Regenerations

The last day of 2013 has caused be to reflect not only on the past year but on life in general. I have been doing this a lot of late if I am to be honest; I’ve probably been doing it a bit too much. Turning thirty and moving to a new continent necessarily force you to re-examine who you are, your priorities, your goals, and yourself. I’ve been trying to come to terms with new circumstances both at home and abroad. I’ve been trying to get to know myself again.

Whovians all over the world eagerly anticipated the premier of Peter Capaldi as the new Doctor. I managed to see the last five minutes of the Christmas special (look I was exhausted and jet lagged so I may have fallen asleep for the first bits, but have no fear, I’ll catch up soon). There is always a great deal of sadness when the old Doctor gives way to the new. You don’t know this new guy. You don’t know his quirks, his charms, his pitfalls, or his tagline. (Care for a Jelly Baby?) We love the familiar. It feels cozy and warm. The new feels dangerous and exposed.

I can’t help but feel that I have undergone a regeneration of my own and I’m still going through the immediate recovery period where you say odd things like, “KIDNEYS!” or “Legs! I’ve got legs!” In a way I’m mourning the loss of the person I was and the relationships I had as that person. I had really grown to like myself a whole lot. I was sure of who I was and where I was going. With an ocean of time and a literal ocean between me now and me then, I find I am a bit lost on occasion. It is like that person no longer exists. Being home over the past week served to show me that even if I were to return to the States after my programme, I wouldn’t be able to recapture her precisely. That time and set of circumstances are past.

It’s like getting to know the new Doctor while mourning the loss of the old. That old person will always be a part of me and I am exceptionally glad about that because I think she was a pretty cool person. Lots of smiles, self-assurance, adventurous, and a bit of a risk taker. (I mean, she got me over here, didn’t she?) This new version of me is still floundering a bit. Taking the first few gasps of breath and taking her first few steps. I think there are strains of the old person in there, but there are other aspects as well that I haven’t quite figured out. I knew that this experience abroad would change me, but I didn’t realise the extent of that change.

When the clock strikes midnight over here (7pm for those of you on the east coast of the US), I will be welcoming 2014 and the chance to get to know myself all over again. Last year was the first year that I managed to keep my resolution, to do one productive thing each day. This year, I want to continue that trend and I want to reach 31 December 2014 with the assurance that I have figured out who this new regeneration is. I don’t think I will be a completely different person, but I know I’ll never be the same.

2013, before I go I just want to tell you, you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And d’you know what? So was I.

The Healing Magic of Windsor

5:30am. The sound of trickling water and bird song filled my room. I rolled over in my narrow cot-like bed and reached out for my phone. I had been grateful to find an alarm which rather than wrenching one out of sleep, gently encouraged active participation in the upcoming day. This morning, however, I was feeling more exhausted than was normal. Term was over and I had no need for pulling all-nighters, and yet I hadn’t gotten to sleep until past midnight. I needed to get up. I needed to finish packing and begin my hour’s walk to the train station. In a little over eight hours I would be met in Windsor by a very dear friend of mine I hadn’t seen in months. Seeing her and her family marked the true beginning on my break. The trickling continued and the birds sang even more earnestly as I found the snooze button.

The weight of the previous few days had pressed so heavily on me that I hadn’t had the strength to begin packing for my journey until nine or ten the evening before. Monday evening had presented me with the most severe panic attack I had ever experienced. The terror it had brought on and the exhaustion had deepened my depression further than I thought was possible. Abject and complete loneliness had given way to despair and feelings of worthlessness. I sighed and tried to make out the ceiling of my room in the pitch black.

I would be with friends in less than half a day, I told myself.

The water began trickling and once more the chirping of birds filled my room. I reached back to my phone and shut off the alarm. It was time to start.

The hour long walk to the station was the worst part of the six hour trip. My bag weighed just under 50 pounds and I had to drag it up and down the hills of Durham and over the uneven cobblestones. To add insult to injury it began to rain halfway through my walk. Durham Rail Station sits on top of a hill north of the city centre. I stood at the bottom of steep and enormous set of stairs leading up to the station. I began to pull my bag up, getting more soaked, more exhausted, and feeling more alone with every stair. Eventually, I had made it halfway up when a young man appeared and asked if I needed help. After thanking him nearly five hundred eighty-two times, I made it to the train and was finally on my way.

I got into King’s Cross and headed toward the entrance to the Underground. I was an old hand at the tube and arrived at Paddington fifteen minutes or so later. I sat and waited for my next train which would take me out to Windsor. I could have gotten on one of twenty trains that were departing over the next hour I sat staring at the boards but I had said I would be on the 12:37 and that was the train I would take. As I sat, I watched the pigeons strutting across the concrete, weaving through the feet of travellers and hopping out of the way of rolling luggage. They picked at minute scraps of bread that were undetectable to human senses. Most had blackened feet and were missing toes and legs. In that moment I wished I had a loaf of bread.

The platform was finally listed for my train and I hurried to board. Thirty minutes later I was in Windsor and ten minutes later I was in a car with my friend and her children heading through the town and surrounding countryside. She took me on a tour of her old haunts and new. We passed vast open lands belonging to the crown, small row houses, posh shops, and large gated estates. We passed by Elton John’s mansion, Woodside, and we drove up to the gates to the Duke of York’s land. Then we drove into Windsor and past the castle. A true road side attraction, it sits right on the main street. It’s an imposing edifice but beautiful and nearly one thousand years old. Thinking about it, it’s difficult to believe that humans have been around for that long and that we used to build things like Windsor Castle.

Scenes from Windsor

She parked in a garage and we all strolled around the shops. I began to relax. Windsor felt like home for some reason. It seemed familiar for some reason though I’ve never been there before. We went to Hardy’s, an old fashioned sweet shop that had shelves of candies behind the counter in glass jars. We walked through the train station with its quaint short track. Before I knew it, we were walking past the castle. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of it.

“You know, it’s almost time for Evensong at the chapel,” she said.

Immediately I wanted nothing more than go to St. George’s to hear the choir. The kids were beginning to reach their limits, but we didn’t see the harm in inquiring about attending. We approached the gateway and were greeted by two armed police officers who smiled and encouraged us to attend. We went it.

First of all, the chapel is not like what you may be imagining. It isn’t a chapel so much as a miniature cathedral. Gorgeous carved stone which echoed with our every step no matter how quiet we were, ornately carved wood throughout the choir stalls, and the ambience that only a thousand years of existence can bring.

The choir entered. It was only the men. The boys had been given the evening off as they had had a concert the night before. The cantor began in that clear, pure tenor that only the English can produce. When the choir came in in brilliant four part harmony my eyes welled up with tears. It was one of the most beautiful sounds I have heard and I’ve heard more than my fair share of choirs. As they continued I had to fight to hold back tears. The sound swirled around me and seemed to envelop me until I felt that I wrapped up in a blanket or being embraced by the dearest of friends. How I missed singing in a choir. Directing a choir is just not the same as singing in one. I missed the healing that came from singing. I missed feeling a part of something. You cannot be lonely when you are singing with other human beings. There is a powerful bond that comes from heartbeats aligning and perfect, harmonious synergy.

The service concluded and I felt bare and empty without the voices. We left the chapel and choking back tears, I thanked my friend.

I spent the next few days in a real home. I hadn’t been in a home for close to three months and I found myself breathing more deeply and sleeping more soundly than I had since I first arrived in England. There is a tremendous feeling of support and belonging when you are in a place like that and I began finally to heal. The panic attacks subsided and I found myself getting used to a family routine again.

On my first night we ate at the Hind’s Head Inn, a place frequented by Her Majesty The Queen on occasion when entertaining important dignitaries. It’s pub fare with a bit of a twist toward the fancy. I ordered an experimental dish called Sand and Sea which arrived in a crock looking very much like the shore. The sand was bread crumbs, the sea was…you know I can’t even remember, and the seaweed in between was kale. Essentially though it was a fish pie and it was delicious and incredibly fishy. The mulled white wine was also amazing and the cinnamon burned my throat as it went down in a completely satisfying way.

The second day I was there, the entire family piled into the car and headed to the Shepperton Studios in Watford for the Harry Potter Studio Tour. It would take pages and pages to describe all of the fascinating things there. The sets, the props, the models, the costumes, the animatronics, the vehicles, the paintings, the EVERYTHING! Before we began our tour one of the staff members said the longest anyone has spent there was twelve hours. It is very possible to spend hours and hours exploring especially if you add the audio tour as we did. 

I was happily exploring everything and nearing the end when we rounded a corner and entered a black room, a huge black room. Dark except for blue spotlights from the ceiling. Empty except for one of the most amazing sites. Hogwarts. The scale model (1:24 in case you are interested) of Hogwarts. It filled the space. It was truly a magical site. I actually gasped when I saw it and my friend smiled at me.

“We didn’t want to tell you about this. We wanted it to be a surprise,” she explained.

It was an awesome surprise. The very best surprise. The details alone could make you insane with how painstaking a process the design and build had been. A wide ramp way led all around it, giving a panoramic view of everything. Why would you ever CGI when you could have the artistry of the model maker?

My last day in Windsor was a lazy, relaxing day. We had originally planned to go to the castle but we all found ourselves exhausted. Instead we wandered about the shops in Windsor and my friend treated me to a new haircut. We had drinks at one of their neighbour’s houses that evening and when I returned to my most comfortable bedroom, I wept for not wanting to leave the next morning. I realised I was beginning to heal very slowly, that the blackness was beginning to lift. It was going to be a long healing process but three days in Windsor was where it began.

Deck the Halls with lots of Tartan

Previously on An American in Durham: Our heroine was forced to abandon a much anticipated trip to the Edinburgh Christmas Market in order to complete a paper. Rather than allow this to become a missed opportunity, a point of life-long regret and speculation, she bravely changed her tickets to the following weekend. (Alright, perhaps I’m being slightly dramatic, but just go with it, okay?)

Term was over. There were no papers hanging over my head, no exams, no lectures or projects. At least, they could wait until after Christmas. For now, I was free; free from the obligations of being a graduate student that is. Emotionally and mentally I was drained. My personal daemons were plaguing me as I tried to reconfigure my future goals and readjust to my new realities. The news I had received from the States had managed to derail me, but as long as I had work, I had a focus. Now that I was on a hiatus, my brain, a notorious organ of the scumbag variety, began ever so slowly to turn its attention to self-torture. The only thing which could stave off the feeding frenzy was distraction. My previously postponed trip to visit Edinburgh was the perfect candidate for the job.

Edinburgh is two hours north by train. Two hours of unstructured, captive time would have allowed my brain to do its worst. I had begun to realise a week before that going to Edinburgh on my own in my present state of depression might potentially backfire. I was delighted to discover that Erin would be there that weekend, stopping off for a day or two before she went back to the US for the holiday. We exchanged numbers and decided to try to meet up once I made it to town.

A few days before, Charlotte and I were sitting about in her room. I often ended up back at her place after a lecture or a particularly trying meeting. Her room is far cosier than mine, seeming to embrace you as you enter. We were discussing the upcoming break and our plans when I mentioned going to Edinburgh. She and I had originally discussed going together with the Archaeology Society, but Charlotte had never gotten around to buying her train ticket. She turned to her laptop and discovered that ticket process were fairly reasonable for the same trains I had booked. I had gone from spending the day alone, to having two companions in Erin and Charlotte. I began to breathe more easily and began to look forward to the weekend.

The rolling hills of England shifted outside of my window as the train sped north. I followed their undulations with my eyes, up and down, over and under. They became more angular and steeper the further north we got changing from the English countryside into the Scottish highlands. I don’t know precisely when the shift occurred. Nature is no respecter of political boundaries. The earth continued its dance as we neared Edinburgh. Rising ever higher and then quickly plunging down again. Small streams had cut themselves deeply into the land leaving what appeared to be scars running over it. I had never seen anything quite as wild and beautiful.

Then we entered the city. It seems that most cities when entered by train approach from underground. You don’t ever really see it until you emerge from the dark up a flight or two of stairs. Charlotte and I made our way up from Waverley Station and into the city. I am still amazed by places like Edinburgh and Newcastle. I had become so used to New York and Philadelphia that whenever I thought of a city, immediately skyscrapers and claustrophobic spaces were conjured up in my mind. What I saw in Edinburgh though, were tall buildings, but not unreasonable goliaths. They were old, ornate, and established, not new, minimalist, and shiny. Where we were felt wide open and in the distance the castle sat high on a steep bluff. The highlands appeared to melt into the city, or perhaps it is the city that appears to spring out of the highlands.

My first view of Edinburgh

Charlotte and I headed over to the tourist centre, hoping to find where the Christmas market was being held and to find the best way to the castle. We were due to meet Erin there in two hours. After taking out some cash and receiving a wad of Scottish notes (got to love them for being different), we headed towards the market. It was crowded and vast. I’m not entirely sure how the two of us had missed it when we had climbed up from the station. The Ferris wheel and two storey carousel should have been a dead giveaway. We meandered through the crowd peering at the various stalls. There were trinkets, jewellery, glass ornaments, German candle carousels, cheeses, toys, rag dolls and animals, and bread. Bratwurst and bier were available and we saw passers-by with enormous sausages on rolls. There was an ice skating rink at the foot of the Ferris wheel and a river of people flowed between it all.

“I really want to go on the big wheel,” Charlotte said turning to me.

Had I been on my own, I wouldn’t have even thought to go up on it, but I looked up and thought that there would be no better way to see the city. I nodded and we got in line.

It wasn’t cheap, but once we got to the top, the view made it all worthwhile.

After we came down to earth, we decided to make our way to the castle. Neither of us really knew the city and we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to get lost and found again if necessary. The Christmas Market was truly vast. As we passed the National Gallery, we noticed a miniature train and Christmas tree maze just below us. We continued to head towards the castle. You couldn’t miss it really. Like Durham Cathedral it was omnipresent. We finally made it up onto the Royal Mile and began heading out over the open cobbled courtyard which led to the castle wall. High up on that exposed bluff, there were no buildings to prevent the wind from knocking us almost the ground. We neared the edge and realised how inadequate the stone walls would be should you lean just slightly too far over. We passed through the stone archway and into the grounds. It was all stone and the round walls loomed up heavily in front of us. The price of admission and our meeting time with Erin prevented us from getting much further than the shop. Tartans, St. Andrews golf balls, stuffed Nessys and all the tat of Scotland are available to would be consumers.

We headed out onto the bluff again and were nearly slammed to the ground once again by the vicious highland breeze. We had decided to walk down the Royal Mile and look for a café. It was just after noon and I was keen to try some traditional Scottish fare. We came across a tiny restaurant called A Taste of Scotland and decided that after all, that’s what we were after. Inside, it was bright and modern. We were seated and handed our menus which included much to my utmost happiness haggis. I had first heard of haggis when I was probably eleven or twelve. My brother and I loved going to the Renaissance Faire and around that time a Scottish music group called Enter the Haggis had become all the rage to Faire goers. Upon learning what it was, I would say that my stomach may have turned once or twice. Now that I was a vegetarian, I knew that true haggis was out of the question, but this menu provided a vegetarian haggis option. Before you ask, no, I have no idea how you make something inherently carnivorous into an herbivorous dish. All I know is that I was going to order it. After we had placed our orders we texted Erin, telling her to come find us and have some lunch. She arrived shortly after and we all sat down to a Scottish luncheon. (By the way, you should definitely try the haggis (v).)

The haggis is the brown blob.

My first bite of haggis (v) and I even had a very Scottish Sprite
with which to wash it down.

After we finished we set off down the Royal Mile towards Holyrood Palace. We were hoping to make it there before dark. On our way we stopped off at the Pie Maker which had been strongly recommended to us by Alex. Charlotte came away with two meat pies. After a few obligatory references to Sweeney Todd, we continued past the Heart of Midlothian which marked the ancient entrance to a prison. It was covered in wet dabs as though it had been raining. Traditionally, you see, you are supposed to spit on it. Eschewing tradition, we continued down the road. Tartan shops were on every corner and even in between. They are like those souvenir shops in New York that sell I <3 NYC shirts, only in Edinburgh you buy kilts.

I don't believe there is a barber shop above it.

The Heart of Midlothian (sounds like something straight out of Tolkien)

We came upon what at first appeared to be a toyshop. Knowing I had two nieces to shop for we went inside. It turned out to be the Museum of Childhood. The shop in the front sold traditional games and toys while the exhibits were in the rear and upstairs. All of us being in the museum business, we decided to have a look. The displays were old-fashioned and cramped. The cases filled to the brim with the detritus of childhood through the years, dolls, prams, model cars, animal figurines, games. We came upon a nickelodeon and after putting in 50p we were treated to a rather lengthy rendition of Frosty the Snowman. It was well worth the change and as we stood listening, other patrons came over to listen and watch the show. Upstairs we found some more memorabilia from that simpler time of life including a small section of Doctor Who toys and magazines. It’s always strange when you see something you own behind the glass in a museum and I was aghast to see a TARDIS play set I had acquired when I was seven or eight. We walked past hobby horses, marionettes, and intricate dollhouses that had running water. It was an odd place, a bit sad really. Perhaps it was the crowded displays or the layer of dust, but it seemed like these happy things of childhood had lost their purpose when they were put behind glass.

Yep, totally have that TARDIS complete with Mel.

We stepped into the street again and discovered it had begun to drizzle. The light was waning fast though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. We braced ourselves against the icy rain and continued down to Holyrood. We didn’t get very far. The weather was getting more unbearable the further we went and so we decided to stop in a pub at the end of the world to warm ourselves before continuing on. The World’s End pub is a fantastic hole in the wall. It has a lived in, ancient feel that comes from decades if not centuries of wear and tear from the best kind of pub denizens. A seemingly odd name, it once truly represented the end of the world, as the people of Edinburgh saw it. Its foundations are made from the Flodden Wall, a stone defence built in the sixteenth century marking the boundary of the city: the end of the only world the people of Edinburgh knew.

We took up three stools at the far end of the bar. Two mulled wines and a Bulmer’s later, we were discussing the end of term, the upcoming holidays, and our plans for the new year. The bar was papered in notes from all around the world, Japan, Brazil, America. Written over them in black Sharpie were messages from travellers who had all found themselves at World’s End.

“I wish I still had an American dollar,” I said looking up at the colourful array of capital investment.

“I have one,” said Erin pulling out her wallet.

“You won’t mind us using it?” I asked.

She shook her head and smiled.

“You know what will happen now,” I said smiling, “You’ll get back to the States and be short a dollar and you’ll shake your fist and think about it hanging up here.”

We laughed and asked the barman for a marker. And so, my friends, if you ever find yourself at the end of the world, go to the far side of the bar near the toilets and look up. You may just see that very same dollar signed by Charlotte, Erin, and myself.

It's supposed to be an archaeology spade and not an arrow.

Fortified against the cold and wet with the best kind of libations, we once again set forth for Holyrood. It was dark now, the sun had retreated behind the highlands and all that remained were the halos around the streetlights and the headlights of oncoming cars. We managed to get to the end of the Royal Mile and entered the visitor’s centre to the palace. It was warm and the lights of the shop cast a yellow glow around all of the goods for sale. To our disappointment the palace itself was closed. We had arrived too late on a Sunday and all that we could do was peruse the exceptionally high priced wares. After staying long enough to warm ourselves and dry at least the outer layer of our clothes, we turned to trudge up the mile back towards the castle.

The castle lit in the colours of Scotland.

The rain was falling more heavily and the wind was packing a wallop as it rushed between the buildings. We kept our heads down and tilted to the side to keep the water from our eyes. As we passed the blocks of shops I noticed the small alleyways every so often that ran from the street to the backs of the shops and beyond. They were dark and mysterious and were either called closes or wynds. The closes were dead ends while the wynds opened up once you reached its end. Remnants of the medieval city, in the dark and gloom, they made for an even more atmospheric walk back.

We finally reached the Christmas Market again and saw the glittering lights from atop the Royal Mile. They danced and glowed in the rain like fairy lights. We decided to take refuge in Jenners, the Scottish equivalent of Macy’s on 34^th Street in New York. We found a café that looked over the market and happily sipped our hot chocolates while watching the skaters on the ice.

We stayed long enough for me to have a second cup and for me to hear and totally misunderstand the heavy brogue of the man behind the counter. We wandered about the market for another hour, buying some gifts and giving Charlotte the chance to finally have one of those enormous German sausage rolls. We walked Erin part of the way back to her hostel and Charlotte and I headed back to Waverley to wait for our train.

There was much we hadn’t seen or done during our time in Edinburgh. The first visit to a new place always gives you just a little taste, the flavour. Subsequent trips provide the substance, the meat and potatoes (or haggis and potatoes as the case maybe). I will return to Edinburgh. I will see the castle and the palace. I’ll go back to World’s End and check that our dollar is still there. I’ll roam further afield and explore the underground city. I’ve not quite finished with Scotland’s remarkable city.

The American: An Unexpected Journey to Newcastle

Friday the 13^th of December loomed before us during that last week of term. If we could only make it to that day, we would have come a third of the way to completing our master’s degrees. Our last week was filled with deadlines: group presentations on Monday, a formative exam on Thursday, and our second paper on that Friday. All of us sat in the archaeology common room that Monday afternoon waiting to give our presentations. It was already darkening outside though it was only three o’clock. We began chatting about the end of term and being thrilled to be that much nearer to an advanced degree. There was still so much work ahead of us though. The second term would not be as easy. I was surfing the web as I chatted and came across an advertisement for The Hobbit film.

“Hey, The Hobbit comes out on Friday,” I said excitedly.

Originally, I had desperately wanted to go down to Oxford to see the movie. I wanted to be in the same town where Tolkien had lived and worked for so long. As the months had progressed and the realities of life set in, I had decided I would content myself with just seeing the movie in England.

A few of our happy horde of museum studiers expressed an interest in seeing it.

“What if we all meet here on Friday morning, hand in our essays en masse, and then head into Newcastle?” I suggested.

Erin jumped on her computer and began looking for show times. Six of us settled on seeing an early matinee (IN 2D!) in the city and all of a sudden the unluckiest day of the year turned into an exciting prospect. We could think of no better way to celebrate the end of term and beginning of break than with Martin Freeman and a giant digital dragon.

The thirteenth arrived amid great anticipation. The end of term. The Desolation of Smaug. The End of Term Party at Fisher. I printed out my paper which had come to sixteen pages, bibliography included, and began to worry I would run out of ink. Slowly, my printer spewed forth each page and I grabbed them in turn. I had broken three staplers and so decided to paper clip the pages, knowing there would be a stapler at Dawson.

The six happy adventurers had all decided to meet at the wooden assignment drop box in Dawson at 9:50am. I must take full credit for the OCD-like time. It gave us the best opportunity for catching a 10:30 train to Newcastle and making the 11:30 matinee. We were all coming from different places. Erin would already be at Dawson making up the exam from the previous day. Sara and Alex both lived near to the station but had to come into town to hand in their essays. James lived at home and would be taking the bus into town. Jeremy and I would be coming up from Howlands. I couldn’t help but think of the arrivals of the dwarves in Tolkien’s book. Instead of Bag End, we’d meet at Dawson.

Right on time, we all met and together slipped our papers through the slot on the front of the box. We then began the first leg of our adventure: the walk to Durham Train Station. It was a thirty minute journey through town and then uphill. Alone, it’s a bit of a wretched walk, but in the company of five other Tolkien enthusiasts who were just as excited about the end of term, it’s a pleasure. I say Tolkien enthusiasts, but the truth was that Alex had never seen any of the Lord of the Rings films until the previous evening when he had watched The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. He was very excited about it though, a true overnight convert.

We had originally tried to get to the station for the 10:23 to Newcastle, but when we looked at the departure boards, we found it was 10:30. Not to worry, the next train would be there in a few minutes. Or maybe a few more minutes. It’s a fact of life that the trains outside of London were rather on their own schedules. I have yet to catch a train to Newcastle that was on time, I do have hopes though, that one day in the not so distant future, I will.

Newcastle. It’s an interesting city. Definitely a city, but not like New York, Philadelphia, or London. The buildings aren’t very tall, but there are some lovely older buildings. The River Tyne winds through the south and separates Newcastle from Gateshead. The iconic image of Newcastle is of course the Millennium Bridge. We could see it as the train crossed the Tyne and most of us had walked across it only a month before when we were in Newcastle for my thirtieth birthday. A month. It seemed more like a year.

The Millennium Bridge

Eldon Square

We got into Newcastle and walked through Eldon Square, the main square in the city. The Gate cinema was not far. As we neared I saw a giant advertisement for the upcoming 3D movie Walking with Dinosaurs. By now, everyone knew how much I loved dinosaurs and I couldn’t help but get excited and immediately suggest another trip into Newcastle in the new year.

Erin had purchased our tickets online. We reimbursed her and she retrieved the tickets from one of the kiosks. The Gate is an odd place. The cinema is on the top level, the rest is filled with restaurants which gave the distinct impression of American themed restaurants, like TGI Fridays and the like. I was feeling rather unimpressed by it all and was glad when we finally reached the top floor. James went off to get some popcorn and a soda. (Odd English idiosyncrasy: you have to specify whether you want salty popcorn or sweet. Also, you can totally drink alcohol.). Sara had made some chocolate truffles for us to share when we got into the theatre. We took our seats (which were assigned, it’s not free seating like in the States) and eventually were transported to Middle Earth.

I won’t do spoilers, except to say that every time I saw Stephen Fry I thought of Lord Melchett, especially when I saw the life-size painting of him in the background. I do hope he got to keep that at the end of filming. It certainly isn’t up to the original trilogy, which I adore. It’s long and it’s heavily adapted. Once again though, the best scene is between Martin Freeman and a CGI character, this time, the dragon, Smaug. I will also say that the design of the dragon is absolutely gorgeous. Oscars to the design team, please.

Though it wasn’t my favourite movie, the trip had always been less about the film. It had been more about spending the day with people I like and going on an adventure with them. As we walked back to the station, we chatted about our impressions of the film, plans for the holidays, and thoughts about next term.

That evening we spent some time at the End of Term Party at Fisher. There was much drinking and I’m sure a few sore heads the next day. By morning, many of the friends I had made over the past few months had gone home for the holidays. I was staying on until Thursday when I would head to Windsor to visit some dear friends of mine.

Too much has happened over the course of the term to adequately put it in perspective. I have had great highs and very great lows. I’ve met some amazing people and seen some fantastic places. I can only hope that next term sees more highs than lows and brings more adventures to this little Hobbit.

Here we Come a-Busking at the Durham Christmas Market

For two weeks my essay for Principles and Practice had been hanging over my head. Not in the expectant mistletoe type of hanging; more as in the ton of bricks sense. Three failed attempts had left me nowhere and as the deadline loomed, I began to sink further and further into denial. Watching episodes of QI and The Thick of It while a proven necessity for my sanity were not helping me finish my work. I had planned to travel to Edinburgh for the Christmas Market on the Sunday before the end of term. I decided to make that both my deadline and incentive. Like Cinderella’s wicked stepmother I told myself that if I could finish my essay by 10:00am on Sunday morning, I could go to the market. I stayed up into the wee small hours of Sunday morning crafting and honing the best paper I could. At one in the morning I couldn’t hold it together any longer. I admitted failure and consoled myself by thinking that the market would be dull, and boring, and completely….completely wonderful. I popped on an episode of QI and sank into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke to a revelation. I could simply change my train tickets from this Sunday to next Sunday. Take that Wicked Stepmother! Cinderella just rescheduled the ball! I continued working until 10:00 am when, by some miracle I finished my paper. I had already changed my train tickets, but I knew that Durham was holding the final day of its Christmas Market. I dressed, grabbed my camera and my wallet, and began the walk into town. Little did I know that it would turn out to be one of the more musical journeys I have known.

Buskers are a normal part of life in Durham. I have gotten to recognise quite a few of them now through my many trips into town. There is the folksy, indie girl who usually parks herself near Cotswolds and strums her guitar belting loudly. Then there is her male counterpart who is usually somewhere nearby singing much of the same material. Once I saw a French horn player on Elvet Bridge, he was quite good and I thoroughly enjoyed his playing. Perhaps my favourite of the crew though is Bagpipe Guy. I haven’t seen him very recently though the cooler weather makes wearing a kilt decidedly uncomfortable. He often stands on the Framwellgate Bridge piping away. When a group of us traveled into Newcastle to celebrate my birthday we actually all saw him there as well in Eldon Square. Clearly busking can get you places. The Christmas Market had brought out buskers of varying degrees of talent and tenacity. 

As I neared Market Square the streets became more congested. Though many of the store fronts were dark, people were contentedly window shopping, stopping for coffee, and chatting as they walked through the streets of town at Christmas. The distant sounds of brass music pricked my ears and I hoped that it was my French horn player. Sadly, however, it was not. The sounds of a brass quintet filtered over the cobblestones of Market Square. The trumpet was playing quite flat and an attempt at It Came Upon the Midnight Clear resulted in hopeless bleating as I finally entered the Square.

It wasn’t nearly as grand or crowded as I thought it would be, though I had arrived on the last day at 10:45 in the morning. A number of tents dotted the square along with a carousel and a few beverage stands. I began slowly walking past each stall trying to take in all of the sights and smells, while simultaneously trying to drown out the sound of brass. There was the charity stall which was asking for donations for soldiers, three or four vintage stalls with clothing that would make Macklemore proud, the truly-awful-Christmas-jumper stall had a wide selection of… truly awful Christmas jumpers, there was a fudge stall, soap stall, trinket stall, Christmas stall, three or four jam stalls, and finally the most wonderful stall of them all: the homemade ginger wine stall. Rows of plastic cups lined the table with samples which no man or beast could resist. I took up one of the cups and was met with a light, melodious flavour which danced about my tongue until I had secured three bottles to take back with me.

I stopped by a bench to readjust my newly acquired goods before I headed into Market Hall. It was business as usual inside. Some of the stalls were covered by large cloths. I passed the butcher, the fish guy, the cheese guy, the tailors, the medieval reenactors’ stall (yes, they have one), the pet food stall, and the cushion stall, before deciding to head up to Palace Green.

The brass music died away as I headed up North Bailey. I passed a number of older people dressed as a Dickensian choir and felt the need to stop and be inspired by such a prototypical seasonal display. Then they began singing.

I moved on rather quickly, climbing ever upward toward the Cathedral. I’ll tell you one thing, if Durham had been on the way to Mordor, the fellowship would never have made it past these hills. Just at the junction of Owensgate and North Bailey, I heard more music. This time it was much different…it was jazzy and it was really good. His guitar case lay open at his feet and the obligatory sign of the busker rested on the lid: Christmas CDs for sale.

I carried on up to Palace Green. The Cathedral was becoming a familiar sight, but it still hadn’t lost any of its grandeur in the two and a half months I had been in Durham. A large white marquee filled most of the green. Inside were the stalls of local craftsmen and artists, but entry was £3.50, an exorbitant fee for a starving student who had just bought three bottles of ginger wine. (Alright, I do see the hypocrisy, let’s move on.) Food vans and a roasted chestnut cart lined the outside of the green. People were milling about laden down with bags of goods they would be taking home at the end of the day. As I turned to walk to the Cathedral a choir of students began singing. They would be my last musical performance of the day and I’m glad to have closed with them.

As I rounded the far end of the green I noticed a sign which read “animal tent this way” with an arrow pointing around the corner. I headed over and saw the most beautiful cream coloured owl perched on top of a sign advertising pictures with a bird of prey for £2. I gazed at the creature which seemed unphased and rather unimpressed with the crowd gathered around it. Owls are striking to look at. It’s no wonder everyone is owl mad these days. They are quite amazing. I decided to move away from the front of the crowd to give someone else a chance at a photo and headed to the next tent which housed, to my utter delight, two reindeer, a male and female. He had already shed his antlers and seemed to be rather displeased with his food as he stood toward the back of the tent nosing it grumpily. She stood facing outwards with large, watery eyes. I had wanted to see reindeer for three Christmases but opportunities are scarce back home. I must have looked simple to anyone who was observing because I grinned like an idiot and snapped several photos. The reindeer and owls were the highlight of my day. Correction: The reindeer and owls were the highlight of my week. Seeing them had melted away all of the anxiety and depression that had boiled over during the past two weeks. I was myself again.