Andy Wood: Thanksgiving at Weycroft Hall

I have been given the honor of writing our last England Semester 2014 student post.

This semester has been magical for all of us, and especially for Allie, Kate, Heather and I as this is our last semester of college! This last week as a group we left London and ventured into Devonshire (as south west in England as you can get) to celebrate Thanksgiving. We arrived at Weycroft Hall, a beautiful old, old, building with a plaque on the wall that claims its first inhabitants were the Romans. The current building had been around since before James I and its antiquity is evident by the four-hundred year old tapestry on the wall. When we arrived at the great hall, I walked all the way in to the warm fire in the stone mantelpiece, and then all the way out and then all the way in again until I found Claire who was as excited as I was and then we just shrieked. Since the English don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, the Christmas tree was already up, fully decorated with a lopsided star, and the windows all had tinsel spread out over the windowsill.

The only part of the building with Wi-fi was the great hall, so we all camped out by the fire, Christmas tree and grand piano, and worked on our homework. Every so often, everyone would crowd around the fire to warm up. Sometimes, Kendal or Lindsey would play the piano; when Lindsey played a piece from Pride and Prejudice most people stopped and swooned (myself included). The cold especially made us feel like we were experiencing history.

For Thanksgiving we had teams and every team cooked a different part of the meal. I was on the meat team; we had a ham and two turkeys, lots of sides, amazing dessert and warm drinks. For Thanksgiving entertainment, and as a part of class, every student had to present a small monologue or act from Shakespeare. There were many notables. Everyone was really good, Tobin and Liz did a scene from Romeo and Juliet—Tobin was Juliet. Donald and Jeff read from Star Wars According to Shakespeare, Katherine Kwong re-wrote a feast speech from Henry V with references to our real nemesis (homework) and Jamie ended the night by having us beat the table like drums (carefully so as to not knock down the candles!) as she read from Beowulf. On campus, Jamie asks her students to imagine being in a medieval hall before she reads Beowulf; there was no need to imagine for us. At the end of the night, we all watched Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King on the projector and with surround sound. I thought about how technology changes and a thousand years fly by, but in places like Weycroft Hall, history and modernity live side by side, and how people may hear stories differently, from chanting Beowulf to watching Lord of the Rings, but we still love stories.

I am thankful for such a wonderful Thanksfgiving, for being a part of history, for Westmont and wonderful proffessors and classmates, and for graduating!

Lindsey Twigg: A Scamper Through Belgravia

 

 I am not a spontaneous person.

 As much as I would like to be, spontaneity does not seem to be a part of my person. I plan. I execute the plan. Executing the plan is fun. Consequently, I am not one who will burst through the front door and be caught up in a whirlwind of starry-eyed wanderlust. This is most disconcerting.

The plan was to wander the Victoria and Albert Museum until closing before meeting friends for dinner in Belgravia at seven. Plan: see the controversial exhibition about protest, Disobedient Objects. Plan executed. Plan enjoyed. Katherine and I emerged from the hulking monolith that is the V&A googley-eyed and drooling (not really) in sheer wonder of its worldly treasures.

An hour and a half till dinner. Plan: walk five minutes to see the Harrod’s store windows then catch a bus to the restaurant. The luxury department store had just unveiled their Christmas displays, so as hundreds of high-heeled shoppers exited the building with the signature green-and-gold bags and stepped into their respective limos and taxis, we perused the miniature winter wonderlands full of tiny mice in footman’s jackets, ballet dancers dressed in Alexander McQueen, and generally many things we wish we could put on our Christmas list.

And here’s where things got a bit wonky. The bus system was complicated and neither of us had the means to navigate it. Fed up with my apparent lack of adventurous spirit, I moved that we simply suck it up and walk the mile-and-a-half from South Kensington to lower Belgravia. A moment of discussion later, we both decided to ignore the glaringly apparent question “Is it safe at night?” and just go for it.

The brisk walk from point A to point B turned out to be one of the most beautiful city walks of my life. Darling boutiques and immaculate residences with perfect, columned entrances lined the streets for blocks and gated groomed greens greeted us at every turn. Katherine made it her business to inspect the lovely door knockers. Street lamps with hanging geranium pots lit our merry way as we chattered excitedly from street to street. Little random alleyways piqued our interest and our default answer became, “Oh, we have time!”

Before we knew it, we had wandered into the Embassy District—the crowning jewel of Belgravia, perhaps. And here time froze. We scampered around Belgrave Square like children, giggling, letting things catch our fancy, succumbing to that funny thing called whim. We made a game of guessing the flag names, squinting at the plaque titles, waving maniacally into all the security cameras, and—when coppers or house guards weren’t to be seen—craned out heads into the windows. One had stunning light fixtures, another rich turquoise wallpaper, still another grand portraits of bearded fellows in stately uniforms.

And just like that adventure had found me. Pleasantly surprised, I smiled at the thought and sauntered on towards dinner.

 

Davis Vanderhorst: Paris

Paris, a city of lights, love and leisure is also a city in which etiquette is expected and required.

As the semester draws to a close, I have begun to reflect on the wide range of my travels and continually think of what it means to be a pilgrim, more specifically what have I learned in terms of respect for a culture that differs from my own.

Now I know that it is obvious to show respect to other cultures as pilgrim, but how often do we actually take time to see the benefits? I would have to say that amongst my thoughts on this subject, Paris would be back cover summary as to the guidance of cultural respect. Although I spent less than 48 hours in the magnificent city, I learned more in that time than I have over the course of the semester.

With such a wide range of cultural interactions thus far, I would be lying if I said that Paris does not live up to its stereotype of a city that judges dress, speech and etiquette even in a casual setting. As is probably most obvious, being a pilgrim it is generally expected that one must be respectful of any culture- but in Paris, being prim and proper is the culture. As I wove my way through the bustling streets with the Seine as my guide, I looked at those around me who were dressed to impress on a casual Saturday afternoon. My interactions in the bakeries across the city were warm and friendly as I tried my hand at feeble attempts of French. However, my effort was almost always recognized and thus rewarded with an experience unlike any I have had thus far.

Although Paris often brandishes a stigma of abrasiveness to travelers, when I put forth the effort to assimilate I was rewarded with a rich cultural experience that was warm and inviting. I would be told by locals as to what sights were really worth my time and was even given advice as to how to beat the crowds. Paris demand and its culture demands respect but it also one of the only cities in my travels that has given back so much more than I deserved. Paris has truly redefined my interpretation of what it means to be a respectful pilgrim abroad.

Donald Scherschligt: Fair England

I think there’s something a little bit insane about choosing to see theater, or art museums, or films when one has massive amounts of reading to do and two research papers (yes, two!) to write in only a couple of weeks.

    It’s that point in the semester everyone dreads, where the work starts piling up, the assignments put off for weeks start coming down to the wire, and everyone holes up in coffee shops and hogs the power outlets so that they can finish homework in time. And here I am, seeing four plays in three days, plus a couple films, plus going to art museums. I have just as much work, I remind myself. In the back of my head, the part of me that worries about deadlines is panicking and shouting at me.

    But yesterday, I went to the Tate Britain and got lost amidst the works of JMW Turner. He’s my favorite painter. I’m no art scholar, but I stared at his landscape, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage – Italy” for quite a while. Turner takes the title, and the lines of poetry that accompany it, from Byron’s epic poem:

… and now, fair Italy!
Thou are the garden of the world…
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.’

    In addition to not being a particularly good art scholar, I am not particularly skilled at analyzing poetry, either. However, Byron, having seen Italy’s fall in recent years, still found beauty in that mess. Where Byron puts words to that idea, Turner puts images.

    I emerged from the museum refreshed and relaxed and with my priorities in line once more. Though it’s easy to become overwhelmed at this point in our trip, it’s far more important, I think, to fight those feelings and remember why we came to England: the country has so much it can teach us, not by sitting in a classroom, but by going out and experiencing the place.

 

Every day, I have tried to go somewhere new, and somewhere familiar: I have tried becoming a regular at a coffee shop in town, while also exploring new bookstores, museum exhibits, and thrift shops. I know my favorite sights to go by down in central London, but I also seek out new neighborhoods and enjoy just walking along the streets or through the parks, discovering what new thing the city has to offer me each day.

    Reading this again, I make it sound much easier on paper. It is hard work to get out into the city. A growing part of me wants to stay in the familiar American comfort of Starbucks. I don’t always get to do what I want during the day while also balancing homework. I still try. Byron got it wrong, I think: fair England is the garden of the world, and I want to wander through it as much as possible before I leave.

Katie Swalm: Paris

On Saturday morning at 5:30am, our Paris adventure began with a two-hour train ride. A mere thirty-six hours passed when we visited the City of Light – not enough time to fully appreciate it, but enough time to dine on croissants, crepes, and cups of coffee. When we stepped off the train, the city spread out before us like bright wings. We picked up a map of the city and soon figured out the Metro. Paris seemed utterly familiar and utterly foreign, the language flowery and poetic but unintelligible by me. For some, it is a city of nostalgia; we traveled to visit a fountain that had appeared in one of our group’s childhood memories. The Stravinsky fountain is an abstract creation: a moving metal arm winds slowly back and forth, tossing water; a giant pair of lips slowly rotates in front of a backdrop of street art; a painted woman lounges in the deep. Nearby, a group of street performers had amassed a crowd and danced with a child who had wandered into the center. We were searching for a familiar face – my mother, who had flown to Paris to visit only the day before. We staked a lookout at one of the tables surrounding the fountain and ordered a cup of café chocolat. After wandering around through the crowd, I had given up when I heard someone cry out my name, and there she was in the crowd! Later, we walked along the river back to our hostel. The Seine meanders through Paris as a guide, showing off bridges and the famous architecture. As the sun went down the lights on the bridges illuminated the water, sending streams of light across the waves. Skateboarders and artists woke up as well, carving their way under the bridge. Light rain streamed down, not unpleasant, but cleansing. I pulled my scarf up over my head to keep out the drizzle.

We saw all the things we had to: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre. Each one of these sights rose up like a beacon of familiarity and excitement, as it was my first time to visit them. To be in the proximity of such inspirations, such monuments to human achievement and culture, was breathtaking. Couples walked along the river, highlighting with clarity the state of my singleness. But I looked around at friends and family and realized that there was nothing I was really missing.

That weekend, we didn’t sleep much, we ate purely sugar and coffee, and walked what felt like the whole city, and so Paris felt like a dream. And like any good dream, I did not want it to end. For one weekend we put away homework and lived the city. In a time of a whirling schedule of classes, plays, papers, journals, and bus rides, time to walk and eat and live together is vital and refreshing. And what better place to do so than in Paris, France?

Emma Robbins: Remembrance

        I have great love for stone. I love the way it smells, the way shoes clack against its smooth surface, the way it freezes hands on touch, the way that it allows years of feet and knees to make their uneven marks.

 

This trip has only augmented my affection. It seems that every other day, there’s a new cathedral, church, or ruin to explore, each one tied to the next by the great grit of its walls. Just last week, we visited Bath, to visit the Roman baths (ha). Racing out of the bus, we tripped over the bumpy cobblestone roads, happy to feel our feet hit the ground after so many hours sitting. Once we entered the baths, the powerful smell of rock and running water kept me on cloud nine the entire way through. The hot spring is still running, after nearly 3,000 years, still spilling over the same stones. The image of steaming water over rusty-red rocks communicates ancient to me in a particularly powerful way. 

 

Just two days ago, we arrived in London, and this city has made exploring my stone obsession easy. With an endless supply of marble museums (Matisse at the Tate!), gorgeous churches around every corner, enough rain to keep that wet cement smell in the air...it’s just about perfect. Today, I had the pleasure of attending a Remembrance Day service at St Luke’s, just a couple miles from our home base. The congregation sang together and prayed together, and the voices reverberated and echoed throughout the space. The walls were listening. The vicar spoke on remembrance, how this day concerns past, present, and future, and how we can remember all three. We hold memories of those we have lost, so that we might learn how to act today, for the grace and peace we hope for in our future. As we prayed for those killed as a result of war, I was struck by how stone remembers. How it holds centuries of prayers, laments and songs in its ancient face. I believe that stone listens, and holds our stories gently and quietly as a silent wall, floor, or step, so that we become a part of the space around us.

 

As I get to know this beautiful city, I’m keeping close attention to the walls, roads, and stairs. I want to notice what they’ve felt, see the subtle indents and uneven ridges, feel with my own hands years of human presence. And maybe the stone will remember me, too. 

Rachel Phillips: London

As callous as it may seem to admit, there are only so many cathedrals and timeworn monuments a person can visit before the novelty begins to wane a bit. The awe inspired by such formidable and long-lasting creations is never lost, but I think guilty disillusionment is a feeling many travelers experience—myself included.

 

Perhaps that was why the British Museum surprised me.

 

We had just arrived in London. Unpacking bags could wait—I joined a small group of students to explore the city. After a quick lunch at a nearby Thai restaurant to satiate our grumbling bellies, we hopped onto the tube. Someone suggested we visit the British museum. I’d never been there, but it sounded like a valuable experience—I mean, I like museums and Britishness.

 

The building itself is a work of art, although I only began to properly appreciate it in retrospect. A huge ceiling of trigonal glass curved above us as we stumbled inside. Peering up through it felt like standing inside the eye of a massive insect. A living creature. To be honest, it gave me the heebie-jeebies. I ducked into the Egyptian exhibit to view displays that were more comfortably unalive. And then I saw the Rosetta Stone.

 

The Rosetta Stone is famous enough to be almost universally recognized, even if only as the inspiration for the name of a popular language-learning software. And here it was, right at the entrance to the exhibit. In any other museum, the stone would have been staged in a more climactic location as the main attraction. And yet, here it was.

 

Just a few steps away were twin Assyrian stone lions, gazing out upon countless statues and sarcophaguses. The controversial Parthenon sculptures reclined mere meters away. We happened to stumble upon—metaphorically, of course—a discreetly labeled, mummified Cleopatra. It would be nearly impossible to overemphasize the sheer amount of history crowded into one beautiful building.

Standing there, in the midst of all this pressing history, I felt so small.

 

But I think, sometimes, it is good to allow ourselves to feel insignificant and overwhelmed and humbled. It is good to let God surprise us.

 

As this trip begins to wind down (if it is even capable of doing such a thing, what with research papers and theatre and exotic foods to eat), it seems even more important to remember what an extraordinary opportunity this semester brings. We are here to learn, and to experience, and to allow others grace to learn and experience in their own ways. We are here to be together in these marvelous places where we can savor the shared knowledge of generations, past and present.

 

Perhaps we can retain this experience of being humbled by history and togetherness—not always, as the novelty does wane. But perhaps if I find that I have grown too careless of my surroundings or the people I am with, I can remember standing under that bug-eyed dome. I can remember feeling small.

Tyler Merkel: Canterbury Pilgrimage

This Halloween was one for the books. 

Since 1173 ,pilgrims have flocked to Canterbury in search of miracles, Thomas Beckett's bones, and spiritual renewal. All semester long we have been reading Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. It is an unfinished collection of stories about pilgrims who come from all layers of society. Chaucer used these tales and peculiar characters to paint a critical portrait of socially stratified England.
 On Friday, October 31st we would walk on the very same trail that pilgrims had been journeying on for hundreds of years.

To say the least, I was geeking out. 

Our pilgrimage started out at the Tickled Trout pub in the wee village of Wye. Kate Mena and I had volunteered to navigate the group for the next eleven miles with written directions and a few landmark photos to guide us. We walked through royal hunting forests, medieval pubs, and many backyards- all along one of the oldest natural trails in Britain, the North Downs. Somehow, the three hour walk turned into a eight hour trek that had us walking into places like the Fright Wood (no kidding, that was the actual name of the forest we went though) long after the sun had gone down.

With our complaining knees, sore feet, and niggling shins and hips, and bodies dehydrated and empty stomachs... in short, things were miserable. Yet throughout all that we distracted each other with scary stories, silly riddles, and rib-tickling reenactments of Chaucer’s tales. If anyone knows me, they know that these kinds of misadventures are my favorite moments-- they are the stories I end up sharing when I journey back home. When everything goes wrong it feels as though I shed my tough second skin, and with it shed my inhibitions, comforts and make room for something else to happen.

When we finally did make it into Canterbury late that night I shrieked at the sight of Canterbury Cathedral, bathed in a warm yellow light in the distance. The entire group broke into a sprint towards the towering steeple and threw ourselves down on the grassy ground and just laid there, all sprawled out below the bell tower. Student and professor alike, we let our weary bodies rest, laughed and cheered while we let our eyes soak up the ancient cathedral. In that moment, feeling so much closer to the pilgrims who came before, we all simultaneously agreed that it had all been worth it.

Heather Miranda: The Isle of Innisfree

I wish I had actually been able to stand upon the lake isle of Innisfree.

Because our day only allowed for about an hour in the area, we only got to look across at the island and watch the waves and a few boats paddle by. It’s funny because that’s probably how Yeats felt too--all those miles away in London as he wrote his poem. As much as he could see it in his mind or remember its smell, he couldn’t touch it. The dream stood, like Gatsby’s dream, green and across the lake and made better in idealization than reality could ever construct. I think that’s how anything just out of reach tends to be--highly idealized as it tantalizes us with its closeness. And this makes me wonder how God sees our capacity for dreaming unrealistic treasures into existence. It is solely a good, creative capacity? Or would it be more accurate to dub it a silly, human affectation?

       In our pilgrimage reflections, we are encouraged to ask ourselves how places or experiences pertain to loving things or people or places well. So how does Innisfree teach me to love the world well? Honestly I think we need to go out onto the lake and stand upon the isle. Or we need to drive around the sound and look Daisy in the eye. There's no better way to shatter your illusions than to see for yourself the fraud you've created. And maybe it's better not to dwell on Innisfree when you're in London, because it's right to love London while you're there. It's not good to dwell always on where you are not or the person with whom you aren't spending your time. We mustn't always soak in the nostalgia of either the past or of the future. So being present and content in any one season of life is one way I'm personally learning to love well this one wild and precious life of mine.

In the end, Yeats is not at fault for his poem, but I want the desire and the action to go and to do. There's certainly something out there, across the lake. But as Eliot says: do not ask, "what is it?" Let us go and make our visit.

 

Katherine Kwong: Blenheim Palace: A World of Gardens and Art

This past weekend was dubbed our “Self-Pilgrimage,” weekend where chose a place in the UK (within reason and means of course) to go, which held significance or purpose for us. I chose Oxford.

It is a marvelous place. With 38 different colleges it is more of a town in a college rather than a college in a town. You can go down one street and be surrounded by a main thoroughfare of shops, take a left and pass a residence hall, turn right and pass a lecture hall  walk another block and find some quaint cafes. Oxford is full of wonders. Speaking of wonders, Blenheim Palace, the birthplace and ancestral home of Sir Winston Leonard-Spencer Churchill, is only five miles from Oxford.

On Sunday morning, the last morning, I journeyed (by brilliant bus) to the residence of an orator whom I greatly admire and who was the subject of a report I did in 8th grade. Stepping off the bus, I was greeted by a splendid tree-lined gravel driveway. Entering the palace I was immediately struck by its grandeur and scope as it stood like a majestic island against the ocean of lake, gardens, lawns and grounds.


The first exhibit focused on Churchill’s life from birth to death, highlighting some of his accomplishments such as his military service, war correspondence and biography writings. We know Winston Churchill as the dogmatic, witty-tongued hero of WWII, but something I didn’t know was that Winston Churchill was a very good artist. In his spare time he would paint. Subjects included: landscapes of the Blenheim Palace grounds, his dogs, the staterooms in the palace and scenes from the surrounding country. After meeting him during WWI, Paul Maze became an artistic mentor for Winston Churchill. Even a good friend of Churchill’s Sir Oswald Birley once stated, “If Sir Winston Churchill had given the time to art that he gave to politics, he would have been all odds the world’s greatest painter.” Isn’t that what friends are for? His art was so good in fact that Churchill attracted the attention of Joyce C. Hall, then head of the Hallmark greeting card company. She visited Churchill at Blenheim Palace and asked for permission to reproduce his art on American greeting and Christmas cards! Such was the reputation of the Hallmark Company that Churchill readily agreed – charmed by the fact his art was being enjoyed in America.

The palace and Churchill’s art weren’t the only pieces of art on display that day. An exhibit of 50 art pieces done by Chinese political artist Ai WeiWei (I-way-way) were placed throughout the palace and grounds. One of Ai’s goal is to use the ordinary, mundane artifacts from Chinese history and to transform them into something that makes a statement about China or against the current Chinese government. Thus, his famous pile of spray-painted crabs lay out on a beautiful rug. Chinese glazed vases adorned a hall. Gold plated zodiac heads stared in the dining room. The juxtaposition of Ai Wei Wei’s pieces throughout a palace that once held monarchy and was the epoch of royalty was highly intriguing and charged with layers of meaning. The result, in the words of a kind warden of the palace, “We want to make sure this place doesn’t seem like it’s frozen in time (what with Downtown Abbey and all that) we want to bring in new interests, it’s good for people to see."


As I strolled outside onto the ocean of green lawn, I thought about what I had seen. There was Winston Churchill with his dogged steadfastness and political charisma. There was Ai WeiWei whose keen eye for artistic disruption juxtaposed nicely with the lavish palace. Two very different men, with their ideas side by side. Blenheim may have been a palace, but now it is a place where families and grandparents can stroll the magnificently large grounds for free. Children on scooters and dogs on leashes capered happily about. It is a place that was once closed to common people, but is now a palace for everyone to enjoy.

Kate Mena: Self-Pilgrimages

Now that we are half way through our semester, there is a range of emotion spread throughout the group. The honeymoon stage was over long ago yet some of our friendships are growing stronger by the day. Home-sicknesses has entered into our conversations and the sarcasm has increased now that we know each other's quirks and antics. For us seniors, senioritis has never hit so hard since most of us will be finished this December. Our juniors are either worried about spring housing and/or classes or wondering how the remainder of their time at Westmont will be as fruitful as England Semester. Then finally our sophomores are still exploring the opportunities ahead of them while being open to new and different possibilities. Basically, the general consensus is that we are all nostalgic since our experiences have been so surreal as time passes swiftly and naturally.
 

It's about that time when responsibility creeps into all of our minds, but for now, let's continue to be nostalgic.
 

Recently, all of us had our self-guided pilgrimage weekends. We left Birmingham and webbed throughout the United Kingdom. Some of us explored the villages of northern and southern Wales. Some stayed in England and visited places such as Liverpool to experience more of the legendary Beatles and some ventured to the coastlines of Brighton or the Isle of Skye. Some traveled as far as Ireland or Spain to the great cities of Dublin and Barcelona. During this weekend, we all had the opportunity to explore the idea of pilgrimage whether internal or external. I, like many students, have struggled with the concept of presence and how to achieve a mental and emotional presence during a busy and mobile semester that pushes for an ability to process quickly. I speak for many of the students when I say this self-guided pilgrimage could not have come at a better time.
 

Our pilgrimage course requires us to constantly ask ourselves "What am I being called to pay attention to today? Or this week? Or this semester?" I had the privilege of going to the small village of Betws-y-coed in northern Wales with one of my peers. I don't know how or why we chose this location and I don't think many other students could answer that either. However, all of us could probably answer, or at least attempt to answer the more important question of "looking back, why do you think God sent you there?" This questions has been a theme for our entire semester. We are all called to pay attention to and be receptive to God's will. With that said, take an hour out of your day to pick up a good book, go for a walk or do whatever it is you believe God is calling you towards and pay attention. Listen. See. God is calling you.

Abby Lombardo: Homecoming

 This weekend felt like a continuation of themes discussed at Tintern Abbey: themes of returning to a place filled with memory and the span of time that marks the growth of a person. These themes became extremely salient to me as our coach full of England Semestrians pulled into the quaint rivertown of Stratford-upon-Avon, which I had visited a little over a year ago in May 2013 while attending Westmont’s London Theatre Mayterm.

Though my previous stay in Stratford consisted of introverted, bed-ridden days of rest, recuperation, and solitude, I felt a tug on my heart. I felt the warmth of familiarity flow from tip to toe. I felt the spilling of stored-up memories previously reserved within my mind. And as I stepped over the threshold of the same bed-and-breakfast where I had stayed a year previous, my cell phone instantly connected to the lovingly remembered and not forgotten Wi-Fi network! My mind knew. My body knew. My phone knew. I was home.

One of the main reasons Stratford-upon-Avon feels like home to me is my love of the Royal Shakespeare Company and Royal Shakespeare Theatre. This weekend’s Love’s Labour’s Lost would count as my 4th Royal Shakespeare Company production I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of viewing. With so many memories encapsulated within the wooden halls, plush red seats, and brick walls of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, walking through the doors Friday night felt like I could tangibly connect to my past experiences. All of the joyous laughs (there were many) humble critiques (if there is such a thing) and reverent praises (who could stop?) experienced in this sacred space whelmed me in a flood of remembrance.

I asked myself why and how a theatre building made out of sticks and stones could make me remember so much and feel so much familiarity! And then I realized the answer—Shakespeare, DUH! In my time at Westmont as an English Major, I studied Shakespeare and his works every year. Deep discussions about characters’ choices, behaviors, and motivations fostered an intimate connection between character and reader. I became very comfortable and familiar with the Bard and all of his lovable and not-so-lovable characters. To push my point further—they became family. Apparently, I am not the only one to connect in such a way to Shakespeare’s plays, for they have lasted over 400 years and have become some of the most familiar plays (in the English language) of all time! Now—I figured—my love of all things Shakespeare may or may not have had an impact on my mental, physical, and emotional reaction upon my return to the RST.

Though I had missed my hometown high school’s homecoming football game (which happened to take place on the exact same October weekend) I had experienced my own homecoming of sorts when I made my way through the theatre, found my correctly numbered plush red seat, and bounced up and down as my 4th RSC production began.

Kaitlin Kinney: Liverpool

This weekend we had the amazing opportunity to create our own pilgrimages in and around the UK.

As you can imagine we all struggled to pick just one place to travel to considering there are so many beautiful and noteworthy destinations at our fingertips. I found the music lover in me gravitating towards the “World Capital City of Pop,” Liverpool.

We arrived on the early morning train and jotted down to Albert Dock straight away. As we
meandered across the beautiful boat-lined docks, we found ourselves hopping in line for one of the most touristy things I think I have ever done in my life. It was in Liverpool that I became THAT tourist. I found myself climbing aboard a giant yellow, psychedelically painted Magical Mystery Tour bus and I felt absolutely no shame.

We spent the following two and a half hours touring beneath the blue suburban skies of Liverpool seeing where John, Paul, George and Ringo lived and went to school growing up, going to Penny Lane and the strawberry fields gate, seeing Eleanor Rigby's grave and ending at The Cavern Club where The Beatles played 292 times while they were in the beginning stages of being a band. All the while we were listening to Beatles songs and singing at the top of our lungs with about twenty strangers who were all easily 30 years older than us. It was awesome.

Not only is Liverpool the home of The Beatles, but it is also home to a multitude of museums. We were lucky enough to get to 5 of these- including an extension of the Tate Modern, the Museum of Liverpool and the Walker Art Gallery. Being up close and personal with the amazing works of the greats such as Monet, Picasso, Degas and Rembrant is absolutely riveting. Seeing art in person allows
you to see the depth of brush strokes, different pressures applied, how colors are blended, the size of the piece.

Leaving this marvelous cultural center was definitely one of the hardest goodbyes on this trip for me thus far. Liverpool is full of inspiration. It brings to life the world that cultivated and inspired one of the most influential bands in music and the world. You find ancient and modern culture fused together, living as one. People come from across the globe, shoulder to shoulder, experiencing all this beautiful city has to offer. In the words of The Beatles, “There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed.” I truly do believe Liverpool is one of those places.

Katherine George: Book of Kells

Unexpected detours are almost always the proverbial cherry on top of the cake.

The things you don’t expect to see or experience in a day usually make the day worth living through. The particular surprise waiting for our group at the end of our pilgrimage last Wednesday was the Book of Kells at the Trinity College Library in Dublin, Ireland.

I must admit, I didn’t know what this was until I learned we were going to see it. On the surface, the Book is simply the four gospels recorded by monks in Latin, around 800 AD, with pretty pictures. But to find its true value, one must look further.

The exhibit at the college was extremely conducive to its purpose. First, visitors are invited to read about the making of the Book of Kells- and what that process entailed in the 9th would have to be agonizing. The entire book was written by scribes and the images and symbols were slowly and intentionally done by illustrators. The amazing care and precision was plainly evident, and the quality is unmatched.

Then, after reading all of this information, people trickle into the room where the book is kept under careful inspection and watchful eyes. I slowly inch my way around the table until I am staring directly down at the open pages. It is breathtaking. I am struck by the vibrancy of the illustrations, even after all these years. The monks that created this had to have had some kind of an idea as to the importance of what they were partaking in. Why else would someone put so much effort into a thing? Us and millions of others see this and think, who would ever have the patience to finish something like this?

In our culture, we seem to have forgotten the value of the handmade, the painstaking process of creation. So much of our lives is governed by and because of efficiency that we can’t imagine anyone wanting to go through with such an involved task. We can look at this book and other artifacts like it, and hopefully take to heart what it teaches us about what we see as being worth something in this day and time. After seeing this amazing slice of history, I would like for everyone to see this treasure, or pieces equivalent to it, so they may learn to appreciate this high level of craftsmanship and quality, and lay their eyes upon the exquisite possibilities.

Kat Kendall: Things Unseen

Before visiting Ireland, I had never considered believing in curious paranormal happenings or the idea of natural spirits. Who knows if I’m right, but this past week has made me question everything I once thought sounded crazy.

The other day Liam, our sensible, wonderful host, walked us through the Kilbroney Cemetery. We met up around a shrine to St. Bronagh, one of the three local women who led religious settlements sometime in the 6th century. Liam told us remarkable stories about a well whose water gives sight to the blind, a ringing bell concealed in a tree for decades, and a final story about a local reverend.

Reverend Canon McGinn was a family friend who stayed with Liam’s grandparents while on his deathbed. Moments after the reverend died, three knocks sounded on the second story window of his room. Liam’s grandmother began attempting to contact McGinn’s family by telegram when the reverend’s brother showed up that evening at their doorstep. Surprised to see someone so soon, she asked him how the message had reached him so quickly. His response? “I heard three knocks on my window this morning, and I knew my brother had died."

It seems we’ve been talking a lot lately in class about what is visible and what is invisible, particularly in the context of a place like Ireland where spirits and the supernatural seem to be a very natural part of life. We read sections of Julian of Norwich’s Revelations of Divine Love and reflected on non-rational approaches to spirituality. Is there a way to approach God and life in a way that does not primarily rely on reason and logic? In the merging of the seen and unseen worlds, we wondered if there is a way our more Western emphasis on hyper-rationality leaves us somehow missing some aspect of an experience.

I had the opportunity to present on John O’Donahue, a poet, philosopher, and priest from the West of Ireland earlier this week. One quote stood out to me as particularly applicable to our ongoing discussion of the spiritual and invisible. He writes, “The world quietly offers to each of us invitations that enliven and enrich our onward days. May we cultivate the patience and reverence needed to enter beauty’s invisible embrace”. The idea of a reverential and deeply respectful approach seems key to being trusted with the hidden beauty that is concealed to arrogance and impatience. While I still cannot say I am a firm believer in the unseen world, these questions and more have left me wondering about the ways I choose to limit myself and my spirituality to what is comfortable and seemingly rational. Instead of giving into the temptation to connect everything logically, I’d like to train my eyes and heart to see more clearly things unseen.

Hannah Johnson: Conwy, Wales

After bidding the Emerald Isle farewell on October 10th, our little group of pilgrims set sail on a ferry bound for Wales–fittingly situated smack dab between Ireland and England. The sleepy, rugged beauty of the Welsh landscape quickly stole little pieces of our hearts as we sat transfixed by Conwy unfolding before us through our coach windows. In the morning we made our way down the hill from our hostel to explore the loveliness of this tiny town encircled by a medieval wall, overshadowed by a castle, and outlined by an ocean-feeding river. The homey scent of salt air ushered us in as we canvased the main points of interest: an Elizabethan manor called Plas Mawr, the 14th century Aberconwy House, the gravesite that sparked William Wordsworth’s “We Are Seven” poem, the Smallest House in Great Britain, and Conwy Castle. Conwy is an enchanting place.

However, as we walked around–entranced by the loveliness of time gone by mingled with tea and the sea–history caught up to me. The charming castle and its surrounding walls rising high above the merchant village became, in light of the town's troubled past, dimmer than the fairytale-laced images that originally ran through my head. As magnificent and inviting as Conwy is now, it was once a place of exclusivity and strife. The lovely walkable city walls that remind me so much of our first England Semester home in York have their own history of separating the “us” from the “them.” During the later part of the 13th century, Edward I of England set out to gain Wales as a conquest. Conwy is living proof of this land-grabbing mission; the walls of the city were constructed for the very purpose of keeping the Welsh at arms length in their own land. The weight of this discovery made every Welsh craft/gift/trinket/pub/tea shop a little victory in and of itself. Here was a town that once shunned everything connected to the Welsh identity fully embracing its birthright.

Additionally, while we were in town, we had the incredible privilege of spending time with Lord Roberts, an esteemed member of Parliament and a local to Conwy. In the opening lines of his discussion with us, Lord Roberts mentioned the tension of Conwy’s past and present by making a lighthearted joke about how the English may have built Conwy up to flaunt their dominance, but English tourists now make up the main source of the town’s revenue. (Somehow I doubt Edward I would approve.) Later, as I looked out from a chink in a wall of the castle that day, I could see Wales splayed out before me–green hills unfurling in the horizon like the bottom half of the Welsh flag–each part stubbornly beautiful and completely Welsh.

Jeff: Giant's Causeway

I stood alone on a platform in Ireland. Constructed by geological forces that have influenced history’s greatest architects. A causeway with such grandeur that there are stories told of its origin in folk stories to child and adult alike. I am of course referring to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland.

 

It has been nearly two months since arriving in the UK, and the aspects of history and culture, just not as relevant in my spheres in the US, are constantly provoking my notion of “common experience.”

 

My breath was taken as I felt the smooth texture of an individual stone that sat closest to the “Giant’s boot.” It was then that the thought occurred: “there are many people who have grown up close to this natural wonder.” I didn’t have the chance to speak with any of these locals, but it did present an interesting follow up question: “are there things in my life, magnificent and awe inspiring, that I peer over because of familiarity?” I study in an institution that is mounted on a small hill that has a view of the Pacific Ocean. I am engaged in material that studies the literary work of those who have lasting shadows in the consultations of language, even centuries after their deaths. Yet I have had my share of mornings where all of these things seemed as humdrum routine.

 

I suppose locations such as the Giant’s Causeway evoke this two-fold beauty- peering at something truly majestic which then forces one to reexamine the things of the past with a new eye. If I recall correctly, it was G.K. Chesterton who wrote, “the object of travel is not to set foot on a foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own land as foreign.”

 

It is strange how being a stranger in a foreign land can establish how weak one’s apprehension of the beautiful truly is.

Devon Johnson: Rostrevor Life

There’s something about living in a small town in the hills of Northern Ireland with no easy access to anything besides your tea and kettle that makes you appreciate some of the smaller things life has to offer. For instance, biking on the “wrong” side of the road in the rain (more like a torrential downpour for Californians) suddenly becomes romantic as you drip your way into the nearest chemist’s shop. Having enough milk chocolate Digestives for your afternoon tea suddenly becomes the highlight of your day and the bat’s you find clinging to your curtains at midnight is as close to a movie as you can get.

But really, we’re in Northern Ireland in a quaint seaside village with a surprising amount of beautiful sunny days. All twenty-five students are divided into different cottages and are learning to cook for each other, live with each other, and be intentional with each other. Living with seven other women in the house is much more challenging than I would ever expect (let’s not start about the hot water), but there is still a time when we can all come around a meal at the end of the day and appreciate one another.

Living in Rostrevor was definitely the part of this trip I dreaded the most, being one of few extroverts on this very English semester. However, I have found it has challenged me in some ways I never expected, mostly dealing with a lot of alone time that I never really wanted. But Rostrevor has helped me be productive in my alone time, whether it be getting out frustration about friends, or talking with God, or even just learning how to be comfortable in silence, I have definitely become better at it here. A saving grace has been the Ceili nights hosted by Liam (the Rostrevor Cottages manager) and several of his musical friends. It has been so fulfilling to all come together as “Friedmanders” and squeak out songs in Gaelic, tweek our voices singing “The Belle of Belfast City” and try out some of our own musical/poetical talents. I have loved being surprised by everyone on this trip as we share a new talent with each other through an old Irish tradition. Good’on youse!

Liz Hardeman: Holy Cross Benedictine Monastery

On Monday, September 29th, our group visited the Holy Cross Benedictine Monastery just up the road from our lodging in Rostrevor, Northern Ireland. We entered the church and were led to the room in which Brother Thiery would give us a two hour talk on the life of a monk. He entered the room shortly after we sat down, a spring in his step and a broad, welcoming smile on his face. As he launched into his spiel about what the everyday life of a monk looks like, I was immediately drawn and absorbed by the honest, raw, and passionate manner in which he spoke. His eyes were earnest yet joyful as he unpacked the core values of St. Benedict.

What I learned during our session with Brother Thiery was how essential community is in a monk’s way of life, and how difficult yet vital it is to practice the art of being in healthy relationships. Listening was perhaps the most stressed core value, and Brother Thiery’s
commentary on how silence enriches the way we listen revolutionized my understanding of why monks practice silence with such intensity. He expounded on the importance of silence in relationship by debunking the thought that silence is the end goal. Rather, it is a means to an end, the goal being relationship. What is essential to a thriving relationship is the balance of words and silence, of sharing and listening. This is a practice that can never quite be mastered- but a
Christian life is one that starts fresh daily. Each new day, we must strive to create a balance in our relationships, to be better listeners. We must learn daily to seethe people surrounding us with
new eyes- one that offers grace and forgiveness, that offers to see them in all their potential instead of in light of their shortcomings.



As students traveling together, life can feel a bit like a balancing act. We are expected to balance school and travel, homework and sleep, friends and personal time. Brother Thiery’s emphasis on the way in which a monk’s life creates space for balance both challenged and inspired me. I was forced to look at the way I am living in community. Have I been able to carve out time for balance in my relationships? Am I able to dwell with myself and understand who I am so that I can then be enabled to better connect with others? Do I make an effort to give this community a clean slate each day instead of holding them accountable for past offenses?

Alex: Strokestown Famine Museum

On the 28th of September we had the privilege of visiting the Strokestown Famine Museum in western Ireland. After spending the earlier part of the day traipsing around the beautiful Kylemore Abbey, marvelling over the elaborate gardens and luxurious castle, the tragedy of the Irish Potato Famine conveyed at the Museum was a stark and undoubtedly sobering contrast.

The famine, which occurred between 1845 and 1850, was caused by an airborne potato blight that destroyed vast amounts of Irish potato crops. At a time when many of the poorer communities relied on potatoes alone as their main food source (one adult could consume ten to fifteen pounds of potato per day!), this crop failure was understandably disastrous as it left millions starving to death,
unable to feed themselves or their families. Tragically, more than two million people – nearly one-quarter the entire population – either died or emigrated during this time period.

While reading the various displays set up in the museum, I was aghast at the sheer indifference that was so often shown to the poverty-stricken by those who were relatively well-off and comfortable. Perhaps most chilling was the last room, in which were detailed horrors of current famine and poverty occurring in our world today – horrors to which we are so often blind.

On the drive home, I looked out across the wild and beautiful landscape and snapped several photos as Frank, our bus driver, pointed out several of the “lazy beds” and tiny cottage ruins that would have belonged to those affected by the famine. It was hard to believe that a place so picturesque could be the site of such a terrible tragedy, where so many died and watched their loved ones die before them.

Such issues as the Potato Famine have already inspired several difficult class discussions, in which we contemplated how we, as privileged Westmont students, are called to respond in the face of such tremendous suffering. Should we feel guilty? Grateful? Useless? And how can we help those in need without shaming them? These are certainly not easy questions to answer, and I cannot say I have the solutions. But nevertheless I am thankful for the chance to recognise and respond to such exhibits, no matter how difficult they may be to ponder.

Tobin Fikes: Saint Patrick

As we journeyed to the Hill of Tara and the Hill of Slane, there was one figure that was in many of our heads:  Saint Patrick. The British slave that became a missionary is an iconic figure of Christianity, and many people pilgrimage to visit the various sites where he was. As a group we briefly touched on the myths and mystery of St. Patrick and the truths of what he actually did. We not only touched on the mystery of St. Patrick but we also experienced the mystery behind the ancient site of the Hill of Tara. This idea of mystery as it relates to pilgrimage is one that stuck in my head throughout the rest of our day.

 

Mystery surrounds many figures that have come up through history. A major example was discussed in the Chaucer course that some of the students are taking with Dr. Friedman. We discussed the myth surrounding King Arthur and how this mystery enables various people/groups to shape that character how they please in order to benefit themselves. While discussing the mystery of St. Patrick and contemplating the concept of pilgrimage, I wondered if we, as pilgrims, are also susceptible to shaping figures to derive our own meanings from them. It seems that many have taken the figure of St. Patrick and shaped him into a model that is meaningful to them.

 

We see this happen often in the Christian setting with the Bible. We constantly see people manipulate scripture to fit their current circumstance and derive meaning from that.  This leads me to thinking of how we are meant to interact with the pilgrimage sites we are visiting. Are we meant to create meaning from the mystery of the sites we are seeing or the people who are associated with them such as St. Patrick? Or are we merely meant to accept the mystery for what it is and leave it at that? These are the questions that students on England Semester are encouraged to engage with on a daily basis.

Allie Cole: Hill Top House

Last Thursday, our group had the privilege of visiting the home and farmland once owned by Beatrix Potter, an English author, illustrator, natural scientist and conservationist best known for her children’s book The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Her artistic and literary interests were deeply influenced by fairies, fairy tales and fantasy, and she was also interested in the natural sciences. Potter enjoyed collecting fossils, studying archeological artifacts from London excavations, and was drawn to the field of mycology.

Potter supported efforts of the National Trust to preserve not just places of extraordinary natural beauty. When Potter passed away in 1943, she left nearly all her property to the National Trust, including over 4,000 acres of land, sixteen farms, cottages and herds of cattle and sheep. Her gift to the National Trust enabled the preservation of the lands now included in the Lake District National Park--a green, idyllic area of Northwest England.

 Potter’s small, homey cottage fits right in with the national park’s rolling hills and breathtaking, unaffected beauty. Her home is refreshingly cheerful — its front door opening up to a quaint garden of wildflowers and vegetables, and the interior is preserved exactly as she had left it so many years ago. While meandering through the author’s living space, I was captivated by the many physical examples of Potter’s personality and interests. It became obvious that Potter had a childish enthusiasm for life, as shown by the set of dolls in one room, the many miniature glass animals in another, and a dollhouse in yet another. Her ability to be a respectful observer was made evident
through the intricate drawings of insects and a looking glass left out on her desk.

Potter seemed to have created a joyful life for herself by exercising her imagination and also an appreciation of her natural surroundings. It seems that despite some of the challenges present in her personal life, such as the death of a fiancé and a sometimes turbulent relationship with her parents, she was still able to maintain a diligent work ethic and to care for our environment and for those who want to enjoy it for years to come.

The striking natural scenery surrounding Potter’s house, as well as the charming simplicity of the house itself, is a reminder to stop and take a look around — to imagine the slower pace of life for those inhabiting the English countryside, and to feel inspired to take in elements of my own natural surroundings at home and to allow these to inform my own writing and life as a whole.

Claire Campbell: Touring Skipton and Haworth

After spending the past two years attending a school outside of Boston, I have been on quite a few tours led around Paul Revere’s house, through graveyards, and across the historic cobblestone streets of Boston. I had never thought about the details that go into presenting a historical site, as each tour was similar enough that no definite opinion could be formed. Now, I first take note of the presentation of these incredible British sites, down to every detail that makes our experiences either profound or frustrating. In a single day, we visited two sites that greatly showcased this range of experiences.

The castle at Skipton was beautiful; it did not need tour guides dressed up in period clothing, replicas of items from the past, or really anything but the very bones of the building. Our imaginations filled in the details of past grand gatherings, how the courtyard would have looked with various royals parading about.

I was deeply impacted in knowing that this place had value because it had seen so many amazing things. Nothing else was needed to convince me of this location's worth.

 The Brontë house at Haworth was different. While equally beautiful, with a gorgeous courtyard and house, I felt like the inside of the house was a strange shrine to the Brontës. I didn’t sense any kind of respect for the sisters, as illuminated glass containers held random artifacts from sisters and their family and friends in the rooms that they lived and died. I would have preferred to see those items in a museum, not in a home. I was distracted by the amalgamation of items and posters with paragraphs full of trivial information; I did not walk away from that house feeling as though the love that the Brontë family had for Haworth was honored at all.

 It is easy to become overwhelmed with the history and artifacts of a place. I don’t know how to avoid this, as it is important to preserve places such as those we saw in Skipton and Haworth. It may be that it is necessary to have all kinds of historical sites in an attempt to honor both the owners of the past and the visitors of the present. I wish we could ask the authors and royals what they would have wanted, even though I doubt we would often be happy with the answer. But we did see beauty that day, in several forms that all helped us understand a bit more of this interesting place we are calling home these next three months.

Lindsay Call- Lindisfarne

 

How interesting that I should visit an island called Lindisfarne on the anniversary of my birth.

We share so much—aside from first four letters of our names being the same, we also carry the air of being distinctly associated with the Irish (I am distantly descended from Irish farmers uprooted to America, while Lindisfarne was first cultivated by Irish monks in the Middle Ages). The holy men lived peacefully upon this stark and beautiful place until Viking raids destroyed their priory and everything they had worked so hard to achieve—everything, that is, except their faith.

Standing on the rocky shore with my hands in the North Sea, I somehow find it easier to imagine
myself as an invader than an Irish monk. The green hills of this island rising up out of the sea through the mist, the last bastion between these conquerors and the shores of England itself, its rough beauty which asks for no attention- I can understand why the Vikings wanted Lindisfarne for their own. Maybe it’s the number of times I listened to Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” on the way here, or the small piles of rocks that visitors have piled like cairns on the shores of the North Sea, but this island has made me begin to examine the relationship between travel, pilgrimage, and conquering.


Why do we go to places like Lindisfarne? Is it to honor those whose faith came before and to try to gain some of their holiness? Is it to stand in beauty and realize how small we really are? Or is it to say we’ve been there, for a picture we can put on Instagram to make the collage of pictures that has come to stand for making our lives a bit more interesting?

In the stories we’ll tell of Lindisfarne, or Durham or London or anywhere, there is some part of us that, by simply being a foreigner in another land, has attempted to take a piece of a new culture and turn it into a part of our own. Whether we are showing off our new knowledge of Tube routes, pretending to laugh at something we really don’t understand, or even uploading a picture of a cathedral where our main focus is on what our witty hashtag will be, we’re attempting to conquer a bit of another people’s culture and fit it into our own. I’m not trying to say that we’re Vikings or anything—we’re just trying to find a way of fitting another culture into our own big story. None of these are bad things, but the focus of our travels needs to be not the attempt to collect experiences, but let an experience collect you.


We need to realize that when we travel, our own personal experience of another culture or a certain place is never the absolute truth. And there is a kind of beauty in realizing that your story is part of a collection of stories. Together, those stories somehow make up a reflection of the places you go.

Niki Blois- Durham Cathedral

Last Wednesday, our group took a charter bus up to Durham, which has been a
pilgrimage site for over a thousand years. The city houses Durham Cathedral, which the Anglo-
Normans began building in 1093 and holds the shrine of St. Cuthbert, an important England
saint. Dr. Friedman, an excellent medievalist, told us about the cathedral’s unique architectural
style: originally an Anglo-Norman construction, it also displays Gothic features such as pointed
arches, high roofs, and large stained-glass windows.

As Dr. Friedman explained, the Anglo-Normans were sea-farers, products of Norman
invasions and conquest. They built low, stolid structures with thick walls and boldly carved
pillars. Certainly, Durham Cathedral is earthy and round (round like barrels of beer, or like
the bellies of foundering ships). Its structure is stout and strong, dark and rooted. The walls still
bear traces of the original red and blue paint daubed on by the Anglo-Normans. Did you think
that medieval churches were bare and austere? I did. But no—the Anglo-Normans painted lush
flowers and patterns across their walls. Their churches, like the most explosively illuminated
manuscripts, shimmered with glowing gold, royal blue, poppy red. The Anglo-Normans strove to
create Heaven on earth.

But though Durham Cathedral is Anglo-Norman, squat and proud, it’s got touches of later Gothic architecture, aided by more precise technology such as the weight-bearing pointed arch, the Gothic style achieved ascension. In Durham, there is also light among the darkness. Soaring, exquisite beams arc across the high ceiling. Minute flourishes and embellishments cover every surface—wrought iron and wood bursting into flame from so many curls and loops and knobs and decorations. Light streams through stained glass windows, a riot of burnished colors tinting the old stone floor and studding the walls with crystalline shapes like gems, like gems on the walls of Heaven in Revelation.

To me, the cathedral is a manifestation of the old and the new mingling in a way that
doesn’t often happen. It’s a crossroads between what’s come to pass and what will. The Anglo-
Norman style gave way to the Gothic, and eventually the Gothic style faded as well. But in
Durham, a brief moment of history in transition is recorded—the shift from old to new.
Here, in our opening days of England Semester, we’re experiencing a shift as well. We’re
shifting from our old lives and into this new, scary one—one where our friends and families are
maybe a thousand miles away, and we’re just getting to know our classmates, and the exchange
rate is too horrific to think about. But maybe when the shift becomes a little rough, I can
remember Durham, where the old and the new share holy space, mingling in the presence of
God.

Welcome!

Hiya to the folks at home reading the humble postings of us, the 2014 England Semester travelers. We'll be updating this twice a week and everyone will be sharing their thoughts, so check back frequently or sign up on the right side bar for email notifications. Follow along with us as we gallivant about the English country(and city)side!

Cheers!