Patrick Egan's Blog

[Unenhanced photo of the moon. Sailing west, looking south. The North Atlantic Ocean. Photo is mine.]

Whenever people look at clouds they do not see their real shape, which is no shape at all, or every shape, because they are constantly changing. They see whatever it is that their heart yearns for.

~~Eduardo Agualusa, A General Theory of Oblivion

Whatever it is their hearts yearn for…Hmm.

We were rapidly approaching the Grand Banks off Newfoundland, Canada. Our two-month adventure through Ireland and England was nearing an end. How many more nights would I have to stand on the deck, port side, and look out over the impossibly beautiful and terrifying expanse of the North Atlantic Ocean? Two maybe three. I lost track of the days when I just sat and watched the waves; read, write and think. I knew one thing, however, the number of days remaining were far too few. I could stay out here…imagining myself in a small sailboat and fulfilling a long held dream of mine. To do a solo crossing. Nothing but the sky, water and myself.

That will always be just a dream, I’m afraid. Just a fantasy of an old man who had more dreams than he should.

The photo above came out just by accident. I can’t explain the way the waves turned a pale amber and the moon, not yet full, lit the sky so dramatically. But it worked and I got a fair number of positive responses on social media after I posted it.

Then, a night later, after we had dinner in the Britannia Restaurant, we sat to listen to some music in the Carinthia Lounge. A group of about twenty people, dressed in the style of the 1920’s flappers, were dancing the Charleston. The music was played by the resident band. It was festive. Joyful and exuberant. As I videoed, I was nearly run over by the conga line of dancers. The suspenders and arm garters on the men, the tight feathered hats of the women–allowing for that ‘spit curl’ to fall across their powdered foreheads–I was loving the visuals. And the music somehow was absolutely perfect for the moment.

Back in my seat, I glanced at the large windows and noticed the white. We were over the Grand Banks, notorious for thick fogs. The ships exterior lights turned all that mist into a white shroud engulfing us. I thought of the moon, shining brightly just beyond the cloud bank.

More music, more dancing.

[They danced the night away. Video is mine.]

After another forty-five minutes of watching the party go on, it was time to retire to our small suite. Room #5082, with no windows. I needed one more visit to the deck. It was a struggle to open the heavy door. The wind had increased and the fog had lifted. I stood at the railing clutching my iPhone, desperately not wanting it to sink a few fathoms to the mucky ocean floor. Some light mist still hung off the port side. There was the moon, a bit fatter, waxing toward full, but not reaching that phase until after we were back in our apartment in New York City.

I snapped a few photos. The gusts increased. I never took a look at what I had taken until several nights later. (As I stood, bracing myself on the rail, I noticed a figure approaching me. It was a woman, alone, wrapped in a grey cloak. Wordlessly, she stopped just a few meters from me and aimed her camera to the same moon that I was seeing. She passed behind me and continued on her solo walk around the deck. Her coat fluttered in the wind.)

Too much to do in those final few days. Packing and sorting of all we had purchased in our travels. Mostly books for me. Once I had settled back into our apartment, the unpacking mostly complete, I went back to my photo roll.

I saw images that took my breath away.

The moon, but more than the moon alone…

Was I seeing Selene, coming from the bed of Endymion? Maybe Diana, maybe Artemis? Perhaps the Chinese Kuan Yin or Changxi, showing mercy or giving birth to the 12 moons. Rhiannon from Wales? Was this not of the moon at all? Was this Amphitrite, Greek queen of the sea? I pondered it. But no, this was not arising from the water, but the moon.

But maybe it was none of these. Eduardo Agualusa, quoted above, suggests what we see in clouds, and for me that night, the moon, is whatever a heart yearns for. My own heart? Absolutely. Yes, I have a fulfilling life, but I also have dreams that go beyond the day to day existence of a man whose life is interrupted with the process of growing old.

So, what did I see in the photo? I saw something feminine, alluring, loving, peaceful, joyful even, but nothing evoking fear. Is it spooky? To some. But to me it’s all the females I have ever encountered…My grandmothers, my mother, daughter, cousins, teachers, students, lovers and wives. All the goddesses encountered in life and whose love was sought.

Oh yes, there was something very feminine out there, moonlight suspended in the mints and waves of the sea.

The first figure:

[Looking south over the Atlantic Ocean. The moon reflects on the sea. Photo is mine.]

And, lastly. For me, the most telling and enigmatic…

[Almost like a painting, but not. Photo is mine.]

What do you see in these images? I would be interested in hearing from my dear readers. But wait. I had picked up my iPhone to search for something. My wallpaper for my lock screen. Something jumps out at me.

I was using a detail of one of my favorite Symbolist paintings. The Isle of the Dead by Arnold Bocklin. Here is the entire painting:

[The Isle of the Dead by Arnold Bocklin. Source: Google search.]

And here is my iPhone wallpaper:

[Screenshot of my iPhone. So, who gets the credit?]

Do I see a familiar shape here? Again, I’d love to hear from my readers.

This is the final Four Green Fields Blog series. It is the end of our late summer travels to Ireland and England and the Atlantic crossing aboard the QM2. I am reveling in the cooler weather, picking apples in Brewster NY, looking forward to kicking brilliant red and yellow leaves as I walk the sidewalks of my hometown of Owego NY. I will be walking through the memories of my youth (something I always enjoy). But, I will be going north soon with a mix of happiness and deep sadness. I will saying good-bye to a high school friend, Gary. My thoughts to his family.

I will be reading, maybe sketching and smelling the frosted air of Owego. And, rest assured, I will be writing more ghost stories of that town.

Happy Halloween to my readers, lets hope for better days ahead. Ones filled with sanity and love.

{AUTHORS NOTE: 1– I assure anyone who reads this blog post that I did not alter, edit, crop, enhance any image shown above, in any way. And NO AI used! It’s straight from my iPhone to you. 2– If you wondered where the title of this blog series came from, listen to the song Four Green Fields by Tommy Makem.}

[The Lychgate of All Saints Church in Minstead, New Forest. This gate is where the funeral party rests the coffin and meets the Vicar in preparation for the burial. Photo is mine.]

‘Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.

~~ William Shakespeare Hamlet

We were staying for five days in Minstead, in the heart of the New Forest on the south coast of England, a region called The Solent. Our accommodations are in The Trusty Servant Inn, a very interesting name if I ever heard one. Small room, minuscule sink in the minuscule bathroom. Hot water through the tiny faucet was intermittent. But the place had its charms. The grilled Hake was excellent.

Mariam was busy in the room sorting out our items we would need for the next days hike. I needed to stretch my sore and crampy legs from the drive down from Bath, so I took a short walk up a lane, following a small Footpath To Church sign. I passed through the lychgate (the lead illustration above) and walked around the church and into the graves. I was clutching a pamphlet I found just inside the door. It mentioned Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Hmm. Could it be?

I followed a faint gravel path to the edge of a row of graves. There it stood, a cross with an inscription. I had found the grave of the man-of-letters who created Sherlock Holmes. I was delighted.

[Arthur Conan Doyle’s grave. All Saints Church, Minstead, England. Photo is mine.]

That was interesting indeed, but what about this business of the churchyard at night? Reader, bear with me. I need to tell a brief backstory that will lead to what brought me to go there, later that night.

We had picked out a walk that left from the small village of Brockenhurst, about ten miles distant. It was a four mile loop and I thought I could do it despite my having tendonitis of my ankle. Mariam wrapped my ankle in an ace bandage that looked like something that Boris Karloff had around his face in The Mummy. I self-medicated with two Ibuprofen.

And into the North Solent we went. The path was flat and views were beautiful in a bucolic way.

[The hard packed gravel surface was not kind to my ankle. Photo is mine.]

[The weather was fantastic. Photo is mine.]

We made it nearly all the way to Baily’s Hard but instead we took a short side path that lead to a birding blind. The breeze washed through the open windows as we watched a few ducks and a couple of herons.

[Wading birds on the nearby river. Photo is mine.]

The main reason we didn’t take more time on hike was that I had something I needed to prepare for back at The Trusty Servant.

All day, I kept looking up. I needed a cloudless sky. I was away from a city. It would be dark tonight.

Back at the Trusty Servant, I fished through my various stuff sacks and finally found my GoPro and a tripod for my iPhone. I had a clear idea what I wanted to do, but, unfortunately, I did not have a clear idea of how I was going to get what I needed.

First we had to go downstairs to have dinner. We had played with the idea about eating at the Fox & Hounds Pub in Lyndhurst (where, a few centuries ago, the innkeeper, while trying to adjust the logs on the fire, tripped and fell into the fireplace. His hair caught fire and he was dragged out by his loyal patrons. Alas, it was too late. He died a few minutes later. His ghost, apparently, appears in the various dining rooms and in the cellar. ) but we were too tired to drive back there. It was going to be the Grilled Hake for me.

By the time dinner was over, I put the GoPro and tripod into my backpack and tested my small flashlight. Everything was okay. So I walked up the lane and through the Lychgate and into the churchyard. I did this without a light as I wanted to allow my night vision to adjust. The headstones leaned in all directions. It was a cloudless sky, chilly and no moon. The stones looked pale, almost glowing at times. I had already picked out my spot. A small clearing behind the church. I put everything down. I stood still and listened. It was quiet enough for me to hear the blood rushing through my ears. An acorn dropped nearby, Then another. Oak trees. I looked in the direction of Conan Doyle’s grave. I couldn’t see it but I could make out the outline of the Oak tree that stood over his headstone. Local legend has it that the tree had been struck three times by lightening since he was buried there in 1930.

More acorns fell onto the hard surface of the table graves. The chill began to make me shiver slightly. I was not afraid of anything. I just shivered. Hundreds of the dead and departed surrounded me. People had been buried here for centuries. But I was not worried. I just shivered.

Why was I here? Many of my readers know of my fascination with ghosts and ghost stories. Once, years ago, Mariam and I took part in an all-night ghost watch in a supposedly haunted pub in the Adirondacks. No one saw or heard anything. Interesting as all that is, I wasn’t here to photograph any wisps of light, blue orbs or eyes in the darkness. I was here to photograph star trails. And I thought I knew how to do it.

I felt around in the darkness and set up the GoPro on it’s small tripod. I selected the Time Lapse mode and pushed the record button. A few feet away I attached my cell phone to a tripod (way too small for such an activity). I found the Time Lapse mode and pushed record. I stepped back, away from the cameras, and stood and looked at the stars. The Big Dipper was dominating the northern sky. There was the Milky Way. Off to the east was Jupiter. And all around me were tens of thousands of stars, glistening and winking.

I love looking at star trails. My brother Chris and I would set up our cameras and take time-lapse photos during camping trips in the Adirondacks. We did this when the sky was much darker than it is now. I stood, shivering in the graveyard because I had finally found myself in a place where light pollution was minimal. The glow of lights from Southampton made a portion of the sky too bright. But to the north, my field of view was getting populated with countless points of light.

I failed in my attempt. I lacked an app for my iPhone which would allow me to get great images. Tonight, I got little to see. The camera needs to be recording for at least an hour to make the effort worth it. I gave it only about thirty minutes. It was getting near midnight. I was getting colder. A lesson was learned. Do the homework and play with the camera. (I hadn’t used my GoPro in over eight months. And fiddling with it with cold fingers in the dark compounds my other shortfalls.

After packing everything away, I took a photo with my iPhone.

[Unedited photo of the north sky. The time-lapse segment only shows a very small movement of the stars. So I decided not to include it. Photo is mine.]

On the way to the lychgate, I turned and took the following photo. The light in the church is from a small source in the rear of the building. I’m assuming its a small light bulb. I admit that the scene was more than a little eerie.

[There is no re-touching of this photo of All Saints Church. It’s about twenty minutes until midnight. Photo is mine.]

I’ve done some pretty odd things in my life. Standing alone at night in a fairly remote country churchyard, very old and filled with moss and lichen covered headstones, was pretty extraordinary. For me anyway. I love old churchyards, old monuments, the names and dates, wives and husbands, siblings, ancestors…all were walking around once upon a time, living, laughing and dancing…just like you and me.

Then in the far corners, hidden amidst the weeds, or leaning against the outside walls of the church are the stones that bear no names or dates. The details of that persons life, all eroded away by the English rain and the acid of the lichen. They are nameless in death. I hope they had a fulfilling life.

As I passed through the lychgate, I turned and told whomever may have been silently watching me from where ever they were, that I will be back someday, or rather some night to complete my task.

Rest well, I said. I hope I didn’t disturb you too much on this dark and starry night.

[Ceiling of the nave in Bath Abbey. Photo is mine.]

Oh! Who can ever get tired of Bath?

~~Jane Austen Northanger Abbey

Like a grandfather clock on the landing of a staircase of an old house, like a circular staircase leading to the dark places in a haunted Irish castle, like an elderly couple at the end of long day of driving, things and people wind down.

We’re winding down. Our fantastic trip from one end of Ireland to the other, and through places in southern England, familiar and unfamiliar is coming to an end. And not an easy end. The discovery of undiscovered places in The New Forest, the easy footpaths through ancient copses and over gentle hills will be difficult to say farewell to. But say it we must.

I’m writing this from the desk in room 3 on the second floor of the Trusted Servant Inn near Lyndhurst in The New Forest. Tonight, Tuesday 23 September is our third night here. I hope to post one more blog after this one. Perhaps there will be a chance to put another one out before we arrive in New York.

But this will be about Bath. We spent a total of eight days in that amazing city.

This is about one day, 19th of September. It was a Friday. I had purchased a copy of On Foot in Bath and had found a walk that began very close to our hotel. The highlights of this particular route was the architecture of the crescents of the northern heights of the city. We chose this walk (#13) because we both love the building styles and the history of the important places mentioned in some of Jane Austen’s novels.

I should have paid more attention to the route, read the fine print, and studied the map with a geographers sense and sensibility. After the first quarter mile it became clear. The rest of the two and half miles were uphill. Yes, up the hill.

Having said that, and after we were back in our hotel, I very much enjoyed the walk. I paid dearly for the experience during the night when the dreaded cramps in my lower legs arrived, just after the witching hour. After the last midnight knell my calves began to tighten in legendary ways.

Here is a look at the famous crescents that Bath is famous for:

[An interesting building very early in the walk. These are ‘ghost adverts’ on the side of the building. They have been there for over a hundred years. Fading now. But still there to remind people of what was sold in the space below. Photo is mine.]

[A Georgian watchman’s house. This is located near one of the minor crescents. I walked around it and couldn’t find any opening for any watching. The little space on the door where the plaque is? What can the watchman see? Photo is mine.]

[The Royal Crescent. Without question, the most famous and perhaps the most photogenic of the six or seven crescent buildings in the city. I saw a notice a day later for a two-bedroom apartment here listed for £2400 mo. Photo is mine.]

[This is Lansdown Terrace crescent. This was at the end of what the guidebook said was an ‘impressively steep climb’, or words to that effect. Not as bucolic as the Royal Crescent, but still striking. Photo is mine.]

Yes, the walk up to this view was very tiring. This is a photo of what the climb did to me:

[I was tired and my back hurt. Photo is mine.]

We had gone about as far as we could go that afternoon. Then we turned a corner and I spied a palm tree. The sidewalk began to pitch downward. We were on our way home. In front of one smaller crescent apartment building was this view of the palm tree and part of the city below.

[The river Avon, one of at least three Avon Rivers in Britain is in the distance. Photo is mine.]

As we descended, the pubs and cafe´s became more common, moving away from the largely residential and high-end hotels of the heights. We turned on the street that would take us nearly to our hotel. But, as bad as I needed a rest and to get out of my boots, there was one more famous place I needed to see.

The Bath Circus. A circus in the UK usually refers to a circular arrangement of buildings. We have Piccadilly Circus in London as an example. But that isn’t truly a circular place, except that it is mostly a traffic roundabout. It’s a bit confusing, thanks to my dicey explanation, but it serves to bring us back to Bath and the famous Circus.

[With attempting to do a pano photo, this is about 25% of the Bath Circus. It swings around for 360 degrees. Photo is mine.]

[In the center of the Circus is a cluster of five plane trees. These trees were mistaken by the author as Sycamore trees. They are similar in the stippled bark pattern, but a slightly different species. Both trees are often seen lining city streets because they are especially tolerant of air pollution. Photo is mine.]

There were more crescent buildings but I think that you get the general idea. Here are a few extra bonus photos of things I thought were interesting. Enjoy…

[Teapots in a store window. Just in front of the Abbey. Photo is mine.]

[More teapots. Photo is mine.]

[And my favorite teapot. Photo is mine.]

A few days after the walk, we departed Bath for the New Forest. On the last day, Mariam had a few things to attend to on her laptop. I took a final walk to the Abbey. I stood in line and paid the £8 to enter. There was an empty seat away from the tourists. I pulled out my copy of The Architecture of Bath Abbey. Looking up, I studied the fan vaulting and the tracery. The columns. The capitals. The stained glass windows. I got up and walked into a side chapel where there was an effigy of some important resident of Bath who was buried here hundreds of years ago. So much history. So many people laying in their graves beneath my feet. One can not help but feel a weight of history. We are here for a moment and then…serious thoughts. Even as a non-believer, I can fully understand the power of beauty to take the mind upward, ever upward…

[The nave ceiling of the Abbey. Photo is mine.]

[The west window. Photo is mine.]

[A face carved into clay. Guardian of Hell Lane? Omen? Warning? Demon? Photo is mine.]

Greenways, droveways, stanways, stoweys, bradways, whiteways, reddaways, radways, rudways, halsways, roundways, trodds, footpaths, fieldpaths, leys, dykes, drongs, sarns, snickets, bostles, shutes, driftways, lichways, sandways, ridings, halter-paths, cartways, carneys, causeways, here-paths – & also fearways, dangerways, coffin-paths, corpseways, & ghostways.

~~ Robert McFarlane, Ghostways

Everywhere we saw evidence of creatures taking refuge in the soil: mason bees, wasps, rabbits, successors to the fugitive priests & hunted men.

~~McFarlane, Ghostways

I was feeling no pain when I pressed the red button to lock the boot of our rent car. The rain had stopped for the tenth time in the last hour. I was feeling fine. If it’s truth you want, then I will tell you that I was feeling great, awesome, terrific, and excellent. Impossibly excellent. One more time in my life I was walking through a field and along hedgerows, over the crest of a hill in Dorset. Back in the day, I was a young man with the stamina of the same. But, of late, its been a hard winter on my lower back and my problematic right foot. Regardless. Here I was, on a windy day with a good chance of being rained on, hiking with Mariam to a place I’ve only read about. Wait. That’s not totally accurate. I’ve been to one such location a decade ago. But where we were heading today was a place of legends, folktales, dark rumors and even ghost stories.

[Down in among the trees lies the dark holloways. Photo is mine.]

We were walking to see one of the most storied holloways in southern England. This was the Symondsbury Estate, a few miles from Bridport.

This was the location of the infamous Hell Lane. And we were bound for that dark and lonely place.

Holloways are basically deep depressions in an old path or roadway. Carts, people and wildlife, coupled with the power of erosion, over a long time, have worn these paths down. Trees, vines and shrubs have grown overhead and produced byways that are dark and forbidding. Their origins go back to the Iron Age. None, apparently, are younger than three centuries.

We walked along the hedgerow. The sky, at times, was blue and inviting. I looked out over the distant fields and watched the sunlight and clouds play over the meadows below. Then the darkness approached. We quickened our pace as the rain fell in silent waves. Two leafy trees ahead to the left. Mariam stood listening to the wind and rain, the drops that filtered through the branches spotted our parkas. As fast as it arrived, the dark cloud passed away and the sun shone again. We enjoyed the rest after hiking a quarter of a mile up a slow rise and along several fields.

The rain came and moved on; it was that kind of day. We were a little confused by the trail map. Something about the scale and positions of the fields seemed wrong. Another couple approached behind us. I let them overtake us.

“Are we on the right path that leads to Hell Lane?” I inquired.

“Just past the next field,” said the woman.

A few minutes later we stood looking at a dark hole in the trees. We were at the entrance to Hell Lane, a section of a much longer footpath, one that we had no desire or time to go the full distance. From the darkness in the forest, I was glad that we only had a short walk to the heart of a legendary holloway.

We walked on…

[Walking into Shutes Lane, just a few steps from Hell Lane. Video is mine.]

After Shutes Lane, we retraced our steps and headed for Hell Lane. The most famous holloway in Dorset.

[The approach to Hell Lane. Photo by Mariam Voutsis.]

[The clay holds a steep wall. It carves easily. This is only a small portion of the name and dates. Photo is mine.]

[Some of the carvings depict faces. Some are unnerving to look at. Photo is mine.]

[And some are not so scary at all. Here’s Homer. Photo is mine.]

The number of names, initials, dates and slogans were beyond count. But, individuals, some just having fun, others were accomplished artists. All took the time to stand, some in the fog, some in the rain, but all in the cool chill of the thick shade to use the clay as their canvas and express themselves or make a statement.

[A Celtic style design. Photo is mine.]

The following image is my absolute favorite of all the carvings we had time to examine. It reveals a level of skill that, considering the medium, is nothing short of amazing.

[My favorite carving in Hell Lane. Photo is mine.]

[The author at work. Photo is by Mariam Voutsis.]

[Photo bellow. I am not scraping wet sand. It’s the carving of another person’s hand. Photo is mine.]

[Some sun penetrates into the sunken lane. But not much. The wetness abounds. Photo is mine.]

These depressions were once walkways on the surface. They have been slowly eroded downward. When I first entered the lane, when I first lost the direct rays of the sun, I confess that I felt a chill. Not from the weather but from something else. I love a good ghost story and graveyards and churchyards don’t affect me…too much. But in Hell Lane, I experienced something odd. Spooky is too lightweight a word. Scary is fluff. Horror is too dramatic and overbearing. I don’t know a good word. It was creepy. I was creeped out, surely. Mariam offers this comment: “I was uneasy.”

In another time, defrocked priests hid in these places to avoid execution. Highwaymen hid their booty. Those who did not want to be found easily, found a nook, muddy and cold, to avoid discovery.

The clay carvings were interesting, riveting, skillfully done, thoughtful and inventive. But they did not detract from the something else-ness about the sunken lane. But what was it? There we are, searching for a better word than spooky. Again, the encompassing atmosphere. Again the feeling that something is ‘off’ about the place.

This is not to say that the experience is nothing more than a ghost tour through a place damned. The natural world abounds down here. Numerous plants and animals find it their home.

Sadly, all the effort of the artists and pranksters is for naught. With time and the rains and winds of coastal Dorset, the clay will crumble to the ground. The near vertical walls, dark and always wet will spell off and erase all the designs and faces and names.

I stood back and looked at the figures and thought about how transitory it all is. Like life itself. We hope to make an impression on the earth but in the end, it’s the stories about the artists, the faces and ourselves that, hopefully, will live on.

[Hell Lane lies off to my left, behind the fence, past the trees and just a little further along the footpath. Photo is by Mariam Voutsis.]

[South of Shaftesbury the gentle hills of Dorset go on and on. It was a pleasant afternoon drive. The next day proved to be very different. Photo is mine.]

I’ll huff and I”ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.

~~The Big Bad Wolf

The south coast of Dorset. The Jurassic Coast. The smugglers and the shepherds ruled the day here once upon a time. Thomas Hardy wrote novels based on this ancient region which he called Wessex. The sky can be as blue as velvet. The clouds can resemble frigates or dinosaurs. Down here, on the very coast where the pebbly Chesil Beach stretches for a dozen miles and fossil hunters scramble along the rocky cliffs, the wind can blow. Really blow. So hard does it blow that I was knocked off the curb not six hours ago and a half a mile from room 3 in the Haddon House Hotel.

I had a sleepless night which resulted in a day to rest and collect our thoughts. To watch it rain and listen to the gusts. We sat in a cafe just steps away from the breakwater. A young woman with auburn hair sat opposite, intently working her cellphone. She finished her coffee, slipped a rain fly over her heavy backpack and made for the door after pulling her Goretex over her shoulders. She headed into the gale. Ten minutes later, a not-so-young couple did the same. They were hikers on the Southwest Coast Path (made famous lately by the book and novel, The Salt Path).

I envied their stamina.

Soon Mariam and I were off to our car. I had to hold her to keep her from sailing away like Mary Poppins. This was the kind of weather that made me think of how TV stations at home covered major storms. Some poor news reporter was told to go out to some beach in New Jersey, wearing a Columbia Parka with the Channel Number emblazoned on the chest and, holding onto a parking meter and gripping his mic would yell into the camera how bloody awful it was out there in nature.

See for yourself:

[The pebble berms of Bridport beach. Turn the volume up. Video is mine.]

On a nearby park bench, I noticed these flowers. A note to someone hiking the Coast Path?

[Photo is mine.]

[Experiencing the winds seem to be a family outing. Photo is mine.]

For those readers of mine who enjoyed the series Broadchurch (BBC America. 3 Seasons. 2013) they will recognize the massive cliff that formed the centerpiece of the drama. Unfortunately, yesterday the fog made such a photo impossible for me.

[The Bridport Cliff. Source: Google search.]

Here I sit, at the white-painted vanity in our hotel room. The sky has cleared to the west. The rain has stopped, but the wind continues to buffet the window panes.

[A detail of an art exhibition in the nave of Bath Abbey. Photo is mine.]

A premature victim of the Exertions of an ardent and fuperier mind.

~~From an epitaph inscribed on white marble, on the north wall of the nave of Bath Abbey. who passed on to his reward in 27 January, 1792. Aged 32 years. He also was A truly Honeft Man.

Back in the late 18th century, they often used ‘f‘ in place of ‘s‘. They did things different back then. A lot of things different. Like constructed buildings, the architecture of which is breath-taking, put in stained-glass windows that make your soul cry. Dug canals and built bridges that function today. They knew people needed open spaces to stand and think. Today those open spaces are gathering places for people to sit and listen to buskers, read or just look at the clouds pass slowly by.

I’m writing this sitting in a room on the top floor of the Grosvenor Arms Hotel in Shaftesbury. Sadly, on Friday, 12 September, we will be having our last meal here. I will make an attempt to recap all that has happened since we picked up our rent car in Battersea, London and began a long and tiring drive to Bath. It took what seemed like ages to get away from the urban sprawl of London and into the green lands of rural England.

Greenery is the best sceneary.

~~Arti Sharma

That verdant scenery passed by the window of our rented Peugeot. Our SatNav was encoded with the postcode of the Apex Hotel on St. James Street. The drive was easy but the last leg, away from the M4 and over the hill and down into the town was slow, an endless line of lorries and cars all seemed to be heading to the very place we were. But they didn’t have tickets to the Royal Theatre to see As You Like It. Maybe someone did, but I needed a lie down (read nap) before the curtain rose. I had thirty minutes to pull my weary bones together and walk the block to the venue and climb the stairs to our seat.

The next day I needed even more time to feel rested. We ended up arriving at the square in front of the Abbey at 3:20. The doors closed at 3:30. We would have to return. The whole delay was my fault. I simply had to stop and watch a batch of fudge being made at Fudge Kitchen. Bath, by the way, is probably the fudge capital of England.

It was over too soon, despite how uncomfortable I was feeling by 10 PM.

Bath, England. Jane Austen country. Site of the Roman Baths and other very very old ruins. We were set to leave the next day. And that set up a whole review of how the end game would be played out. The last portion, final leg, last chapter of our long awaited trip was getting close. But we still had Canterbury, way out in Kent. Way out in Kent! Approximately 200 miles out in Kent. I felt I couldn’t handle that drive. And still enjoy something along the way. So we mused, discussed, looked over the Atlas one more time. Finally we decided. Canterbury will be cut and we will return to Bath before we make the very last drive to the New Forest and Southampton…and then homeward.

I was reluctant but it had to be done. We needed someplace to replace Canterbury. Mariam had the foresight to book hotels that had a no-fee cancellation. The hotel was cancelled and we added another five days back in Bath. Perfect solution. We didn’t have enough time to fully explore the city this time.

Now we would.

It was an easy drive here, Shaftesbury, only thirty odd miles. Through beautiful landscapes of Wiltshire and Dorset.

Yesterday, we drove to Nether Wallop in Hampshire to visit a former student of mine when I was an exchange teacher in Dorset in the mid 1980s. Sally and her husband, Matt, operate a livery stable and small sheep farm. Matt was going to spend the morning prepping a few rams for sale on 11 September.

[These are Hampshire Down Rams. I shot a short video of Matt trimming and cleaning one in an adjacent stall. But, alas, WordPress will not allow me to upload a video. These boys were already done a few days earlier. Looking good, guys. Good luck at the auction. Photo is mine.]

[A Hampshire lane near Sally and Matt’s farm. Photo is mine.]

Back in Shaftesbury I took a well-deserved nap before we took a 4-minute walk to the King’s Arms Pub for a Pork & Leek Pie.

[A cozy fire warms the heart and soul of the dining area. The King’s Arms Pub.] Photo is mine.

The air was crisp when we returned to The Grosvenor Arms hotel. The moon caught my eye as we made for the front door.

[At 9;41 PM, the streets of Shaftesbury are quiet. The waning gibbous moon rises over the old buildings. Photo is mine.]

This morning we strolled along High Street to Coffee 1 for an Americano and a mixed-berry scone. I made my long-awaited stop at the Folde Bookstore at the top of Gold Hill. Gold Hill seen in movies, (Far From The Madding Crowd) and a thousand calendars of England.

[The famous descending street and cobbles of Gold Hill. Photo is mine.]

Last night I lay in bed reading a book detailing the true story of the No. 10 Rillington Place murders in 1950s London. An event far removed from the town where I was to fall asleep. Far distant in time as well. 1953. I was six years old. Now, I’m 78, tired and sore of leg and back. But never tired of a special landscape of Dorset and the old villages. London crime to sheep trimming. So far apart but so much a part of this country.

I took a sip of my bedside ice water. The town clock’s bell began to sound the hour. One, two…twelve deep tones. It was midnight. A nanosecond later it was the start of a new day. Another adventure and also another day closer to the time when we board the boat and begin our trip across the Atlantic. To New York City…to home.

[Standing in the English rain, waiting for the sun. The author standing near the entrance of the Natural History Museum, London. Photo taken by Mariam Voutsis.]

The scientific theory I like best is that the rings of Saturn are composed entirely of lost airline luggage.

~~Mark Russel

Slainte, Ireland.

Allow me, gentle reader, to add a gentle coda to our gentle trip to Ireland. When last sat together, I was mid-way through our stay in Dublin. There is way too much to say, too many fabulous places in that city to attend to here. It’s the City of Joyce, James Joyce, author of the incomparable novel, Ulysses. I can honestly say that I read the entire book, decades ago. Cover to cover. I thought it was a great read. However, after one hour spent browsing through the rooms of the James Joyce Center just a few blocks from our hotel, it dawned on me that, I may have read the book, I did not really read it. I missed so much in my haste to complete it, that now, I’m determined to read it again. This time with a guidebook beside me, on my night stand, to help me fully grasp the references and subtleties of the text.

[In the courtyard of the James Joyce Center is the door to No. 7 Eccles Street. Described in the novel, Ulysses. One of the places visited by Leopold Bloom on June 6, 1904. Photo is mine.]

After a final evening at Murray’s Pub for dinner and a chance to sing along to “Molly Malone” (The Tart with The Cart) we packed up my new book purchases, several Celtic tee shirts, and a 2026 Irish calendar. My insomnia kept me awake until three hours before the alarm went off. Then, off to Dublin Airport for a, hopefully, uneventful flight to Heathrow. I nearly screamed with joy when the Captain announced that the flight would be “just under an hour”. That’s about my flying time limit. The middle of the trip was smooth and sweet. It was those long seconds just after takeoff and just before landing when the turbulence was bad enough for me to think I was going to have a stroke, two strokes. Oddly, everyone else sat calmly and read or snoozed. Was it just me?

London

No need to go into any detail about the long walk to the baggage claim. We were told the No. 6 was where our luggage would come out. So we waited.

An hour later, we were still waiting. Nearly everyone was gone. The conveyor was empty except for a tattered old Samsonite, and a faded backpack. Neither of which was ours. Mariam pulled our her iPhone and checked the tracker tags we had put into two of the three pieces of checked items. (The third piece was my rolling backpack which the check-in clerk suggest we check. This was a split-second decision on my part. There was no ID tag, no tracker tag…but it contained my laptop charge cable and all of my writing material for my next book. All my ghost stories, flash drive…all of my important stuff.) Mariam announced that the tag indicated that our three bags were still in Dublin.

Cutting to the end, we had to buy two very large Tee shirts with the Union Jack on the front for our sleeping shirts. The hotel provided the tiniest tube of tooth paste known to mankind and a brush with twenty-seven bristles. Small things, but lifesaving to us.

Now you know, my forgiving readers, why I have not posted any blogs in at least ten days. Trust me, I would never abandon you.

We did try to put a stiff upper lip on our situation by getting out and taking in some sights that we somehow have never seemed to accomplish when we were here. One such place was the Natural History Museum. Now, I must add a comment here. I am a retired science teacher who has shown far more than his share of dinosaur videos and conducted rock and mineral labs for thousands of students over my career. So, dinosaurs, while fascinating in a way, aren’t my main interest. No bus-man’s holiday here. I was more interested in the jaw-dropping architecture of the museum.

[Inside the Natural History Museum, London. Photo is mine.]

[Something was scaling the column next to me. Photo is mine.]

I love children, trust me. But, 20,000 of them in one building is a bit too much for this aged person. The noise level was like attending a Who concert in 1973, or standing next to a Boeing 737 just before take-off. Too many dB’s!

Since we were in the neighborhood, we thought we’d take in the Victoria & Albert Museum. It held an impressive collection of textiles, fabrics with attention to various colors. I’m always looking for a better name for a common color.

The hallways were filled with classical sculpture. Here are just two:

[Eurydice. Photo is mine.]

[Eve Listening to Voice of Adam. Sculpture by Edward Hodges Baily (1788-1867). Photo is mine.]

And, so on. We returned to the hotel (The Grand/CQ on Northumberland Ave) in time to chill and then seek out a proper Steak & Ale Pie. This we found at a very old (and haunted) pub on Westminster. I managed to squeeze in a nap after the museums but as the hour of midnight approached, I somehow found myself totally exhausted. I don’t understand it. Only a month ago, in Ireland, I was able to make it until nearly 1 AM. Am I getting old?

This morning, 2 September, I slept until late morning. Mariam had received a text indicating that our luggage was in London but the deliveries (of all the ‘lost baggage’, and I understand that we weren’t the only ones whose bags were left on the tarmac in Dublin) would not begin until 2 PM. Whoa. Another day without our stuff? But, then the hotel phone rang. I picked it up.

“Mr. Egan, your luggage is here and is heading to your room right now.”

[It’s really our stuff. Photo is mine.]

And here I am. Filling you in on how our recent days have played out.

We’re in London and were ready to do this town…

[Photo is mine.]

[Redwood Castle, Lorrha, Co Tipperary, Ireland. Photo is mine.]

So, are ye staying the night?

~~Coleesa Egan

My last blog post, No. 6 in my series. Oh, my last post from nearly a week ago. What can an honest man say about my determination to spend the night in my ancestral castle, reputed to be haunted?

Actually, nothing. We did not spend the night there. I had every intention to do so, even back in June and July during the early stages of our planning. I had it all arranged. It was going to happen. But, we had to politely decline the opportunity.

I can blame my insomnia. That and the sad state of my back. It’s a long story…

The last several hotels and a B & B had beds that would comfortably sleep one person. Couple that narrowness with pillows the size of rolled-up surplus army mattress and duvets thick enough to fight the chill of a typical Irish night in the farmlands.

I couldn’t sleep. I could barely nap when the rare opportunity arose. Traveling in the midst of an unusually hot spell throughout Ireland and it adds up to sleepless nights. For sure, the snow wasn’t falling all over the central lowlands…

It was vital that I was rested and sharp to negotiate the narrow roads that we chose to use.

If I haven’t made enough excuses as to why we chose to drive into Tullamore and stay at a hotel, then my wife’s allergy was a major factor. She was in nasal hell for many days. The dust of an old Norman keep was not going to be a good thing.

Now I must stress that the ghosts that may or may not walk the rooms or climb the stairs, would have been welcomed by me. After all, we’re family. I’m sorry that I do not have a ghost sighting to report.

[The plaque above the main entrance to the castle. The bottom line? That’s my name in Gaelic. Photo is mine.]

But I did get a chance to meet the owner, Coleesa Egan. A sprightly woman in her seventies. A pleasant talker and a determined spirit. She let us have the choice of breaking our plan to stay over. She understood. I watched her negotiate the stairs with some difficulty. But she was so very solicitous of my condition that I couldn’t justify causing her worry about my taking a tumble down the spiral steps.

[I gripped that same rope support in 1984. My DNA is still embedded in the resin. Photo is mine.]

[Where an archer would sit, aiming the strong bow and defending the occupants of the keep. Photo is mine.]

[I’m not in this chart. But somewhere these names (clearer to read in the original) are to be found among my ancestors. A different branch of the family? Perhaps. But all linked by geography, history, love and marriages. Photo is mine.]

It was the end of my visit. I drove away, on the road to Birr and onward to Tullamore, saddened and disappointed by the circumstances that lead to our decisions. I would have loved to sit by the large fire–it was chilly inside the thick stone walls–and talked to Coleesa. Gotten to know her. Climb to the parapets at night and watch the stars winking at me.

I drove away past farms and fields. The buildings have changed, the fields are planted with different crops each season. The cows chew their cuds and stare at each other. They come and go. But the clouds are always the same. The gentle landscape hasn’t changed.

Some things never change…

[Castle Redwood. Lorrha, Co Tipperary, Ireland. Photo source: Tipperary Tourism.]

This photo is of Castle Redwood. It’s not a ‘castle’ in the popular sense, the way most are depicted in movies. It’s a Keep, intended to hold the owners in safety during an attack. Walls are nearly ten feet thick, slot windows for defending archers and parapets to throw rocks down on the angry crowds during a siege.

It was originally constructed by the Normans in 1210. It was in ruins for centuries, until a branch of the modern Egan family reconstructed it.

I first knew this place as Castle Egan. I don’t recall who related that name to me, but my best guess is my father. And it would have been during my visit to Ireland with him and my uncle in that important year of 1984.

A woman currently owns it, Ms Coleesa Egan. Somehow, someplace she and I share a common ancestor. I haven’t linked her branch with mine yet on Ancestry, but I’m going to try.

You see, dear readers, Mariam and I will be spending the night (24 August) in the castle, with Coleesa in her rooms and us in ours.

Oh, and it has a reputation of being haunted. I am not necessarily a believer in the paranormal, but I love a good ghost story.

And I found this while I was checking facts about the castle:

[Screen shot of an online article in the Irish Mirror, 5 December 2023.]

Faithful readers, I will be back with a blog post about our night in Castle Redwood. Perhaps on Monday when we are safely in a large hotel in Dublin.

Or maybe later…

[A roadside flower, ready to spread it’s seed. Co Sligo, Ireland. Photo is mine.]

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

~~from When You are Old, by W. B. Yeats

It was an August day, forty-one years ago when I first walked through the gate of the Drumcliff Parish churchyard in Co Sligo, Ireland. There were few tourists about, perhaps two retired English teachers, maybe a struggling poet or a fifteen-year-old girl who loved a boy from afar. Or a girl she had known since she was eight. I was by myself, that day, as I found the black limestone. I walked to the stone wall and sat against the sharp edges. Puffy cotton-like seeds swept gently and slowly past me, like large snowflakes. Likely from a shrub shown in the photo above. I opened my journal and a book of poems. I found the one I wanted to read quietly to myself.

Under bare Ben Bulben’s Head

In Drumcliffe churchyard Yeats is laid.

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago, a church stands near,

By the road an ancient cross,

No marble, no conventional phrase;

On limestone quarried near the spot

By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!

[Photo is mine.]

I had just stood beside the grave of W. B. Yeats, a man who wrote his own epitaph. How many get to do that? Yeats has always been one of my favorite poets. I don’t claim to have his entire opus but I’ve read a fair number. My father, once he discovered his Irish roots, was able to quote one or two. One of his favorite was “The Fiddler of Dooney” and “The Wild Swans at Coole”.

There are important people in my life, three such people, that I have tried to share things that I find vital to me. I got this need from my father who shared places and ideas and books with me.

I returned to Drumcliff again in 2015 with Brian and Mariam. I asked Brian to sit quietly on a stone while I read the lines above. It was likely I read one or two others in an attempt to instill an interest in Irish poetry. I hope it worked. That visit and that moment of time when I read them poems completed my mission to share with two people whom I love.

Not ten days ago I visited the grave for the third time. The tourists were milling about and it was difficult to find a place for me to read, for perhaps the tenth time, a few of my favorite verses.

Now, with my son and my wife hopefully hearing and appreciating Yeats, it is left to me to share my love for the poet and this country with my daughter, Erin. She may already have stood beside the limestone and the inscription, but she has not heard me read to her. Perhaps in the near future I can pass my love for Yeats to my grandson.

I took a large number of color slides in 1984 but this time I was armed with an iPhone. Yes, and equipped with the ability to shoot video. Which is a moot point because WordPress is not allowing me to insert said video right here into this slot. Or, maybe it’s the WiFi here at the hotel, or maybe it’s just my bad Irish luck.

[A quiet corner of the Drumcliff churchyard. Photo is mine.]

But, I digress.

Yes, Yeats is my comfort in duress and my companion in the turmoil of life’s challenges. But there is one final sharing I have to relate to you, dear reader.

In 2004, I was tasked with giving the eulogy at my father’s funeral at St. Patrick’s Church in Owego. I told of my difficulties in trying to compress ninety years of a man’s life into fifteen minutes. I was serious, I was funny (relating anecdotes from his years at IBM…which made the priest slap his knee laughing). And, then at the end, I chose to quote a Yeats poem that most closely spoke to my father’s nature and his desire to find a quiet place to think.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innishfree,

And a small cabin will I build there, of clay and wattles made;

I read the three verses of “The Lake Isle of Innishfree” but I did not do it well or without a pause. You see, I had to stop and weep.

It was nearly an impossible job. But I finished it.

It was a fitting way to say good-bye to my dad, who really started the whole story years ago when he told me about an Irish poet he so loved.