Well, since the week is out, I guess I am due for an update.
I’ll take you through the events of the week:
Thursday I went with Deborah to Milton’s cottage in Buckinghamshire. His only remaining house, it is now set up as a museum, and is tucked neatly and inconspicuously in the tiny village. In fact I may have walked right past it had I not known of it’s existence there already. It is small and humble—a few rooms dedicated to the priceless first and second editions of Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes, as well as some of his more political works with whom I am less familiar (and to be frank, less interested in).
It’s a strange and somehow uncomfortable feeling to stand in the room where one of the world’s most gifted and renowned authors penned their masterpiece. One can’t really grasp it actually. You keep repeating silently: these are the floorboards he paced as his mind concocted such fiery lines as: “The mind is its own place, and in itself/Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven”—where in his sleepless nights, Milton bound in linguistic chain the infernal hero of this epic poem: taking all the vain conceit and powerlust of man, in order to form a figure worthy of that hateful title; filling his mouth with the speech in which he addresses his host of demons: “Here we may reign secure; and in my choice/To reign is worth ambition, though in hell:/Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.”
Yep. Doesn’t register does it?
Well I’m glad I’m not alone in that. I think the gravity of it settles on you more in retrospect anyway. Plus it’s cool to say you’ve been there.
Moving along…
Friday was cooking day in the Elliott household—a well-thought out day in which the women of the household (well, me, Deborah, and Brenda—their cleaner) take the afternoon to make about five different dinners, all big enough to feed a party of about 20, and then freeze it for emergency use in the future. I am so adopting this plan when I have my own household. On top of that, Deborah was pledged (or rather volunteered) to make cakes for every single teacher, assistant, and other employee of Laurence’s school for the end of term. We were a flurry of carrot chopping, flour-spilling, and meat grinding for the whole of the afternoon. It actually was quite fun, however, and by the end of the day I had in my mind at least 4 new recipes, one of which was for Carrot and Orange soup—which despite its odd combination and unconventional color, is in fact very yummy. (:
That night, Granny Elliott arrived by train, and the next morning we were all up bright and early to attend Laurence’s speech day at school. Now, as many of you know, I am not exactly one to pop out of bed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at some ungodly hour of the morning (“ungodly” = < 9 am), but I armed myself with enormous amounts of caffeine and a good solid book and made it though the 4 hours of presentations and speeches with only 3 aspirins and minor bouts of depression at my own failings as a nine year old and as a person. Let me explain: if 80 nine year olds receiving prizes for subjects you’ve never even picked up in your life wasn’t enough (were you fluent in Spanish at the age of nine, having also received high commendations for Tennis and Rugby and honorable mention for Drama—ok good, glad I’m not the only failure here)….as I said, if that wasn’t enough, the conclusion of the meeting was done by the guest speaker, what’s-his-name:the youngest man to have climbed the tallest peaks on all seven continents. Oh yeah, and he’s 23. Now, before you let yourself sink into the same thoughts I did of: “I’ve never even heard of Aconcagua, the tallest mountain in South America, and I didn’t climb Mount Kilimanjaro at the age of 15 (He did) and holy moly I’ve not even thought about climbing Mount Everest much less traveling to Antartica to find whatever mass of ice they’re calling a mountain!”—let us pause and I will comfort you with the same thought I had that let me breathe a sigh of relief: you are a normal human being. Ok good. Moving on:
Sunday was the surprise 80th birthday party of Antony’s mother’s cousin. And if you think all afternoon with a group of 70 and 80 year olds is anything short of entertaining, think again. In fact it had it’s downright hilarious moments. But let me sweep over this day, and suffice it to say, that when the day was done, and the cakes and sandwiches and champagne were gone, Auntie Brenda’s face was aglow and she had exclaimed more than once that she couldn’t remember the last time she had had a party. And so we all were satisfied (:
Right, so let’s fast-forward to Tuesday: my day out in Stratford with Deborah. Contrary to Milton’s home-sweet-home, you couldn’t miss this as Shakespeare’s old dwelling if you tried. Signs from miles away announce “Shakespeare’s Stratford”, and the first things you see as you enter the village are the various puns atop the shop doors: “Much Ado About Toys”, “The Food of Love Café”, etc…
We made our way to Shakespeare’s birthplace where that same uncomfortable feeling sat on me as we perused the rooms of Father Shakespeare and his glovery workshop (the old man was probably not too pleased when little Will decided he didn’t want to take up the prospering business, but wanted to write stories instead). Moving on from here, we had a wonderful lunch, talking for hours and using the light rain as an excuse to chat some more over another cup of coffee.
After this we made our way to the church where Shakespeare is buried, and then to the highlight of our day: a show at the Courtyard Theatre. I had been looking forward to the production all day, and the players did not disappoint.
The show was The Merchant of Venice—one which I was not too familiar with, but which was done with such brilliance and enthusiasm by the famous Royal Shakespeare Company that I enjoyed it immensely. Shylock was played with a perfect sense of gravity and cruel revenge as he demanded Antonio's "pound of flesh", not exaggerating his Jewish heritage. Portia was quick-witted and believable, engaging the entire audience in her comedic timing. In short, it was one of the best plays I have had the good fortune to see—and to watch players who truly understood Shakepeare’s language, bringing to life all his nuances and double-entendres, was amazing to see. Ok, I’ll stop gushing now.
Despite these busy days, I have had quite a lot of free time as well, enabling me to enjoy the soggy English weather, curled contentedly by the dripping window, Gone With the Wind in my lap. There is something charming about a soggy afternoon, despite its habit of banishing all life indoors. So, though the week has been a particularly wet one—and perhaps is the reason I have spent so much of my time with a book in hand, drinking my own weight in tea—it has still been pleasant, and on the whole, rather busy. We shall see what this next week brings to pass (:
I’ll update again soon. For now, I must see how Scarlet O’Hara will scandalize herself next…
