I promised I’d write about Whitehaven, and so I will (even though so much has happened since I went there!).
A few weeks ago, I took the train up north to spend a long weekend in Whitehaven, Cumbria. I stayed with the family my mum stayed with when she came to England 28 years ago.
I walked to the Oxford train station early in the morning, only to miss my train by going to the wrong platform. I could not believe it! Missing a train produces the most awful sinking feeling, and I stood there forlornly on the platform wondering what on earth i would do.
Fortunately, my ticket was for “any route,” so I got the next train two hours later. I consoled myself saying that I had gotten it out of my system before going to Italy, where the trains might not be so accommodating.
The B-----s, H and J, picked me up from the Penrith station looking exactly the way I remember them from their visit when I was 12. On the way home from the train station, we stopped at the Rheged Center, which had an exhibit of costumes from British films like Sense and Sensibility and Shakespeare in Love. We had lunch there--broccoli soup and soda bread (which is AMAZING).
Arriving at their house in Whitehaven was the only time that I have felt homesick so far in England. I kept thinking, “Mom should be here,” and then they showed me a collage of pictures of my family on their wall. So, though I'd been rolling my eyes at Betsy's homesickness at the beginning of her Europe trip in Betsy and the Great World (immediately after she arrives anywhere she throws herself on the bed and sobs), in that moment I finally understood how she felt.
That evening, after I composed myself, we took a walk around Whitehaven Harbour, and I was consoled. There’s something about the sea that I can’t get enough of. It's enormous and constant, and the waves have a rhythm, but it is also different every time you see it--never quite the same color. That evening, it was a slick and shining periwinkle that melted into a broad golden strip of the sunset's reflection. Walking around, H and J gave me a history lesson about the coalmines and their tragedies, and about John Paul Jones’ failed invasion during the American Revolution (when his men deserted him to drink at the pub).
The next day, we set out for Muncaster Castle—supposedly one of the most haunted in England. On the way, we stopped at Wasdale, the place with the deepest lake, the highest mountain, the smallest church, and the biggest liar. We saw the lake and the church. This was a place my parents had gone, and it was strange to walk into the tiny church and recognize it from a picture I've seen of them.
What I remember about Cumbria most is the landscape. The hills are steep, and low, 300-year-old stone walls curve up and down them. Between those walls, hundreds of black, white, and brown sheep roam. They lie next to the roads or mosey up to the tops of the hills. I have never seen so many sheep in my life. Have ever noticed how adorable they are? They cuddle up together and doze in the rain. It's impossible not to drive by and exclaim, "Sheeeeeep!"
The land itself is the most beautiful I have ever seen. The rainsoaked grass and trees are deep green, and often topped with mist and clouds that are every shade of gray. In a way, you could say it looks like the Pacific Northwest. And yet, it’s so much more wild. The hills are called "Fells," and, as it’s the Lake District, many of these fells touch lakes, “meres,” or “waters.” Even the water is wild—choppy and slate gray; it's not difficult to imagine ancient seamonsters swimming in their frigid depths. Stone farmhouses are scattered along the fells, each more charming than the rest. I grew up reading authors who lived in places like this--James Harriot and Beatrix Potter--and because of their writing, I felt like I was returning somewhere I'd seen before. It was familiar like a land from a dream.
Muncaster Castle is also the home of an owl preserve, so I saw Hedwig and many of her friends, as well as the haunted bedroom in the castle. It’s an odd shade of deep blue-green, and always quite cold. Near the end of our self-guided tour, a scruffy old man in a cap and fleece jacket asked us if we were local. H said that I’d come all the way from Seattle, and the man said, “Well, if you look in the next room, you’ll see me on the wall.” It was Lord Penningtone himself! His family has owned the castle for generations, and he lives there now.
The next day, I went to Michael Moon’s bookshop, which was absolutely magical. Bookshelves are stacked from the floor to the ceiling, and there are piles of books all around the floor. I crawled down the hallway, picking out Thackeray, Chesterton, Shakespeare, and Dickens. I bought 17 books, several from the 1800s, including a beautiful little royal blue volume containing famous poems about flowers. H and J had to drag me out of the shop so we could get to the Beatrix Potter Museum. There, we walked through the tales of Peter Rabbit, Benjamin Bunny, Squirrel Nutkin, and many more. There was a flowery potpourri scent throughout, and gentle flute music played in the background; H kept saying that it reminded him of the Shire in The Lord of the Rings.
That night, we went to Crosby’s for some real fish and chips. The fish was fabulous; doused with salt and vinegar and accompanied by mushy peas, it melted in my mouth.
One of the parts of the trip I enjoyed the most was listening to H and J talk about my mom. She visited them for the first time when she was exactly my age, and they immediately formed one of those relationships that can only be described as providential. They said it was like she had always been there; she would sit in front of their open coal fire, and it was like she was one of the family. It was a gift to listen to them describe the impact she's had on their lives.
The next morning, the J and I went to the neighborhood church, and then I took a train back to Oxford.
Aaaaand there happened to be an RAF guy from Scotland sitting next to me on the train, so I got to listen to that accent for a couple of hours, learning all about haggis and Robbie Burns nights.
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