You Can Never Go Back To Before

In 2003, I was in Ireland for about three weeks. That was my first trip to Europe, and it was wonderful, and traumatic, and memorable, and complicated. It pretty much set the wheels in motion for everything that followed, which, ultimately, lead to my moving to England, and therefore, indirectly, to my being back in Dublin this past weekend.

I think Dublin is a really lovely city, and there’s enough to do and see there that our intended three-day trip the first time turned into the better part of a week. This time, it really was just for a weekend. Adrienne had to look at a manuscript at Trinity, so it was also part business-trip. We didn’t cram as much into it, but I think that’s as much a reflection of the difference in travelling with James and Adrienne, and travelling with Cami. Inevitably, I kept making those comparisons, and as much fun as we had, just being there made me homesick for the life I had, which we sort of built in Dublin, and which I ended up leaving behind.

All weekend, I kept expecting to trip over myself. We stayed in the same hostel, and did several of the same things, like wandering through St. Stephen’s Park, and going through St. Michan’s and Christ Church. We ate breakfast at a table where, five years ago, Cami and I sat up one night, reading If I’d Killed Him When I Met Him, and trying to parse out the future of our rapidly complicating lives. I halfway wanted to go out and track down the person who I was, somewhere within the ether of Dublin: I’m not sure if I wanted to warn her to run away from it all while she still could, or to just say, “You already know how this part of the story ends, but hold on; there is so much joy waiting at the end of that dark tunnel.” Because it did all come out all right, and it’s only in Dublin that I seem to feel wistful for everything that was, or wasn’t, or came unstuck.

I suppose the bottom line truth is that I love my life, and I’m ass-over-teacup in love with York, and I really probably couldn’t, realistically, be much happier, and I dearly and deeply love the people who have been and are part of my York life... but it’s never quite the same. Whatever came up and snagged us, I always felt that my DC family sort of fit in some indefinable, cosmic way, like we’d all been stardust together a million years ago, and I’ve never found that again. And Dublin is where I realise that the strongest.

Maybe you can only find that once in your life, and maybe you have to be really young, because it requires a belief in absolutes and eternity that you lose. Life goes on, and you’ll be happy again- maybe even happier- but you never quite forget.

So Dublin and I have a weird relationship, which, I suspect, is permanent, no matter how many times I may visit it. That doesn’t stop me from enjoying seeing it again. And I got to see some different things this time. Cami and I didn’t bother with Trinity and the Book of Kells, because she’d already seen it, and it has enormous waiting lines. Somehow we were lucky enough to get there at a point where there wasn’t a huge line, and Adrienne’s friend Leslie, who was showing us around (she lives there) teaches at Trinity and was able to get us in straightaway and for free. I have to say, they could lay it out better. There’s no very obvious linear path, it’s sort of a mass stampede, which means you don’t really get to comfortably look at anything. And while there are few things more beautiful than a really gorgeous illuminated manuscript, it’s hard to appreciate that beauty when you’re getting squashed, shuffled, and trammelled in the process. The library room above it, which is sadly more decorative than functional, is possibly the most amazing space I have ever seen, filled three-stories deep in antique books. I would have dearly loved to just browse, but of course everything is roped off and you just get to walk through.

Our truly stellar Dublin adventure is one Cami would have appreciated: she also was one of those people who tends to have good fortune, but what we call Adrienne’s food-karma is outstanding. Ever since the inception of the G&SS last August, she periodically manages to get things for free- accidental bottles of wine, discounts on meals, that sort of thing. Saturday dinner was declared our splurge night, and we went to a lovely restaurant where the food was outstandingly good. As a bit of indulgence, we got a bottle of wine. When we went to get the bill, though, we were quite surprised by how low it was. I noticed a 7Up listed, which I was sure none of us had had, but Adrienne kept insisting that I did. Since I knew damn well that I hadn’t, I figured she must’ve spotted some absence on the check and wanted me to shut up, so no one would question it. It wasn’t until we got outside and were a couple blocks away before Adrienne fully realised what had happened. We’d been given the wrong bill. Not only were we not charged for the decadent bottle of wine, but our bill was half of what it should’ve been. (And, no, we did not go back and rectify the situation. Somebody else’s mistake is our good fortune, and I don’t believe in looking gift horses in the mouth.)

(Adrienne also has wine karma with things like the bottle of port, of which I’ve probably made mention. Only Adrienne could find a bottle of 1963 Quinto de Noval Nacional- the second-best vintage on record- for £90, instead of £300-1500 it usually commands. And, yes, it is sitting in our liquor cabinet. And, yes, we are going to drink it, when Obama becomes president or Adrienne finishes her PhD, whichever comes first. Or if we are so depressed about the election that we need consolation.)

Other Dublin sites we visited: Christ Church Cathedral, now no longer under scaffolding and construction, and with one of its amusing treasures revealed: a cat and rat mummified together inside one of the pipes of the old organ. O’Connell Street, which is where the monuments and the GPO are. The Ha’penny Bridge and the Liffey in general. St. Stephen’s Park, which is really lovely. Café en Seine, an unassuming little sidewalk café on the outside, and a sprawling, enormous, gorgeous Art Nouveau restaurant inside. The old-fashioned geology department building at Trinity University, where animal skeletons greet you at the entrance, and where I photographed slump-cone and core-samples as a joke for my father. A couple pubs, one of which had the largest menu of international beers I have ever seen.

Of course we went out for the ubiquitous Dublin Guinness. It really is better in Dublin than anywhere else (though I confess I had a cider- which I will prefer to almost every beer). Like everything else about Dublin, however, I realised how much of the novelty had worn off. Pubs with decent beer are quite accessible here in York. And while it was tremendously exciting to go into the pubs on that first trip and hear music- music that I knew, music from the earliest recesses of my memory- now I am so spoiled by my life here that I mostly thought that it wasn’t as much fun as, say, going out with James on a Friday. I think I wanted to be as impressed by Dublin as I was the first time, but of course that just wasn’t possible. Everything that was so amazing and magical about that first trip to Ireland- being in Europe, knee deep in history and culture every time you turned around- is now, not old hat, exactly, but an everyday part of my life. I’m always grateful for it (not a single day has gone by yet that I haven’t had at least one moment of sitting back and just thinking about how incredibly lucky I am to live in this most beautiful of places; for rather than becoming complacent, as I did with Washington, I fall in love with York a little more every day). But it’s comfortable now, rather than awesome. I no longer want to kneel in awe at every six hundred year old building: I work in one.

More than anything, this trip reminded me of how much has changed, how much I have changed. It made me wistful, but, too, like so much of my life, it was like a closing of the circle. This was a perfect example of the old adage that you can never step in the same river twice. And a good reminder that no matter how lovely and beautiful it was, you really wouldn’t want to.

Weekend In The Country

(I’m a few weeks behind in getting some of these entries posted, due to one thing or another. Which may mean that you’ll get a whole lot of stuff to read at one time. Enjoy!)

One of my goals for this summer is to see more of England. I’ve done more travelling abroad than I have in my own damn country, for which I feel rather guilty. Admittedly, even this summer, most of what I’m doing seems to be here in Yorkshire, but even so, it’s something. Not that I don’t adore York, but one does need variety.

All my life, I’ve fancied myself a city girl. I was born in a city, and raised with something of an expectation that I would be returning to one as soon as either I grew up or my parents could find a way out of small-town America. (I think they’ve got used to it by now, but my formative years are memorable for Mum and I, in particular, being ready to chew our own legs off to get out of the trap.) But I am a creature of extremes, which means that I also really love the country. People always seem surprised that I should have an outdoorsy streak in me. I love being outside, and nature, and going hiking (gently, at least), and above all I really, really love going camping. I love it more now that “going camping” doesn’t actually translate to “pitching a tent in Door County and then spending the days working like slaves at Grammy’s house for two weeks”. So I was looking forward to, someday, having the chance to go camping here in England, to getting out of town, out into the country, and the joys of things like cooking over a fire and sleeping under the stars (well, under the canvas of a tent, under the stars- England is way too rainy for me to risk actually sleeping outside).

I’m not sure when, or why, James II asked me about going along out to the folk festival at Robin Hood’s Bay. It’s the annual event of the society on campus, for which he is president, and I was only too delighted to take him up on the offer, not only because a weekend of music is my idea of happiness, but because it was a weekend of camping and listening to music. For him, of course, it meant playing; but I’m sort of like his musical appendix: constantly present, and relatively harmless, but absolutely useless. (My violin skills are years away from seeing the light of day, and although I am slowly getting comfortable singing around the heart of the Tribe, I would not be so cruel as to inflict that upon strangers.)

There were originally supposed to be about eight people going along, but one by one they dropped out, due to work or illness, until it was just me and James, and two girls neither of us really knew. They’re from India and Pakistan, respectively, both bio PhDs, and in the early stages of learning to play classical Indian music, so, like me, they were along to listen, not play. They were both really nice, although, as may be expected, they spent a lot of the weekend off doing their own thing and left James and I to ours.

You can’t get to Robin Hood’s Bay straightaway on the train- you can’t even get to Whitby that way. We had to take the train to Scarborough, with James and I sitting in the doorway with our huge collection of luggage, because our obscene collection of baggage wouldn’t fit in the storage racks. We were supposed to get a bus from there to Robin Hood’s Bay, but there was apparently a traffic accident on the main road and we ended up having to be routed through a stopover in Whitby. England doesn’t have multiple direct routes to everywhere, like the States; and the idea of multilane highways is relatively nonexistent. So you have to plan a bit more. But we made it to the village eventually, and from there it was only a short hike to the campground.

Now, I’m used to campgrounds in America, which are invariably set up with sites designated quite obviously. There are posts with numbers on them, and rock patches for RVs, or bare areas cut into woods which separate spaces one from another. This was nothing like that. A farmer apparently decided to let one of his fields as a grounds some years back and over the years he expanded it- first there were two fields, then there were two fields and a washroom, now there are two fields for tents and one for RVs, and washrooms with full showers, and sinks, and the whole nine yards. But it’s still just a field where you plop down rather haphazardly, no designations or separations; you’re all just sort of on top of one another. And there are no fire rings, so you can’t have fires good and proper, which I confess I missed.

Pitching camp was a cinch; and then we headed down to the village. The road down into town was a pathway through cow fields, literally. It was my first experience climbing over stiles good and proper- one simply cannot be graceful about it. At the end of the pasture was the most lovely walkway through forest, a tunnel through a canopy of trees, all green and hidden and cool and beautiful, with a little stream running at the bottom of a small ravine on the side. And at the end of that was the town.

Robin Hood’s Bay isn’t like any town I’ve ever been in. It’s right on the edge of the sea, with the sole road- you can’t even call it a high street proper because it’s the only street- terminating in a sloping drive from which to launch boats. The whole village is built up on the hills and cliffs above that, and all of its streets are mere snickleways, delightful little paths that twist and turn and get you hopelessly lost. It’s easy to understand why it was a haven for smugglers back in the day. Most of the houses, which are built one on top of the other, an architectural symbiosis that would be impossible to diagram- in some of them you enter one building and end up above stairs in another- are cottages to let, charming little places lacking only in permanent residents. I have no idea what the ordinary population is, but I fancy it can’t be that large, given how much of the town seems to be rented. Some of the paths or houses look straight down into the ocean, and I’m told that on a truly stormy day even that high above the water one can feel the spray from the water. Of course, the ocean is tidal, and at high tide there’s no beach at all- the ocean laps right to the base of the village- but at low tide there is a bit of a beach, and lots of rock jetties, and tidal pools full of tumbled rocks and seaweed and little fish.

Eventually we headed to one of the pubs to get dinner and grab seats before the entire folk-music contingent touched down for the weekend’s kickoff event. At home, folk nights vary quite a bit, depending on where you are and what night it is. Wednesdays down at the pub on North Street, or Thursday nights periodically at the Black Swan, are more like individual performances- people sign up and each gets a turn to do a song or two, and some people, like Adrienne, do poetry readings. Fridays are just a general jam session, where somebody starts playing or singing and everyone else sort of joins in if they either know it or can improvise. The Friday night in the Bay was the performance type, but it was mostly singing, and it was sort of understood that songs with choruses where everyone could join in were preferred. We were probably the youngest group there, the average age being somewhere in the late fifties or early sixties; when James got up to play his name was announced preceded by ‘young’. It does seem to enthuse everyone, to see that there is in fact another generation, however reduced in numbers, among them.

After James played his two rounds there we headed down to the pub right on the Bay, where some of the York contingent had gathered to play. I can’t say I actually know these people, because I don’t, but we are at least familiar to one another. It was one of the smaller pubs I’ve been in, and absolutely crammed with people. Sitting down was absolutely out of the question, and it was quite a while before James managed to carve out enough space to play. I really hoped the whole weekend wouldn’t be like that, because I don’t like crowded spaces and too many people make me nervous.

We arguably unwisely decided to return to the pitch the way we’d come- through the woods and the pasture. It had been slightly rainy all day, so it was quite mucky, and we didn’t have a torch, and I feel sure I must’ve hit every hill of cow mess between the Bay and the tent. (We discovered that, in moonlight, my legs actually almost fluoresce, which helped a bit. I am so white.) But it was worth it- the absolute silence of being out in the woods, with only the faint sound of the stream bubbling below, was glorious. One forgets what silence and darkness are when one lives in town.

Next morning we went down into the village once more, where we commenced to wandering through shops and snickleways. There are a lot of used book stores, less expensive than the ones in York, but not much in my particular area of interest. They cater to the holidayers, with lots of bad romances or mysteries. James and I had great fun mocking the really horrible sci-fi/fantasy section- our favourite was a piece of crap called ‘Lord of the Troll-Bats’ (I’m really not making this up) which, upon inspection, was absolute gibberish. I mean, we didn’t even understand what they were going on about. It was possibly the worst bit of bollox I’ve ever seen (and someone is publishing this shite!). I didn’t let myself buy any of the nice cookbooks I found, because the thought of lugging them back to York was too depressing, though that didn’t stop James, who came home about ten books heavier.

There was music and dancing in what passed for the little town square, so we sat and watched that for a while. The sort of traditional/tap-dancing looked like such fun, although I’m not a bit of a dancer, and I’m pretty sure my knees wouldn’t handle it. When that ended we found fish and chips for lunch- not, I need to state, my favourite food. This was nice enough, as fish and chips go, not all heavily battered and dripping, but still too greasy for my taste; fish and chips is something I can stomach maybe about once a year, but that’s it. The British Isles love of deep-fried-foods is completely lost on me; it may be my ancestral cuisine, but I clearly didn’t inherit a fondness for it.

Some random folks invited James along to play with them upstairs in the Bay Hotel, which we did for a while, and then he got snagged by a group setting up to play outside in the square, who were in need of a fiddler. He was quite in his element, really, with a whole crowd of people around and improvisational playing. I, of course, had no part in any of this, save to keep an eye on the bags and our pints, and tap my toes and simply enjoy. But I loved it, I really did. I love live music more than just about anything, and I have always been the sort of person who prefers to quietly bask in others’ reflected glory than to seek any of my own.

In the evening, after dinner in camp (we’d brought a gas ring to cook on, and, yes, you can cook a passable marshmallow over a propane stove), James and I returned to the set around the patio overlooking the water, where he was the only person playing violin again, so he had some further moments of glory. It was a really warm night, and there was something absolutely magic about sitting on that land over the ocean, with music in the air. My cup of happiness was utterly brimful. I got a lovely video of James playing ‘Ashokan Farewell’, which he always plays (it’s my favourite piece on violin); the only problem is that my ‘new to you’ camera (formerly my mum’s- mine died in the States) doesn’t have sound recording capabilities, so he’s going to record it some other time and dub it over.

I wish I had the words to describe how absolutely, thoroughly, utterly happy and content I was, but I don’t. Maybe it’s because sometimes I’m crazy, that I can wrap myself up in those moments of happiness so completely, or maybe everyone has those moments when they know, right then and there, that if lightning were to strike them down then and there, they would depart this life with a smile on their face. I don’t know which it is, and I don’t particularly care. I only know that I think I am incredibly lucky, and I marvel sometimes at how it all turns out. For surely, a year ago, if you’d told me that I could be happy like that (or even where I was) I would neither have wanted to be nor been capable of believing it. No, it doesn’t always turn out the way we think it will. And sometimes that’s the best thing that can happen.

We stayed out quite late that night, first out there on the patio by the sea, and then in the pub with some of James’s acquaintances from York. I love the way folk music seems to work, where one person just starts playing something, and slowly everyone else joins in as they figure out their keys and patterns. It amazes me, how much music one can have stored up in one’s memory (I am totally reliant upon sheet music, thank you, after a decade as an oboist). And how easy it seems for people to just leap in, and on multiple instruments, and feel right at home. Perhaps more than anything else, I admire how casual they are about it. Perfection isn’t necessary. And I wish I could be like that- just playing for love of it, and fuck it if there are the odd flats or sharps or downright cockups. Nobody gets fussed. But I’m just not wired that way.

Sunday was sunny and gorgeous and warm and beautiful. I love few things more than to lie in the grass, with the sun hot on my face, and wriggle my toes and fingers in the cool grass of morning. (James took the worst picture of me ever, doing this.) If I had the sense god promised guinea fowl I’d’ve put on long sleeves and long leggings, and a veil of some sort, or, at the very least, sunblock before even emerging from the tent, but I’m not that sensible (and I’m actually pretty paranoid about keeping myself snow-white- the Victorian ladies usually have nothing on me). It’s hard to believe that such beautiful morning sun can hurt. We had to break camp straightaway after breakfast, and cart our belongings with us for the time we spent in town. Getting back into town, through the cow-path and over the stiles, with that huge rucksack and backpack adding another sixty pounds to my person, was a bit of an adventure, but I managed it; I generally do.

The other girls decided straightaway that they wanted to go see the little town museum and browse through the village some more; James and I decided with equal alacrity that we wanted nothing more than to sit on the sea-wall by the beach and bask; and so that’s exactly what we did. And if I had been happy the previous evening, well, this was being blissed out beyond reason. James went and got us ice cream, and then got out his violin and played there on the beach. If there is anything more pleasant than sitting by the sea, under a parasol, with the lovely, gentle breeze off the ocean, eating mint-chocolate-chip ice cream and listening to music, I have yet to discover it. Passersby enjoyed it and paused to listen, and one little girl stopped dead in her tracks, fingers in her mouth, and stared as if we were an apparition; but I fancy none of them could have been a mite happier than I. It was the perfect moment, the sort of thing you couldn’t script but people often film, and you watch it and know that can never be your life. So it’s always a little disconcerting (but in a good way) when it is.

And that was how we ended the weekend. After that, it was a matter of catching the bus to Scarborough and then the train to York, and then hoofing it home from the rails (well, for me at least; James took a bus, since even he’s not insane enough to carry all that baggage across town to Fulford). I came home with a whacking great sunburn, even though I had put on a shit-ton of sunblock. The repulsively happy post-trip giddiness lasted for the better part of a week, and the burn for about three, and it was absolutely worth it. Camping in England is every bit as lovely as camping in the States (except for the fire thing, but you can’t have it all, and pyro though I be, I’ll swop the fire for the music any day of the week) and I can’t wait for next year.