Friday morning The Sister and I woke up to find magical shells by our beds! The kids were suspicious... I had failed to consider two things 1. The Dad never complained about sleeping in the bug bed, and no shell had materialized for him (we rationalized this one away by saying that he didn't complain because he didn't mind... which is altogether different than not complaining when you do mind) and 2. As I wrapped up the shells and put them in our luggage The Girl was like: "Ah ha! You must have bought those yourselves. You would never take home something that came from a germy random bed." And there you have it. That one could not be rationalized away. Eventually we came clean, but I asked them if they learned a lesson. With a bored drawl The Boy was like: "Cheerfully do things when asked."
Leaving "Holly Howe" was a bit sad... we hope to return.
The Dad drove to John Ruskin's home, Brantwood and asked if we wanted to go inside. Initially the reception was luke-warm, but then as we pulled into the car park I realized that this was the place that we saw from the lake that I wanted to know about. A home surrounded in different hued pink clouds contrasted against the green hills. The biggest rhododendron tree that I've ever seen; azaleas too numerous to count. I now know that rhododendron is the symbol for caution (an association because some are poisonous), but seeing it there in the rain yesterday morning seemed more like an invitation.
I think our lives could be different for having learned more about Ruskin. His life was both an invitation for mankind -- to educate yourself, regardless of social standing; to interact with nature as much as possible; to strive to be refined, and help others be refined. And a caution -- do not get caught up, or stand idly by if society is becoming consumed by, the erosive habit of choosing money over living life.
Ruskin was born in 1819 -- the same year as Queen Victoria (important for the sake of context). His fame began because of an essay, and that essay eventually turned into a five volume series of books that set him on a trajectory to be a leading art critic. He became increasingly upset by Victorian capitalism and became a "crusader against uncaring capitalism." He strongly believed: "There is no wealth but life." The Industrial Revolution was going about it all wrong in his estimation -- the country was "manufacturing everything but men." He felt disgusted at the the division of class -- he was sure that education would save people. That understanding nature would teach us how to best behave. One of the things he established was the Guild of St. George, which was a free museum for "the everyday worker." There were books and examples of different kinds of art and nature. He also used his influence on the wealthy during the lectures that he was asked to give. He took the crusade very seriously and used his incredible intellect, energy and talents toward trying to counter the ill effects of the Industrial Revolution. There were times when he was writing over twenty letters a day, while participating in the lecture circuit and simultaneously writing three or four books.
All of this took a toll on his mental and physical health. He felt that if he followed his own advice, and went somewhere to be closer to nature that he could stave off the crush caused by exhaustion. That is when he bought Brantwood, where he lived for almost thirty years overlooking Coniston Water.
One of the things that Ruskin is most known for is his seven pillars of architecture (and for him "architecture" was the way he articulated art/craft/human-creativity) -- BEAUTY, POWER, OBEDIENCE, LIFE, SACRIFICE, TRUTH, MEMORY. This is incorporated into Brantwood with these windows:
And the "tour" of the house does a cool thing of isolating those seven ideals within the context of Ruskin's life. For example, in his bedroom (where there originally hung about twenty paintings by Turner -- they were great friends and championed each other) there was a description of the madness that often tortured Ruskin. One night he had such fierce nightmares in his bedroom that he was unable to sleep in it after that. It was posited that this stood as an example of SACRIFICE on Ruskin's part, as he constantly fed his intellect in order to reach his potential, and do good for mankind, but keeping himself so stimulated is what contributed to the decline of his mental health.
The children were busily learning as well. They were given little worksheets to do.
And there was a sign on the piano that said that you were free to play it. The Boy practiced his scales.
Unexpectedly I received clarification about something. Sometimes in literature there's a reference to a "Bath Chair" -- and then the context never made sense. Because Ruskin actually had a Bath Chair I now get it -- it was not something that had to do with bathing at all, but rather a kind of wheelchair for the elderly that was often seen at resorts -- like Bath, England.
And we had a discussion about our decorating. Ruskin had many of the same interests as us. We like to collect things from nature, and put as many paintings as possible on the wall. As we were discussing our similarities I said that Ruskin was a "collector," while we are "hoarders." As the phrase came out of my mouth I realized that I wanted to establish the difference... At first I joked that if you're a genius you get to be a collector, and the rest of us are hoarders, but then I fine-tuned it: if your collecting is making you great -- contributing to higher thinking -- then you are collecting, and if it isn't refining you, you are hoarding. The jury is still out whether we are collectors or not -- fingers crossed.
One of the placards it read: "Ruskin was a teacher who cared less for what you knew and more for the way you thought. He taught people how to read the world around them by concentrating o the road by which they approach the knowledge. To read Ruskin is to travel with him -- he invites the reader to quite literally to undertake the experience of discovery with him."
The book (two volumes) of Ruskin's that I most want to read after having visited Brantwood is Stones of Venice. I read some passages that impressed me, like: "You can teach a man to draw a straight line, and to cute one; to strike a curved line, and to carve it; and to copy and carve any number of given lines or forms, with admirable speed and perfect precision; and you find his work is perfect of its kind: but if you ask him to think about any of those forms, to consider if he cannot find any better in his own head, he stops; his execution becomes hesitating; he thinks, and ten to one he thinks wrong; ten to one he makes a mistake in the first touch he gives to his work as a thinking being. But you have made a man of him for all that. He was only a machine before, an animated tool." I so hope that school is making humans, and not animated tools... Or if it's not, it at least doesn't stand in the way of it happening...
Leaving Brantwood was also taking our last look of Coniston Water.
Onward to lunch. We went to the Drunken Duck, which happens to have an awesome legend (that sounds very similar to a Bert, and I story): "[The name] dates back to Victorian years when a landlady of the Inn found her ducks lying stretched out in the road and concluded that they were dead. Thriftily she began to pluck and prepare the carcasses for dinner. The ducks however, were "quick" and not dead. Down in the cellar a barrel had slipped its hoops and beer had gradually drained from the floor into the ducks' customary feeding ditch. Thereupon the ducks made all too good use of their unexpected opportunity, with the result that when they came to they found themselves plucked and halfway to the oven. According to local legend, the landlady full of remorse for the rough treatment provided the de-feathered birds with knitted jerseys and kilts of Hawkshead yarn until their feathers grew back again."
After lunch we checked out Wray Castle. Which is interesting. It was built in the Gothic Revival style in 1840, and has had a weird life. Mostly unappreciated as a residence (it was seen as a joke by many), it was passed around -- at one time rented out to the Freshwater Biological Association, at another made into dorms for the Navy. Consequently, you have this crazy mock-castle on the outside, but inside all squidged up with some aged, but grand details is really bad carpet and cheap doors/bathrooms, as well as some rooms with random children's toys thrown in -- perhaps as an attempt to lure the locals by way of seeing it as indoor play space on rainy days. I know they are trying to raise money for some level of restoration -- I wish them well.
The best part in my estimation was a room that had some folding chairs and a CD player, and if you thought to go over and push play you could listen to interviews of people who at one time had a connection with the castle. For example, a woman who had been in the FBA talked about how her job was to keep up the records when most of the male scientists had gone off to war. They had to continue taking water samples to monitor the life in the lakes, and while they were doing that they also made sure that the water supply wasn't being poisoned by the enemy. That sounded like a good idea.
Should I be done mentioning Beatrix Potter? For some reason, I don't tire of her -- which is a darn good thing because you can't throw a stick in Cumbria without some reference to the woman. As it turned out, she had a connection to Wray Castle. While her family usually went on holiday to Scotland, when she was a teenager their usual place to stay was not available, so instead they didn't go quite so north, and rented out Wray Castle. It is because of her careful journal keeping (which she wrote in code between the ages of fifteen and thirty... a code that wasn't cracked until like twenty years after her death... How cool was this lady???)... where was I? It was because of all the cool details that she kept in her journal that historians have as much information as they do about Wray Castle. Further, it was there that her family became close friends with Hardwicke Rawnsley -- the man who would help her get her first book published, AND introduce her family to the idea of the National Trust -- which obviously was an important introduction when one considers that most of the National Trust land in the Lake District is from Beatrix Potter.
I mentioned that the Lake District was known for three treats, and by this time we had tried two. The third is Kendal Mint Cake. Keep in mind that Shackleton took this with him (that should have been mentioned in his ad: "You will most likely die, but we will be bringing Mint Cake..."), and on the back of the Romney brand it says that Edmund Hillary and his team carried it with them on the first successful ascent of Mt. Everest, and includes the quote: "We sat on the snow and looked at the country far below us... we nibbled Kendal Mint Cake... It was easily the most popular ration... our only criticism was that we did not have enough of it." Hmmm... I guess if I was exploring/hiking Mt. Everest/not around a pile of Cadbury-esque treats...? It was okay. I mean, we didn't puke. The chocolate covered one is actually pretty okay -- almost like a more potent, more dense York Peppermint.
Fortified by these "energy bars" we went to Castlerigg. It really is one of the prettiest settings. Whatever those folks were doing, I understand why they chose the spot that they did.
We stayed in Keswick on Friday night, so we went and checked in to our "cottage" and kind of sort of took a little nap before warming up some soup and heading out to the Theatre by the Lake (said to be: "the most beautifully located theatre in Britain") to see "See How They Run." It was charming (e.g. to remind us all of the time-frame the play takes place during, a warden came out in the beginning and reminded us what to do in case of an air raid, and then had us all stand as he played "God Save the King" on a phonograph), and FUNNY. The kids laughed and laughed as the mistaken identity, and running about in underclothes, and other shenanigans ensued.
And then finally to bed...
This morning after breakfast, and dropping our laundry off, we headed back to where the theatre was -- Derwentwater. While we were standing amidst the ducks/geese/swan waiting for The Dad to park the car two different people randomly came up and offered the children food to feed the fowl (you can buy duck food, but I didn't have any pounds on me). It was rather strange -- the first guy came up really fast next to us, fed the geese hurriedly, then suddenly turned and offered the kids the biscuits he was feeding with, and started asking me if we were from the states. When I said that we were he told me that some of his family had lived in New York, and then Canada... when I said that it would be hard to leave the Lake District he seemed really pleased and then told me: "Most of your tourists just bother with London, but it's not a patch to this," and he made a sweeping gesture towards the lake and mountains. I agreed, and just as quickly as he came, he left. Again, with this theme of Americans not appreciating the Lake District? Then, just as suddenly, and with a steady purpose, an older gentleman walked right up to us with a bag of bread and handed it to us, and said, "Compliments." It was strange, but the kids didn't complain. They had fun feeding, though as one mom said to her kids, "These ducks are rather cross." I'm pretty sure that Hitchcock came up with the idea for The Birds after having fed some ducks as a child and felt them move in closer, and closer, and closer...
Our purpose for going to Derwentwater was to catch a launch over to Hawse End, so we could hike Catbells.
And hike it we did. Though the kids and I held back from the very last scramble, as it seemed kind of sketchy for them. We did an earlier scramble, and they did great, but had they slipped it wouldn't have been potentially life-threatening, as there was some margin before the side of the mountain. The Boy and I had a heart-to-heart. As it was getting harder, and he was getting somewhat reluctant I told him how it's tricky being a mom. On one hand, I want him my kids to know that they can do hard things. To that end, when things get hard, I need to encourage them to push through, so that at the end of it they can say: I didn't think that I could, but I did, so the next time I don't think that I can, I can remember that I've done hard things in the past, and do hard things again.. And yet, I also want to teach my kids to listen to instinct and impressions and inspiration. And, I continued, there are times, when I'm not sure which lesson should be applied...
I'm pretty sure that not doing the last scramble was the right call, and I hope that my kids know that they can do hard things, too. It was kind of a hard hike at times, but the views certainly made it all worth it.
While the moppets and I were sitting on the grass, overlooking the lake, waiting for The Sister and The Dad to come down from that last portion I looked down at my jeans and saw a tick crawling on me. Blech. I didn't know what to do with him because they are so hard to smash, and yet it seemed weird to set him back in the wild -- especially when a couple of yards from us was a family who had taken their toddler out of the backpack and set her on the grass... Finally I decided to wrap the little vampire in a piece of tissue and dispose of him in a garbage can... but then I thought he'd surely get out, so I wrapped the tissue in a Fig Newton wrapper... still I didn't feel safe, so we found some plastic that our water bottles had been shrink-wrapped in in our backpack, so we wrapped that around the whole thing and The Boy offered up a rubber band that he wears around his wrist to secure it. I carried that little beast all the way down the mountain.
"It sure turned out to be a pretty day."
"I don't think that tick is thinking so... He's probably wondering what in the heck is happening right now."
It was a good thing that he did not know what was to come. As we neared the end and I was about to look for a garbage can the bloodthirsty teenager amongst us said that we should kill him. And so he was put on an alter and smashed. I tried to turn it in to some kind of weird macabre lesson as I looked at his pulverized essence: "He was put on the sacrificial alter... Let's all try to be more cheerful, eh?" Sometimes, even as I'm speaking I'm thinking: just shut up already.
While waiting for our return boat the girlies ran some races, and the boys hung out by the water's edge. I kept doing tick-checks.
Back in Keswick we had some delicious pasties for lunch, wandered around a bit, picked up our laundry, and then went to the coolest museum -- The Pencil Museum! The Derwent pencil factory was located in Keswick, and there is a museum dedicated to teaching about the graphite mines in the area, how pencils are made, etc. The COOLEST part was the information on the RAF pencil made during WWII. Charles Fraser Smith: "a fixer whose real job was to supply equipment and gadgets for MI 6, MI 9, and the Special Operations Executive -- everything from miniature cameras to surgical saws, edible notepaper and forged foreign currency... He was the original "Q" immortalized in the James Bond movies." His title was something in the Ministry of Supply Clothing and Textile Department, but his job was to create gadgets. He would get anonymous phone calls telling him what was needed, and he would then go to work to secretly get those things made. He often contacted the top manufacturer of certain goods, so in this case, when he decided to create a PENCIL that RAF pilots could have if in enemy territory (it had a super thin silk map of Germany/escape routes wrapped around a wire and inserted inside the pencil, and a teeny-tiny compass underneath the eraser) he contacted the oldest pencil factory in the country -- in Keswick.
That is pretty darn cool. The museum was small, but it was interesting. It had a pretty good activity for the kids (nine stages to making pencil leads; h means hardness, b means blackness; etc.), and it was fun. Having been inspired by both Beatrix Potter and Ruskin, we bought some very cool watercolor pencils in the gift shop.
And with that, we left the Lake District. We briefly drove to Blackpool (what a hole... and what a shame, because if you look for them amongst the debris of tacky capitalism, you can see the ornate, yet tasteful buildings from when it was one of those pretty British seaside resorts), and then back to Preston where we are staying tonight. We stopped by a store that seemed like the British version of Wal-Mart, and we had a good time looking at the lunch meat that has random shapes (animals, hearts, footballer) engineered into it.
The Lake District could not have been more beautiful or more full of beautiful people who did beautiful things. This morning I picked up our copy of Swallows and Amazons and read:
Titty jumped up. "There's a boat coming now," she said. "Roger, you must be sleepy, or you'd have seen it."
"I'm not sleepy," said Roger. "I wasn't looking. You can be wide awake, and not see a thing when you aren't looking."
I am sleepy. But I'm satisfied that we have mostly been doing a good job of properly looking.
