Dalai Lama and Jane Austen?
A message from the Dalai Lama for all undergraduate thesis writers:
"A young man caught a small bird, and held it behind his back. He then asked, "Master, is the bird I hold in my hands alive or dead?" The boy thought this was a grand opportunity to play a trick on the old man. If the master answered "dead," it would be let loose into the air. If the master answered "alive," he would simply wring its neck. The master spoke, "the answer is in your hands."
The Post-Pilgrimage Experience
I have not posted on my blog since I returned to Canada from England, but I have decided to use this space online to document the adventures and experiences of a Jane Austen pilgrim as I continue to work on my honours thesis. Because "Blogging" seems to be the semantic equivalent of talking out loud, I hope it will be of use as I try to bring together the core themes of my project -- place, text, and reader in Austen -- into a coherent essay by next April. I have to admit that the line "Learn how to turn your vague ideas into a convincing paper!" on the backcover of "How to Write a BA Thesis" fed into my insecurities enough for me to purchase the book. In an attempt to portray and relate the significance of my adventure in a "rigourous academic fashion," I will either be hounding my supervisor for guidance or feverishly reading this DIY manual (or both, simultaneously) when I return to University this fall.
Before I left for my journey, one of my professors commented that I had thoroughly explored the meaning of pilgrimage before and during the journey, but that an area that needed more research was the "post-pilgrimage" experience. While rushing to book air and rail tickets, B&B accomodation, and co-ordinate meetings with Janeites overseas, I did not give this idea much thought. In fact, it was only today, while reading the Saturday edition of
The Globe and Mail, did I have my first "post-pilgrim" relevation. A critic was reviewing a new novel that documented a young man's travels in Japan. At the end of the review, the critic stated:
"Beyond the book's many observations on the meaning of the trip and of hitchhiking generally (discovery of a culture or landscape, or one's place in it, etc.), I have come to believe that such lonely travel -- of which I have done a fair bit --
is undertaken less as a process of discovery than as a kind of
servicing of the self, of the curious unappeasable urge that I suspect all artists and writers ultimately feel toward
aloneless and independence. What could be better than heading off on one's own, to where those who follow will be able to do so only by reading the book?" [my italics]
His words struck me to the core. For a month I had been answering the dreaded question of all travellers, "So, how was your trip?" with a meager, timid response: "Oh, fine. Yea, great." In truth, I had come home with a feeling of relief, having escaped the intensity of the social aftermath of multiple terrorist attacks, and releasing my parents of the financial burden that a month in England had put on them (the English pound is, after all, worth almost twice the Canadian dollar). I had not really come home with any brillant ideas concering the direction of my thesis or any gripping reflections on my trip. I even felt that my skills as a writer in accurately and wittingly portraying the experience of a pilgrim in England were despairingly inadequate. Leaving the serenity of Chawton behind and entering the stressful world of an undergrad entering their final year, the magic of Austen that I had felt so frequently during my trip, while listening to a sermon in St. Nicolas Church in Chawton or rambling through the bridlepaths of Derbyshire, had eluded me. Indeed, I was even beginning to tell people that my trip in England had been largely a
lonely experience; "I suppose it made me realize how important the company of people provide truly is," I recently told a friend. In light of other trips to exotic locales such as Africa, England, where everyone seemed to have already "been there and done that," ("Isn't the Tower of London absolutely marvellous?!" one friend gushed) my "pilgrimage" was diminishing in excitement value by the minute.
Yet the words of this critic made me realize that I was not lonely during my trip, but alone. The difference a prefix and suffix can make! The more I reflected on being
alone, I realized how much I achieved by undertaking the journey: I had figured out the public transport system in practically every small Southern English town, walked over 50 miles in Austen country, transversing on busy, congested roads to reach a historic site, and had met some fascinating people along the way, such as John Turner, a former RAF solider living in Chelsea, Chris and Jill from Wales, or the two delightful National Trust guides at The Vyne who could talk forever about the relevance of an eighteenth century sleigh bed in a bedroom. Moreover, I had learned how to be humble (Note to future British travellers: the cream in "Cream tea" goes
on the scone,
not in the drink!) and ask for help when I needed it (the local tourist information centre became a favorite hangout). And I had delightfully done everything in the name of academia! :)
The more time I spend at home, enjoying the beautiful surroundings of a lush summer in rural Canada, the more I realize the importance of place. It was the places that Austen herself had visited, like Lyme and Bath, that supplied the most fodder for her novels, and which she most elaborately described. Her ability to poetically describe the life and times of "3 or 4 families in a country village" gains even more relevance when the traveller returns home and realizes that these villages are universal in character, and are the result of an author who not only adored the quirks of rural life but who understood the importance of place for herself and her readers.
The Traveller's Melancholy of Departure
I thought that a final blog post from London would be a suitable ending to an extraordinary trip. The city is gloomy, with grey skies all around, providing the stage for an atmosphere of fear and apprehension to the on-going terrorist threat. Even the river Thames seemed angry as I walked over the bridge from Westminster to the South Bank this morning: angry at the millions of tourists who continue to take from the city through their pictures, and angry at the attackers who have, in one day, transformed a city of joy to one of fear. Despite its anger, it embodies one of the most important truths of life: that change is inevitable. With the current, it carries the haunts of the Tower of London; the scribbles of the writers now buried in the Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey; even the bums who sell the "Big Issue" to passers-by on the streets. Indeed, this new terror will move on with the course of history in Britain and with life itself.
But this is way too philosophical and dreary for Austen. Although I am glad to leave, especially at this time of "heightened security alerts" and the frequent chime of police cars, I have the traveller's melancholy as I reflect on my trip.
Yesterday I ventured to the university city of Cambridge, which, besides London is reputed to be the next best city in England. It was indeed beautiful, with old buildings lining the streets and the huge grass courtyards of the colleges. I even enjoyed the city more than its rival Oxford, which I had visited a few days before. Perhaps it was the fact that there were half the number of tourists or maybe that the electron was discovered in the Cavendish Laboratory or that Watson and Crick first announced their discovery of the DNA double-helix in one of the oldest pubs in the city. (Pub, by the way, is actually short for Public House, if you ever wondered). With so much brainpower in the city, it is no wonder that Cambridge continues to be one of the top schools in the world. Like India, where I was once told that there are "spiritual vibrations," I felt that Cambridge was an intellect's mecca. It seemed really easy to sit down and think in the place.
I have learned so much about my history as a "derivative" of England, and the more you travel over Britain, the more things start to connect. For example, the Cavendish laboratory was donated by the Duke of Devonshire, whose seat, you studious blog readers will remember, is Chatsworth in Derbyshire. (There should be a classic Austen quiz at the end of this blog!) Familiar people and places dot the landscape, and combined with the old buildings, some dating from more than 600 years ago (such as King's College Chapel in Cambridge), history truly comes alive. Whether it is among the Georgian streets of Bath or transversing the untouched bridleways of Chawton, the pilgrim can follow in the footsteps of Jane Austen and even, on some clandestine occasions, meet some of her charming characters. ;)
Heading back across the pond...Cheers, Britain.
Jane Austen Society (JAS) Annual General Meeting (AGM)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young and new member of a literary society should not make jokes about old people, tweed, or tea.
Thank goodness I followed this cardinal rule.
Truth be told, I had a glorious day at the JAS AGM. My neighbours down the hall at my "Bed and Breakfast," Jill and Chris from Wales, graciously offered to give me a lift over to the meeting, and so after breakfast we headed over for an early start to the day's festivities.
In the lawn of Chawton House there was a large marquee - the English-derived-from-French-term for "big white tent" - as well as the token bookseller and stalls for each of the British chapters. The meeting officially began at 11:30 a.m., chaired by Patrick Stokes accompanied by JAS President, Richard Knight. Both are great-great-great indirect relatives of Jane's brothers (I think James and Edward, respectively) and although their relation is fairly distant, it still felt like history-in-action during the meeting as JAS members talked about Jane while in Chawton with descendants from her family.
During the meeting, there were Society updates, including the announcement of new members. I was briefly introduced as "Martha Padan, from the US" and after a short little wave, my six seconds of JAS fame was over. I tried to brush off both the "French-ified" pronounciation of my last name and the mistake that I was from America, especially since Jill is also a relatively new member and travelled a considerable distance from Wales to attend the meeting. I also held my tongue for the US slight because Joan Klingel Ray, the President of the Jane Austen Society of North America, was present at the meeting, and she is most definately from America (as indicated by her rich Southern accent).
One of the issues raised during the morning meeting was the need to attract young members to the Society. This is of particular relevance for me as I am the youngest member, to my knowledge, of the JASNA Toronto Chapter. I was discouraged to hear the opinion of one member on the subject. She was a professor at a Univeristy in England, and she commented that "It has been my experience that most young people do not join literary societies unless they are introduced to the group by their grandparents." I found this so discouraging coming from a professor as I would not have pursued this extraordinary journey, in the footsteps of Jane Austen, had it not been for the encouragement of my professor and supervisor (and, of course, the EXTREME generosity of my amazing parents). Young people would, I believe, join literary societies if they were more aware of them. After all, who wouldn't enjoy discussing Jane Austen over a cup of tea on a Sunday afternoon? I have a feeling that the proposed cricket match of the JAS vs. the P.G.Woodhouse Society will not have the "youth recruitment" effect that is hoped.
Oh dear - I am going on WAY to long for one post. Suffice to say that the AGM was an amazing experience and a brillant way to end my Jane Austen journey. The lecture by Brian Southam on "England's Toasts: Admiral Nelson and Jane Austen" was very interesting, especially since I toured the H.M.S. Victory (flagship of Nelson that defeated the French and Spanish forces at the Battle of Traflagar in 1805) during my time in Portsmouth. Afternoon tea on the lawn of Chawton House, discussing if Tom Lefroy WAS Jane's true love after all (among other things), and evensong at St. Nicolas Church, where Jane worshipped alongside her mother, Cassandra, Martha Lloyd and Edward's family, was an experience that brought everything full circle.
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By the way, I am thinking of entitling my thesis "Jane Austen by Public Transport," partially as a tribute to my success in reaching places such as Dovedale, Goodnestone (pron. Gud-sten I found out at the AGM; no wonder I received blank stares in Canterbury), and The Vyne, among other places. I think a "Rough Guide: Jane Austen" may be in order (with all of the boons of publication, of course).
love, Martha :)
Itinerary Update
Hiya,
Tomorrow is the big cap-off of my Jane Austen tour: it is the annual general meeting of the British Jane Austen Society at Chawton House in Chawton, Hampshire. It is rumoured to be a "truly English" event, complete with tweed and tea! Ah, heaven!
In the words of Lord Byron...
"Was you ever in Derbyshire?"
After touring the magnificent palatial mansion of Chatsworth yesterday, I decided to explore the beautiful Derbyshire countryside and the reputed Peak District National Park.
Lonely Planet claims that the Peak is the second most visited Park in the world, secondly only to Mt. Fuji.
I decided to focus my journey in a region known as Dovedale, primarily because it received a brief mention by Austen in
P&P during Eliza Bennet's tour of the area. I had also come across an "award-winning" article describing a walk in the precincts by an avid hiker which gave me the small amount of direction I needed to undertake the adventure (I've managed to get by on crumbs before!).
So I began the day with an almost ritualistic trip to the Matlock Bath Tourist Info Centre (TIC). Although my track record with TIC's has been less than satisfactory (I seem to have a better idea of Point A to Point B via public transport), the assistants at the Centre were really helpful and loaded me up with sheets of bus timetables and maps of the area.
At approximately noon I was, quite literally, dumped on a relatively busy road at "Tissington Gates," an unmarked bus stop. I was very proud of myself when I took the chance of walking on a footpath instead of the road en route to the Dovedale car park, as the path seemed to go "as the crow flies" and cut my walking in half. Eventually I reached the car park and began the walk along the River Dove.
If "Dovedale" and "River Dove" sound romantic to you, it is because the areas for which they are named are so beautiful. I walked along a gravel walkway beside the slow moving river to the tiny village of Milldale. After an hour and a half of walking 1 3/4 miles, the cheese and onion "pastie" and hot tea at the local cafe was "spot on."
A day after the walk and I still can't capture the magic of the Dovedale region in my journalling. The weather was extra-ordinary (esp. for the volatile Midlands region), as it was sunny, clear and warm, with a faint breeze rolling over the river to cool the walkers. The scenery was quintessential English countryside, with baaing sheep, acres of green pasture over rolling hills, and stone walls -the work of generations. It was especially interesting for me as the region was remarkably similar to the Himalayan region where I hiked two years ago in India. That two cultures, seeming to be so separate and distinct, could share a common landscape was a fascinating relevation.
My day of walking provided a much needed release for me, especially after the crowds of tourists I endured while touring Chatsworth the day before. Although the path was still populated, I felt like I had my own personal space, and for once, I felt "well-dressed" for the occasion in my sneakers and nylon (esp. compared to some of the ridiculous clothing I saw such as white pants, flip-flops, and skirts).
Dovedale - truly one of the special wonders of the Peak.
Ithaka; or, the Nature of Journeys
I came across the poem "Ithaka" by Constantine Cavafy while browsing the first few pages of Paulo Coelho's new book, Zahir, in Bath. For me, the poe, is an eloquent summary of the nature of journeys, the reasons we travel, and at the end of the voyage, how the experience has deepended the traveller's appreciation for the "Ithaka" in their lives. I had trouble copy/pasting, so you can check it out at:
www.theplaka.com/literature/cavafy.htm.
Truly, wonderfully inspirational.
Live, from Derbyshire!
There has been such a change in the atmosphere in Britain during the past few days since the terrorist attacks in London. Thankfully, I was enjoying the sights of Bath that day and not in the London area, but nevertheless, bombings on the Tube are definately scary. It is a stark reminder of one's mortality, of the way government foreign policy can affect its citizens at home, and of the power of terrorists who can strike anywhere at anytime. In terms of Jane Austen, it seems related to the threat posed by the Napoleonic forces during the early 1800s. Throughout the year, the British government hired men to guard the southern shores to protect from an invasion. These men formed the "militia", which you may remember from Pride and Prejudice. Jane's brother Henry was active in the Oxfordshire militia for a time before the threat had subsided.
Now for some pilgrimage updates: I am currently in the county of Derbyshire (pronounced Da-arby-shur) which is a very picturesque province north of London bordering on the Peak District National Park. My time here will primarily be spent visiting old houses: Hardwick Hall, Haddon Hall, Chatsworth, Calke Abbey and Kedleston Hall, to name a few. My reasons for doing so stem primarily from the fact that viewing such houses gives me a real sense of the way in which Austen's more wealthier characters would have lived. It also parallels Elizabeth Bennet's holiday through the Lakes District with her aunt and uncle. Indeed, as evidenced by the crowds of people in the tiny village of Matlock Bath, this area is where every Brit heads for a weekend holiday.
A few thoughts on Derbyshire before my time is up: one the whole, the county feels very different from Hampshire but I cannot figure exactly why. It seems to lack the suffocating religious overhang of Canterbury in the Kent, and there does appear to be less people than the Southern cities. In this respect I think that Chawton is an abnormally quiet and idyllic place in a county that is very populated. Derbyshire also must have been popular with the artistocratic and landed gentry classes, as evidenced by the numerous country estates throughout. The gentle, rolling hills, crowded with fir and spruce trees and transversed by the River Wye, must have been the primary attraction.
That seems to be all the time I have for now. Sorry for the bland entry; lately it seems that when I am in front of the computer I lose all the thoughts I have gained throughout the day!
Cheers, Martha
Tea with Mr. Darcy
If that title didn't catch your attention, I'm not sure what will!
It is something of a misnomer, however, as I did not romantically bump into Mr. Darcy or his modern likeness Colin Firth on the Georgian streets of Bath. I only had a magnificent midday platter of cakes and sweets with cream tea at the Jane Austen Centre in the city while touring the museum.
I know I have been a bit tardy on my posts, but the internet cafes in Bath are extremely expensive and only on my last day did I find the library, tucked away above a shopping centre. I would like to take my 15 minutes, now 11, oops 10, to share with you some local knowledge and pub etiquette that I have acquired during my now 1 month stay in GB.
First, some pronouniciation: I have discovered that in "Canadian English", we pronounce every syllable., e.g Ontario is pronounced as On-tar-i-o. In "British English," some syllables are not pronounced. For example, the word Pulteney, as in Pulteney Bridge or Great Pulteney St., (which some of you might recognize from Northanger Abbey or Persuasion), is actually pronounced as Pult-ny and not Pult-en-ee. I have also learned to pronounce Salisbury, a small city in Wiltshire that I visited last week (near the famous but tourist-ridden Stonehenge). It is not pronounced as Sal-is-bury but rather Suls-bry. The difference is very distinct and makes for some interesting conversations on the bus.
Now for some pub etiquette for which I have had to endure many embarrassing moments to acquire. According to Lonely Planet, if you order your drink and food at the bar you do not have tip. Only after 40pence did I come across this lovely piece of information. Also, if there are menus on the table, first grab a sit in the non-smoking section, which will be distinguished by the absence of an ash tray on the table, choose your meal, and then go up to the bar and order. Another piece of advice: some pubs are actually a 2-in-1 deal with a restaurant and a bar combined. In this instance, GO TO THE RESTAURANT. Googley eyes famished by hunger are not sufficient to bring the waiter your way.
I have also picked up an interesting expression from the trashy but great show Big Brother. It is so popular that I have even heard it on the BBC. The expression is "At the end of the day," said with a slight pitch at "end", and is equivalent to our common phrases like "In the end" and "overall." Here's another word I've figured out: "Cheers." This replaces our "Thank-you", especially on bus rides, as it is usually said by the passenger to the bus driver on their way out the door. It is commonly said by young men with ripped jeans and scruffy hair who look hungover from a night at the pubs. I have yet to try my luck at this phrase!
Slight diversion from my Austen entries but no fear: I am heading to the north tomorrow to tour some old houses!
