Line

There's a term in music which refers to the melodic inhale and exhale within a musical phrase.To play with line means to play sensitively, weaving notes together in a framework of crescendo and decrescendo. I spent a portion of my weekend hiking in the Lake District. The experience of hiking up to the summit and back down again--if it can be compared to anything--is akin to musical line. Just like music is not found in the moment of highest crescendo but in the silent spaces between the notes and the softness of a phrase's end, the significance of the mountain summit is in both the ascent and descent.

On Saturday morning, all twenty-six Calvin students piled into a couch bus and drove three hours to the Lake District, located on the northwest coast of England. Our first stop was Grasmere, the home of William Wordsworth. It is no wonder to me that Wordsworth produced his best poetry whilst staying at Dove Cottage. I'd hazard a guess that even a person without a poetical bone in her body might be moved to write a few lines upon observing the landscape of Grasmere. Though the main road goes straight through the mountains, when you're in Grasmere you feel like you're in a nest. Behind and before, to the left and to the right the mountains frame the village.

Upon our arrival, the group took turns touring the Wordsworth museum and Dove Cottage. It was surreal to be in Dove Cottage climbing the same stairs that Wordsworth, Dorthy, Sir Walter Scott, Coleridge and so many other famous authors tread so many years ago. Our tour guide was a kind, intelligent middle-aged woman who made the Wordsworth's daily life come alive for us. After the tour, we went into the village itself. Other than Dove Cottage, Grasmere's other (and only) attraction is its Gingerbread Shop. It claims the best gingerbread in the world. After laying a few morsels upon my tastebuds, I can inform you that the above statement is not a marketing ploy. Grasmere Gingerbread is in fact the best gingerbread in world (be aware that I am the leading expert on gingerbread existing today so one should not take such a statement lightly).

After a jaunt about the village, we prepared to take our hike up the mountain. Equipped with legging-lined jeans, three shirts, mittens, a wool scarf, a coat, and last but certainly not least my Canadian-flag-patch hat, I was ready to face the snowy mountaintop. But after about, oh, five steps at a very slight incline I was hot. For all of us the ascend was accompanied by stripping. By the time we reached the summit we were all sporting a 90s-style of dress with our coats tied 'round the neck or waist. While the rest of us were huffing and puffing after about ten steps, Dean Ward (our 60 year old professor) seemed to bound up the mountainside with apparently no compromise to his lungs. He must have harnessed the spirit of William Wordsworth (he apparently completed the same hike as we did...in his late 70s).

Being hot and sweaty, though, was part of the joy of the climb. The experience of climbing was one in which every muscle, tensing and releasing with each footfall, echoes the cry of the soul: I AM ALIVE! To look over the landscape--the craggy rocks peeking through burnt-orange tufts of grass all spilling down into the frozen lake--instilled in me an overwhelming sense of grandeur. As I climbed ever higher I would pause to look back the way I'd come and survey the landscape before me. Each pause was accompanied by wordless, speechless awe and an ever mounting sense of unadulterated joy. As corny as it sounds, I found myself humming 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow" as I hiked along the trail to the summit.The way down was as equally moving as the ascent. While one side of the mountain was all sunshine and warmth, the other was covered with snow and ice. Such a stark change in colour--burnt orange to icy white--made the climb down stunning in its own right.

Thoroughly tired but revived in soul we left Grasmere directly after our hike and traveled to Keswick where our hostel was located. My favourite part of the hostel was my bed. Located on the third floor our rooms had the privilege of low slopping roofs. My bed was tucked under one such roof slope and took me back to my childhood memories of sleeping in my aunt's old bed. Her bed was tucked beneath the slope of that red farmhouse roof I loved so much and I always slept soundly in that bed. I slept so very soundly that night too.

The next morning we worshipped at St.John's Anglican and had the opportunity to witness a baptism there. While I wasn't a huge fan of the screaming toddler, I did love the way the baptism was conducted. When the priest reminded us of our own baptisms he didn't just speak words of remembrance. Instead he took a brass bucket of water and dipped a long spatula-like utensil in the water and flicked it onto the heads of the congregants. It was moving to be reminded of baptism in such a tangible way.

After the service we talked to a few church members (one of whom knew Gaylen Byker!) and then headed back to bus. Because of the "bad weather" (an inch of snow) we could only hike around the lake for an hour before having to head back to York which was fine with us because we were all pretty whipped from the hike the day before. Even though the sky was overcast, the lake and the mountains around were still beautiful. By the time we got back to the bus I was tired and ready to head home... back to York :)

Local Backbacon and Brie

I spent the weekend of February 12-13 in Llandudno, Wales. I and nine other Calvin students made the 4 hour train-trek to Wales--five of us left at 3 am while the other five left at 6 on a Friday morning.

For those of you who have been acquainted with an early morning Jenica should be able to guess which train I procured. I wrested my body from my bed at 4:45 and stumbled into the shower, impressed with myself that I was up a full hour and half before my departure. I turned on the faucet ready for some warm watery goodness. Instead I made a discovery. Apparently, the hot water tank is turned off after 11:30 pm. BUT despite the shivering kickoff, Wales proved to be a heart-warming experience.

Joel, Jennifer, Melissa, Mary and I stepped off the platform at Llandudno train station around 10 am-- about 1 hour after the first group, Will, John, Melissa, Erin and Teresa. Upon arrival, John and I went inside the station to see if we could find our hostel.

-Hi. Could you tell us where we could get some information?

-Oh yes love, said the substantially jowl-ed stationmaster, just go round to the lib'ry. Go up this here street and turn left at the turnabout. You'll see a wee church, turn right. Then another street, turn left. That should get you just about to the lib'ry.

Needless to say we got lost and ended up at the seaside.

We did eventually find our hostel and were met by an immensely kind Welsh woman. She allowed us to check in early so that we could leave our packs in our rooms. Immediately after check-in, we headed down to the Llandudno Public Library to make plans for the day. Thanks to Joel's guidebook and previous recommendations from friends we decided to visit a castle in the nearby village of Conwy [yes that is the correct spelling].

What an imposing piece of architecture! Castle Conwy overlooks the entrance to the village and comes complete with towers and moats. Not even my wild childhood imagination could have conjured up such a castle. For a mere 5 pounds we could ramble all around the castle grounds, walk the ramparts and climb the many towers. We were blessed with a beautiful day. The already stunning view from the castle towers was made even more astounding by the sunlight which cast a bright sheen on everything from the lake to the castle bricks. The view from the towers was something out of an old medieval painting. The hills surrounding Conwy looked as if they'd been brushed with a generous streaks of vibrant green and brownish orange. Aside from taking multitudes of pictures and drinking in the views, the lot of us had a blast posing like roman soldiers on top of the towers. After had our fill of the castle, we walked along the seaside and stopped at the harbour. There were so many beautiful old boats beached on the shore for the winter. We also got to view the smallest house in England. Though it was closed for the winter and we couldn't go inside, I was enthused to discover that for the first time in my life I would have had to duck to get through the doorway.

I must preface the following anecdote with a short comment: Contrary to the outcome of the following story, Calvin students are not boring--unless severely tired by travel, hikes, and copious amounts of sugar.

We returned from Conwy at 4:30 and went down to the pub for dinner. The bartender was a bit miffed when all ten of us asked for water with our meals: "Water? Are you sure? Haven't any of us heard of a pint b'fore?" After dinner we stopped at pounland to pick up desert. Equipped with a grotesque amount of chocolate, java cakes, digestives, gummy bears, and burbon creams we arrived back at the hostel around 6. After filling our bellies unto bursting, we thought it would be a wise idea to play the "Ha-Ha" game. Four of us formed a circle with our heads lying on the adjacent person's belly. Each person in the circle has to say "Ha" with enough gusto that the head on their belly bounces like a bobble-head. The goal is to see how many "ha"s you can get in without making anyone laugh. Guess who always ruined it for my team? You guessed correct, twas your truly. By the time 9:00 rolled around, we were all dog tired [hey! remember that some of us had been up since 2 am]. We went upstairs with the intention of reading until some less lame sounding hour came around and we could go to bed with a clear social conscious. All I can say is that I remember lying in bed reading and looking at my watch lamenting the fact that it was still only 9:30--too lame a time for a college student to fall into slumber. Next thing I know my light is turned off, the book is put away and everyone is sound asleep. I looked at my watch--11:30. We are SO COOL.

Had we spent only one day in Llandudno, I would have deemed the journey worth it but the next day topped off an already superb trip. While Mary, William and Melissa took the bus into Snowdonia National Park, the rest of us stayed in town. Llandudno is home to a large hill--a "huge hunk of carboniferous rock" to be exact (words taken straight from the Wales tour guide section on Llandudno)--otherwise known as the Great Orm. Before we trekked up the Great Orm, we asked a local about the strenuousness of the hike. Easy, she said. After a few minutes we realized this hike was not what we would call easy. The Great Orm is shaped like a camel's back with one hump larger than the other. The hike to the summit of the smaller hump wasn't too bad and was certainly well worth the effort. The view of the coast and the patchwork of Welsh farmland around it was amazing. To get to the real summit though, we had to climb down into a valley of farms. Along the way we found a beautiful old church set amongst equally old gravestones. It was humbling to walk around the stones, read the inscriptions and dates and wonder who each person was.

Now picture this. A 50 degree incline. You. Walking it. Now you've got a pretty good picture of the last 200 meters to the summit. Not that I'm complaining though, it was fun to dig my shoes into the pre-made crevices and lean close to the long grasses that were shaped in tufts like baby's hair. Once again, the effort was well-worth it. The view was even more indescribable and awe-inspiring than the first. We sat for a long time, silent, just looking out over the hills. We discovered the most effective way to descend the Great Orm was to run straight down windmilling our arms for balance (apparently all the cross-country runners do it..).

On the way down to the village we stopped at a quaint pub called King's Head. The ambiance was superb and whoever was in charge of the music selection will have my adoration forever. In the space of an hour I heard some of my favourite songs from Keane, Simon and Garfunkel and Van Morrison (among many others I can't recall). Though the menu was rather pricey we took the recommendation of Joel's friends' as grounds enough to foot the bill and try the food. Let me tell you, I don't think I've ever had a better sandwich in all my days. Local backbacon (which is a cross between ham and bacon) smothered with melted brie cheese on a baguette. Oh it was enough to make the tastebuds cry with pleasure. With full bellies, full eyes, and full hearts ten Calvin students returned to York after a wonderful sojourn in Wales.

To Some Point True and Unproven

Greetings from across the pond! I've been in York now for nearly three weeks. Only three weeks? It feels much longer than that.Even now, thinking back on all the things I've learned, seen and done I wonder if time didn't secretly stretch itself long and lean over the past few weeks just to accommodate all my experiences. Here one day can be so full of new wonders that it feels as if a week has past.

The task of putting three weeks worth of material into one blog post is daunting but after three weeks of settling in I'm up for the challenge. The question is are you? It will be a whirlwind, to be sure. So buckle in, here we go:


1. Flying

I left from Grand Rapids Jan.27 at 12 pm. Aside from a minor missing passport blip within the first 10 minutes of my arrival at GR airport (the consequence of a unusually absent-minded Jenica), the trip went smoothly. Even my bloodsugars managed to behave themselves despite lack of sleep and a six hour time difference. After a five-hour layover in Chicago O'Hare Airport we arrived in Manchester bleary-eyed but smiling.

2. Enter York....

From Manchester airport, the city of York is about a two hour bus ride. I spent that time drifting in and out of sleep, ever coaxed from real sleep by the English countryside. During the trip I made an important life decision: I've decided to marry a British boy in the hopes he'll have a grandfather even half as charming as our bus driver.

After registering for classes and settling in, I spent the next day walking around York. How I love this city already. I have yet to get used to seeing stunning architecture everyday--I hope I never get used to it. What ought to have been a mere 5 minute walk to the Grange took at least 20 minutes thanks to the magnetic attraction between my camera and York's architecture. York Minister is pretty high on my list of sites but the city walls have become a close second. I've also been seduced by the peacock blue doors and bright red gutters that garnish many houses here. I wonder how Mom and Michelle would feel about a blue door......

3. The Yorkshire and Whitby Shambles

In England, the narrow streets of the city center are called the Shambles. They've quickly become my favourite spot to spend my free time. I spent my first Friday and Saturday wandering around York's city centre wandering the Shambles. I love the bookshops here, especially the used ones. They're everything a bookshop should be. Fronted by bay windows the walls are lined with simple wooden book shelves upon which worn copies of books ranging from religion to gardening to literature lie. In one of the shops Melissa and I stumbled upon a 3 pound copy of selected Coleridge poems from 1924. Needless to say, I purchased it.

On Sunday morning York St.John led the International Students to Whitby. The city spills off the sides of two meeting cliffs and nestles on the North Sea. One cliff is crowned with a haunting and ornate ruined Abbey. We arrived in the late morning so the sun cast long shadows through the arches. It was so beautiful. And if that wasn't enough cause for awe, the landscape had such a fine dusting of snow that combined with the white light of the sun, the coastline faded away into a warm white haze.

5. Classes

I'm taking four classes at York St.John University. I'm taking two classes, British Literature and British Culture taught by our Calvin Professor, Dean Ward. So far we've read selections from Wordsworth, and Coleridge--both of whom I love. Currently we're working our way through Wuthering Heights. Professor Ward such a wonderful man and teacher--already I've learned a great deal from him. On the first day of class he challenged us all with a line from one of George Elliot's characters. At the end of the novel one character says to the other, "I am better for having known you." I hope that by the end of this trip I am able to echo those words.

Aside from my Calvin classes, I'm taking a History and English class here with York St. John tutors. My history class, Late Victorian and Edwardian Britain is taught by the quintessential British history professor- inanimate and reserved until the clock strikes nine. Then it's as if a light has been turned on and he sits at his desk eyes aglow lecturing us on the given topic of the day. Though I know much less background about British history than the other York students, my 19th Century Europe class from last semester will prove useful. But my favourite York class so far is Post World War II Literature. I have two tutors for this class who alternate the lectures every week. Immediately following the one hour lecture we have a seminar group--a small portion of the class meets for an hour and a half for group discussion. My seminar tutor looks like a thin, white-haired version of Robin Williams and I love him. Currently we're studying African American writing: James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Rita Dove and Yusef Komunyakaa.

Though I've only glossed over the first two weeks I hope that gives you a taste of what I've been experiencing while I'm here. Expect a post regarding some of the excursions to museums and Wales in the next couple days. But before I go, I'd like to close with a poem that has really encapsulated my experience thus far. The poem pinpoints the experience of learning as one that literally opens up the world and leads to understanding.

Geometry
by Rita Dove

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them. I am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they've intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.