soldiers, is now best known as the hang-out, from 1939 to 1962, of the Inklings, a literary “club” including C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, who met at this pub weekly to discuss literature (including Narnia and Middle Earth).  The Inklings nicknamed the pub “The Bird and Baby.”  On Sunday, Al and I dined there and raised a pint to the Inklings as well as to Meg, who should be, at least, an honorary member of the gang.

About bathrooms...

As always, there are cultural adjustments when traveling… and here the adjustment has been mainly (no, not yet the driving on the left because our driving begins next week) about the bathrooms.  First, the bathroom in Ariel and Peter’s lovely flat in London contained a built-in towel warmer, a wonderful luxury that I have only seen in the States on some friends’ bridal registries.  Here in our little bathroom at Oxford, there is also a towel warmer, so I’m gathering that these are rather standard.  However, the other differences are a bit more challenging.  The hot water for the shower (and, here in Oxford, the sink) is controlled by a switch which operates an electric water heater on an as-needed basis.  An excellent energy-saving device!  However, stumbling sleepily into the shower results in a very rude awakening if we forget to hit that switch and then wait several minutes!  Then there is the challenge of plug placement.  Anyone who knows me well realizes that I require a hairdryer and a curling iron and a mirror in the same place in order to look presentable for the rest of the day.  UK code requires that all electrical outlets be placed outside the bathroom.  I mentioned this as a new experience to Peter, who grew up here, and he affirmed that of course electrical outlets and even light and shower heater switches are always placed outside the bathroom as a safety measure.  While I appreciate that safety measure, I now have the challenge of using my curling iron without benefit of mirror.  (Of course no hair appliance has a cord long enough to stretch into the bathroom, and of course there are no mirrors outside the bathroom!)  So picture me, in my utterly straight hair, lifting a section of hair with my comb while (I should probably spell it “whilst,” given the fact that I am in a Brit bathroom!) looking in the mirror, and then running out to the curling iron and curling that section rather blindly…. then repeating the process twenty three times.   I hadn’t expected to get so much exercise this early in the morning!  Shall we say I need to set the alarm at least fifteen minutes earlier to accomplish this feat?

In the footsteps of Henry ... and Katherine, and Anne, and Jane, and Anne ...

On Friday, July 8, we spent the day at Hampton Court.  While I was disappointed not to have been able to buy tickets to the annual Hampton Court Flower Show, we discovered that there was so much to explore at Hampton Court itself that there would have been no time.  (Money saved!)

HC has been at the top of my wish list to visit ever since I saw it in A Man for All Seasons as a teen.  The huge gold and iron gates over which the great unicorn and lion loom, the rose brick original palace with its hundreds of chimneys, the path to the great arched entrance guarded by statues, not quite gargoyles, of mythical beasts.  Within the large “Base” courtyard, the entrances to the great kitchens and the royal residence.  Beyond the first courtyard, a second courtyard topped by Henry’s astrological clock; he and Thomas More used to meet on the rooftop to discuss the stars back when they were friends.

HC was originally the home (never so humble) of Cardinal Wolsey, who later gave it (without ever moving out) to Henry and Katherine of Aragon.  Later, when Wolsey failed to obtain a divorce for Henry from Katherine, Henry threw Wolsey out of HC and gave it instead to Anne Boleyn.  (An ironic twist of the knife, since Wolsey had earlier prevented Anne from marrying the man she really loved, Percy of Northumberland.  I can only imagine how much longer Anne might have lived as Lady Percy.)  Jane Seymour, Wife #3, had the long-awaited son, Edward, in this palace, and died of complications ten days later.  After an incredibly brief marriage, Henry divorced Anne of Cleves here; it was also here that Katherine Howard, the giddy teenage Wife #5 with a promiscuous past, was arrested for adultery and ran screaming down the gallery hall trying to reach Henry in his private chapel before the soldiers dragged her away. 

The scenario which we entered on our visit was the wedding day of Henry to Wife #6, Katherine Parr (what was she thinking?).  Equipped with our audio guides, we visited the kitchens and the richly tapestried and stained glassed Great Hall, where we searched, successfully, for the one carved H/A which was somehow missed when Henry ordered that all of the badges commemorating his marriage to Anne Boleyn be destroyed after her execution.  We saw the Watching Chamber behind the Great Hall, where the intimate groups of cushions and chairs invited courtiers to sit in small groups and play games; I could easily picture scenes from The Other Boleyn Girl.  In the Privy Council chamber, we sat in the circle of chairs around the empty throne and listened to the deliberations of the four Privy Councilors; each one, presented separately via videotape in each of the four “corners” of the circle, engaged his fellows on questions of religion, the succession, the new marriage, etc.  We were surrounded by a sense of intrigue and of danger – there were clearly opinions which one broached at the risk of one’s neck; even a logical discussion of who would succeed Henry bordered on treason – and as a result, the gentlemen did not seem able to resolve any of the questions they had on their agenda.  Walking down the Gallery to the Chapel, I imagined the terrified Katherine Howard trying to outrun the soldiers, seeking, futilely, the protection of the husband who had given the order for her arrest.

The chapel was beautiful beyond words, small, with a magnificent vaulted ceiling in brilliant blue and gold and elegantly simple wood paneling, the choir benches lit with lamps, the royal “pew” actually a room of its own in the upstairs gallery.  I will need to let the guidebook speak; there were no pictures allowed, and I’m a bit overwhelmed by the challenge of describing so much lovely detail.

Part of our day included participating in reenactments which demonstrated, even more tangibly than the Privy Council meeting, the tension of living with and near Henry.  The magic of dramatic compression transported us from the wedding day to Henry’s later suspicion that Katherine Parr, an educated and articulate lady, was too much a supporter of “Protestant” religious reform and would therefore attempt to persuade her husband in that direction. (Henry was very Catholic, actually; it was only the “Roman” part of Catholic that was troublesome.)  He asked his Lord Chancellor, Thomas Wriothesley, to investigate (AKA search the queen’s apartments) for signs of heresy and subsequently to draw up an arrest warrant.  Meanwhile, Henry “invited” Katherine to the Tudor garden to discuss her religious opinions.  Katherine, fortunately, knew what was at stake, and very humbly insisted that she could never presume to tell her husband the king what to believe, and that she had engaged in debate with him only that she learn from his superior wisdom and, by the way, help to distract him from his painful leg.  He, of course, wanted to believe her; they both cried and embraced, at which unfortunate moment Wriothesley appeared with the arrest warrant and was both physically and verbally attacked by Henry for offending against the queen.  Since it would have been imprudent for poor Wriothesley to remind the king that he had acted on the king’s own orders, he had to wait an agonizing few hours until a later reenactment in which, after groveling at Katherine’s feet, he was forgiven by the queen and, ultimately and more to the point, by Henry as well.  Excellent acting throughout, especially from Katherine – I could read clearly the intelligence and the fearful strategizing behind the subservience.

Although Hampton Court has another half, the Baroque portion begun by architect Christopher Wren for William and Mary in the late seventeenth century, we chose to forgo that tour for the glories of the gardens.  As you know, I am a garden fanatic, and I promise to bore dreadfully those who are not like-minded with pictures of gardens and flowers.  You have been warned.

I have had a lovely picture of a Hampton Court garden, with paths surrounding a center pond and fountain, as a computer screen saver for months.  Locating the Privy Garden on the map, we stepped out into a glorious expanse that seemed the correct shape, but much too large and too seventeenth-century to be the garden I had fallen in love with.  I photographed its beauties at length, but I was, despite my response when Al asked, disappointed. 

Later, we turned along a side path, and there, in a row of gated garden rooms, was the garden of my memory:  Henry’s Pond Garden, still geometric, but incredibly more intimate, rioting with summer color, and inhabited by statuary cherubs and four boxwood topiary birds.   I could clearly picture Henry wooing the soon-to-be-next-wife in this space.  It was a truly glorious fulfillment of a dream.  For those of you who know the Seder service:  “It would have been enough.” 

I then asked directions to the Rose Garden and Maze.  The dear lady who answered my question apologized for the state of the Rose Garden since, in July, it was rather past its best.  I pray to have even an “at its best” rose garden of my own that looks like this garden “past its best.”  Yes, in many cases the bushes had bloomed once and were just in bud for a second round, but here were all of the David Austen English roses I have longed to plant despite the fact that I am told they do not survive well in our Baltimore climate:  the dark crimson William Shakespeare, the bright red Sophy’s rose, the yellow whorled Teasing Georgia, the paler cupped Jude the Obscure.  Etc.  Etc.  I experienced a wicked glee in seeing that these roses, too, battle black spot.  There is hope for my two climbing Don Juans and the hybrid Firefighter Rose.

By the time we reached the Maze, Al was tired and chose to wait for me.  Of course I could not leave without making the attempt.  It was not raining, so there were no bobbing umbrellas to guide my way.  I did get a sense from the map that any move toward what seemed the center was a mistake, so I kept to what I hoped was the outer limits and ultimately reached the center, whereupon I took pictures, found an exit gate for wheelchairs and baby buggies through which I cheated, discovered Al stretched out on a bench for what he thought would be a much longer nap, and together we ran for the train home.

Waterloo Station, by the way, although much more clearly marked, was an even more tangled maze in its own way.

That evening we dined with Ariel and Peter at The Grazing Goat (pub across the street).  We have discovered Courgette, which is, amazingly, the actual golden flower of the zucchini plant (I had four of them blooming at home when I left).  Stuffed with goat cheese, battered, and fried with additional zucchini slices.  Incredible!  Added to my list of recipes to try.

I am, as you see, a few days behind.  Have been at Oxford since yesterday noon, but that is at least one entry of its own.  I should be finishing Cacciato.  It is an excellently written novel, but as many of you know, I am not a reader who enjoys violent action and suspense, and so I look for reasons to procrastinate.  As you see, I have succeeded with this entry.  I will pay later!  Meanwhile, I meet my professor and class in a few hours, so I will return to Paul Berlin’s Vietnam escape fantasy.  With a piece of 70% dark chocolate to assist the endeavor.

Curiouser and curiouser ... (apologies to Lewis Carroll)

Now that we are a bit more awake….  We are staying with friends in their flat in Portman Village, a few blocks behind London's Marble Arch.  Not far away is Hyde Park and in a slightly different direction, Regent’s Park, where I hope to sit and reread some of the excerpts from Mrs. Dalloway which took place there.

Peter and Ariel’s flat is upstairs over a wine shop, behind a lovely purple door.  Across the street is The Grazing Goat Pub.  Chinese, Pakistani, and Italian cuisine in the same small block.

Probably should have packed closed toe shoes.  Temps range from 70 to 50 with gusts of wind that have taken us by surprise.  But I am resistant to the idea of wearing athletic shoes and white socks with my capris in fashionable London.  Saving the New Balances for the cobblestoned streets of Oxford.

Lovely incongruities abound even in a 24 hour period.  Last night we dined at The Spaghetti House a few blocks away – a chain, as we discovered later, with a name that does not arouse high expectations, but where we discovered a wonderful roasted veggie pizza and the best Irish coffee Al has ever tasted (not the best in London, or the best from an Italian restaurant, he stipulates, but simply the best ever).  We had heard horror stories about coffee here, but since we like cappuccino, we have not been disappointed.

Rather than rushing to Hampton Court today, we chose to be a bit lazy – or rather Al did some work while I napped and plowed through more of Going After Cacciato for my course.  Then this afternoon, we took the Tube to Charing Cross for our Baroque Masterpieces concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields and walked right into our second incongruity: right outside this magnificent church where Handel was music director was a screaming crowd in Trafalgar Square celebrating the premier of the final Harry Potter movie, which of course we had forgotten is this evening here in London.  Apparently people had camped there since last night to ensure their spot when the celebs arrived.  We less lucky/more sane people were outside the walled enclosure, but when the wind blew the branches in the right direction we could see the giant torches, banners, and some of the action on the big screen, including the arrival of Rupert Grint.  At one point we followed a stampede (sedately, of course) toward a corner and Al was tall enough to see the head and shoulders of Daniel Radcliffe as he walked by into the enclosed area.  (He mentioned that to several groups of young ladies on the Tube ride home and was immediately the object of vicarious admiration!)  Of course we did not remember our camera.

So, yes, Meg and Carolyn, we chose to leave HP behind and go into St. Martin’s, where we ate in the crypt café, a wonderful place where in 2002 we discovered the joys of Stilton cheese and Stella Artois.  This time, a goat cheese tart, new potatoes with cranberry and onion chutney, and “rocket” (AKA arugula) salad.  And Stella.  Fantastic!  When I finish this post I will be googling recipes.

The concert was a joy:  Mozart, Bach, Purcell, Pachelbel and, again, incongruously, a jazz piece for harpsichord and an incredible gypsy piece with the quirky name of “Rumanian Fry-up.”  The oboe soloist during the concert played with his eyebrows as well as his fingers; visual learners could have read every note variation in his face and in the way he moved his oboe in sweeping arcs. The violin soloist was, not to overuse the very Brit word, brilliant.  At times, the touch of his bow was as tender as a caress while at other times he wielded his bow like a rapier, attacking the gypsy piece with a power that cost multiple bowstrings before the piece was finished.  A soul-filling experience. 

More adventures tomorrow.  We have packed both umbrellas and the ponchos in our backpack, but we will probably be in the center of the Hampton Court maze when it rains -- the image of umbrellas bobbing up and down among the romantic yew and boxwood paths would be another incongruity, but then, we would have no trouble finding our way out.

 

Embarking on a pilgrimage

This blog will be the footprint of a double pilgrimage.  The obvious pilgrimage is the journey to and within England, which begins tomorrow.  With the enormous financial assistance of a lovely grant from my school, I will be spending one week taking a course in the teaching of Advanced Placement English Literature at Worcester College, Oxford, and another week circling southwest England in the footsteps of Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Arthur Conan Doyle, and King Arthur. Then six days exploring London as the guest of wonderful friends!  So this blog will begin as a travelogue:  a check-in with my family, a report for my school, and a memoir for me.  Hoping I can keep up, especially in the days when I am frantically finishing the sixteen books required for the course!

The other pilgrimage concerns my lifelong quest to write, thus far limited to school writing and my own journal, now opened about once a year at most.  For forty-five years I have claimed "no time" as the public excuse and fear of nothing to say as the private one.  At least one of them was real.  But now I have chosen to use this travelblog as a jumping-off-point for further writing.  Where will it go? 

Let's just say I'm loving the question.