Day Seven (2001)
A day that began well but ended rather poorly. Drove to the some sightseeing along the Shropshire countryside. We went first to the castle of Acton Burnell, the site of the first unified parliament of Britain. The site itself was mostly unimpressive. A great shell on the grounds of an international school. What impressed upon my mind most was the great cedar trees that grew on the compound. One was too high to be measured, soaring far above the castles battlements with a single branch that was large enough to cover the whole castle in its shade. The setting was unique; a castle raised by the sweating toil of hundreds crumbling to nothing while next to it grew, effortlessly, a single tree, to greater height as if to mock the efforts of man.
From Acton we traveled to the ancient Roman center of Virconium. I discovered that me studies had led me to approach such things in a new fashion. While all about me people meandered about the ruins of the great bath, immediately I was drawn to the stacked tiles of the caldarium, as if by a perfect understanding of the details of a site the whole was reconstituted. But it was here that the day began to sour. Danaide was angry, justifiable so, that my father continued to drive away before all were in the car. Here too, in the shadow of all that I had studied for the last four years everyone began to question every statement I made on history, Suddenly our assembled group began to behave as thought I were a mere infant. My parents began to chastise me about reimbursing our hosts, as thought I had not thought of such things myself. My sister began to chastise me about the behavior and plans of Danaide's family, as thought I could control them. And when Danaide and I decided to test out our bikes in preparation for the trip ahead each person saw fit to chastise me for some aspect of my planning, as if any of the had mounted a bike in the last five years! Finally we all went for a somewhat disgruntled drink at the Bottle and Glass and at least its comforting hominess had some lift on my spirit.
Day Eight
The day of setting out on our own rushes towards us. Began some preparation today. We went to Shrewsbury, to the Kings Head pub, a beautiful ancient place jutting out into the streets, where we met the man who had catered our wedding dinner. He seemed to be as old as his pub. Across the street, a J.C. Pickering Toy Store where we found Danaide a headlamp for her bike. It was a quaint toy shop filled with wondrous toys and an antique old man running it without recourse to electronics and quietly mourning his lack of sons to whom he could pass on his business. From downtown Shrewsbury we meandered along a strange route, chosen by my Father who refuses to believe he is going in the wrong direction. Hence we were privileged to see new parts of Shrewsbury; the prison; the toll bridge in the center of town; even the wealthy quarter. Finally we found our road and made our way out of town towards Stokesay castle. We had picked our hosts grandchildren up from a strangely evangelical Anglican vacation bible school earlier and so they accompanied us. Stokesay was a strange old manor house seemingly unable to decide whether to be a large house or small castle. Danaide was entranced by the woodworking over one of the fireplaces but I found myself somewhat disconnected, unable to visit that foreign country, the past. Instead all I heard was a badly done recording instead of a tour guide and all I saw was faded stones tramped by others who could not visit and were doomed only to see, as if through faded pictures, a deserted remnant. Still it had its beauty and meaning, found in out of the way places. The remnant circles left by ancient barrels in the storehouse, the back of slate roof, wooden pegs on wooden slats sheltering Stokesay’s owners for unknown years. The boys bought wooden swords as though Stokesay had played an important part in bygone wars instead of surrendering immediately the only time it was confronted with hostility. Eventually we came back home and sat down for dinner, followed by a lively discussion on the merits of hereditary authority. Before bed I hope to be graced with a viewing of our hosts (strangely beautiful for so practical a man) paintings.
A day that began well but ended rather poorly. Drove to the some sightseeing along the Shropshire countryside. We went first to the castle of Acton Burnell, the site of the first unified parliament of Britain. The site itself was mostly unimpressive. A great shell on the grounds of an international school. What impressed upon my mind most was the great cedar trees that grew on the compound. One was too high to be measured, soaring far above the castles battlements with a single branch that was large enough to cover the whole castle in its shade. The setting was unique; a castle raised by the sweating toil of hundreds crumbling to nothing while next to it grew, effortlessly, a single tree, to greater height as if to mock the efforts of man.
From Acton we traveled to the ancient Roman center of Virconium. I discovered that me studies had led me to approach such things in a new fashion. While all about me people meandered about the ruins of the great bath, immediately I was drawn to the stacked tiles of the caldarium, as if by a perfect understanding of the details of a site the whole was reconstituted. But it was here that the day began to sour. Danaide was angry, justifiable so, that my father continued to drive away before all were in the car. Here too, in the shadow of all that I had studied for the last four years everyone began to question every statement I made on history, Suddenly our assembled group began to behave as thought I were a mere infant. My parents began to chastise me about reimbursing our hosts, as thought I had not thought of such things myself. My sister began to chastise me about the behavior and plans of Danaide's family, as thought I could control them. And when Danaide and I decided to test out our bikes in preparation for the trip ahead each person saw fit to chastise me for some aspect of my planning, as if any of the had mounted a bike in the last five years! Finally we all went for a somewhat disgruntled drink at the Bottle and Glass and at least its comforting hominess had some lift on my spirit.
Day Eight
The day of setting out on our own rushes towards us. Began some preparation today. We went to Shrewsbury, to the Kings Head pub, a beautiful ancient place jutting out into the streets, where we met the man who had catered our wedding dinner. He seemed to be as old as his pub. Across the street, a J.C. Pickering Toy Store where we found Danaide a headlamp for her bike. It was a quaint toy shop filled with wondrous toys and an antique old man running it without recourse to electronics and quietly mourning his lack of sons to whom he could pass on his business. From downtown Shrewsbury we meandered along a strange route, chosen by my Father who refuses to believe he is going in the wrong direction. Hence we were privileged to see new parts of Shrewsbury; the prison; the toll bridge in the center of town; even the wealthy quarter. Finally we found our road and made our way out of town towards Stokesay castle. We had picked our hosts grandchildren up from a strangely evangelical Anglican vacation bible school earlier and so they accompanied us. Stokesay was a strange old manor house seemingly unable to decide whether to be a large house or small castle. Danaide was entranced by the woodworking over one of the fireplaces but I found myself somewhat disconnected, unable to visit that foreign country, the past. Instead all I heard was a badly done recording instead of a tour guide and all I saw was faded stones tramped by others who could not visit and were doomed only to see, as if through faded pictures, a deserted remnant. Still it had its beauty and meaning, found in out of the way places. The remnant circles left by ancient barrels in the storehouse, the back of slate roof, wooden pegs on wooden slats sheltering Stokesay’s owners for unknown years. The boys bought wooden swords as though Stokesay had played an important part in bygone wars instead of surrendering immediately the only time it was confronted with hostility. Eventually we came back home and sat down for dinner, followed by a lively discussion on the merits of hereditary authority. Before bed I hope to be graced with a viewing of our hosts (strangely beautiful for so practical a man) paintings.
aaraa:
no. i don't think getting boring is getting better. just because you're stable doesn't mean you have to be boring. 
braveart:
Yeah--the photo is good ol me. Maybe two years ago. Funny thing is, its actually not black and white. It was just one of those really lucky moments with a digital camera.