Trip to England, Part 8: Pathways

A lazy post as summer winds down and balmy evenings with a glass of wine in hand encourage the mind to wander down all sorts of paths.

The Northwest has any number of excellent paths and trails, some easy and many grueling, but unless you live in the country you pretty much have to drive to them or otherwise seek them out. And "No Trespassing" signs abound, even on beaches (except in beautiful Oregon, where the state had the wisdom long ago to ensure that the ocean shores would always be accessible to everybody--no matter what walk of life you come from, you can still walk by the sea).

What I love about England is how you can go out for a stroll in a town and happen across a public-footpath sign that beckons you to veer from your intended purpose and go for a tramp across a field.

And we usually did.

Truly, who could resist the urging of this sign?

Footpath, Burnham-on-Crouch

This particular path led first through a field of rapeseed and then opened up as it meandered through a  sward with views of the harbor.

Turning around and going the other way leads into a woodland.

Complete with bunnies.

Other well-trodden paths:

Chalk path, Avebury

Avebury Stone Avenue, a processional path 4,600 years ago

Path on Glastonbury Tor leading to 600+-year-old St. Michael's Tower

There is, of course, a path back down.

Path to St. Peter's on the Wall (654 AD), Bradwell-on-Sea

Path once led to 3rd-century Roman fort of Othona

Trip to England, Part 7: Horse Heaven

Whenever we go on a trip, two of the three people in our little family start off by scheming ways of shoehorning horses into the itinerary. (Hint: Both of these people lack a Y chromosome.)

This habit goes back a long way. My benevolent parents always tried to match up our interests with activities on trips, so there was often a chance for me to sit on some sighing pony and trudge in a circle or go on a trail ride.

As an adult, my first trip with my future husband took us down the eastern seaboard to Chincoteague, where we visited the wild ponies of Assateague Island, whom legend says are the descendants of ponies that struggled to land long ago when a Spanish galleon wrecked offshore.

When we got to Ocracoke Island, a barrier island off the coast of North Carolina, and learned that this location also boasted wild ponies whom legend says are the descendants of ponies that struggled to land long ago when a Spanish galleon wrecked offshore, it was difficult to convince him that I wasn't actually selecting destinations solely on their supply of wild ponies whom legend says (see above).

But this time the horses were out of the gate before we even cracked open the first guidebook. As luck would have it, my brother-in-law's right-hand-man, a wonderful fellow who is a jack of all trades and master of them all, was partnered with a woman who runs a beautiful stable that's home to, oh, merely about 90 horses or so--most of them boarders but some of them belonging to the stable's riding school.

Not only that, but they love teenagers--and so my daughter had an open invitation to ride there and groom, muck out, and generally indulge in all things horsy whenever she wanted. To top it off, the place was right next door to where we were staying.

Giddy-up!

A busy schedule prevented me from grabbing any real-horse experiences for myself, but England offered plenty of equine opportunities even without saddling up.

For starters, we weren't there 24 hours before we met this strapping fellow, who I think is a Gypsy Vanner, gazing down on us from a field above my sister-in-law's daycare facility. Not sure if he gives sensitive children nightmares.

Two days later we took up residence in a lovely dwelling right next door to these two characters: a pair of Falabella ponies, a bay stallion named Jimmy and a leopard-spotted gelding named Zog. Here they're relaxing after a hard morning's work grazing.

Real horses were scarcer in London (I had hoped to catch the Horse Guards parade but it was not to be), but there were stone and bronze horses ancient and new to spare.  Such as Pyrois, Eos, Aethon, and Phlegon, the four horses of the Greek sun god Helios, taking a break from their job of hauling the sun across the sky to stampede through Piccadilly Circus (this one is...oh, take your pick):

Equally plunging, snorty, and fiery are the horses hauling the chariot of British tribal queen Boadicea, someone who didn't take any guff from the ancient Romans. This statue guards an area near Westminster Pier in London.

In a city heavily populated by statues of noble steeds bearing commanding figures on their backs, it was fun to spot this fellow, officially known as "Powerless Structures, Fig 101," perched on a stand in Trafalgar Square that was once meant to support one of those horse-and-rider memorials. The statue was never put up, however, and so other artworks rotate into place on the stand instead.

The British Museum is likewise packed with horses, with and without riders or chariots. The head below is one of a team that pulled moon goddess Selene's chariot. It's a favorite of ours because we photographed our daughter next to it when she was 6, and she beamed at it as if it were her own pony. At age 14, however, she posed reluctantly, several feet away, with half-lidded eyes and a smirk. The horse's expression, of course, has not changed since the days of ancient Greece.

Prancing across a vast hall in the same museum is this marble horse and rider from ancient Rome. Apparently marble heroes on horseback weren't a common sight in Roman times, so this duo is a rarity.

The British Museum also had a special exhibit about horses in place, called "The Horse from Arabia to Royal Ascot," stuffed with paintings and other artifacts from equine history. A wonderful bonus to this stroll through horse history was that I enjoyed it in the company of an author/bookseller who writes one of my favorite blogs, Books, Mud, and Compost. And Horses.

Oddly, although one could snap photos of horsy bits and bobs all over the museum, it was forbidden to take pictures in this special exhibit, much to my dismay. Likewise, you couldn't take pictures in the exhibit "Animal Inside Out" at London's Natural History Museum, which featured a stunning horse's head that appears woven from the slender threads of its capillaries--a blood-red mirror image of the head of Selene's horse. So I had to swipe this image from the exhibit's web page.

The most amazing horse's head, however, was one we glimpsed from the top deck of a bus as we whooshed past the Marble Arch. I would've loved to have been on foot and taken a picture of this 30-foot sculpture, which was created by sculptor Nic Fiddian and is called Marwari Horse at Water.(Image source here.)

But the best horsies of all were the ones we had a picnic with in their paddock. Well, we didn't set out to have a picnic in their paddock; we were just having a picnic, and the ponies,  Jimmy and Zog, invited themselves. As did a small flock of sheep and two dogs. The dogs begged for tidbits only with their eyes, and the sheep kept their distance, but the ponies were plenty assertive in their efforts to eat anything on the table, including hamburgers and sausages.

Trip to England, Part 6: A Charm of Finches

Finches are familiar feathered friends in Seattle, what with house finches frequenting the feeder and the American goldfinch posing as the state bird of Washington. They're part of a big family that includes about 136 species of finch, of which I managed to see, oh, a whopping four while in England. And one of them wasn't even a true finch.

What I lacked in quantity of finches, though, was made up for in quality because I met one of the finest finches going: the European goldfinch, a beautiful bird with a thrilling, trilling song that's more melodious than the squeaky whistles and sparrowlike chirps of the American goldfinch's song. When I first heard one belting out a tune from atop a TV aerial in Wells, I could understand why this pretty bird was once captured in droves for the caged-bird trade (a practice that is fortunately now banned).

The second finch I encountered was practically posing for greeting cards: He was perched on a lichen-dappled ledge on a wall in the garden of the Bishop's Palace in Wells, happily warbling away. He was quite a cheeky little fellow, too, turning around to face and study me with the same intensity I was directing toward him.

Like their American cousins, European goldfinches are nearly complete vegetarians, living on seeds and berries and displaying a strong preference for thistle seeds.

While researching this species, I found a diagram showing how this little bird was just as clever as a raven when it came to retrieving food on the end of a line. Alaskan ravens wowed people when they demonstrated that they could pull up a fishing line from a hole in the ice by tugging on the line, then stepping on the drawn-up portion to keep it in place before reaching down and pulling up more of the line until it finally landed the fish. European goldfinches in captivity demonstrated that they can use the same technique to pull up a string and retrieve a treat tied to its end.

Later, I learned that one of the many nicknames for the European goldfinch is "Draw-water." Such a puzzling name; I didn't think I'd ever figure out its origin. But then I came across a brief reference that linked it to a trick taught to captive goldfinches: drawing their own water from a cup using a thimble on a chain.

It has many other colorful  nicknames, as well. In various places it's known as a goldspink, thistle finch, King Harry, red-cap, proud tailor, fool's coat, sheriff's man, sweet William, and flame-of-the-wood.

As for the other species: a pair of greenfinches appeared conveniently close up, perching on a grill right outside the window, but inconveniently when my camera was not handy, so the only picture I got was of a distant greenfinch on a wire.

While walking to the ancient chapel of St. Peter's-on-the-Wall in Bradwell-on-Sea, along a Roman road that has been trodden by warriors and pilgrims for hundreds of years (and birders in more recent ones), I spotted a chaffinch.

This is the finch that isn't a finch--it appears it was once lumped in with the finches, much like Darwin's famous finches (which aren't finches), but is actually, per one bird book, "a link between the insectivorous songbirds and the more specialized [true] finches."

Now it has its own family, one that includes another common English bird of garden and hedgerow, the brambling.




On that same walk, in reverse, this little bird presented itself, and I can only assume it's the female of a finch (true or false) although it could be a sparrow of some sort.

Technically this kind of small, dusky bird is called an LBJ, or "little brown job," in the United States. But I was tired after the walking and exploring and beachcombing in between spotting the chaffinch and this bird, so I decided I was finished with finches (bad birder).

Trip to England, Part 5: Blackbirds

When I was a kid growing up on Long Island in  New York, I sometimes got up very, very early to go outside on a summer morning and immerse myself in the sounds of the dawn chorus. I'd go out barefoot, because dewdrops beaded the grass so heavily that sneakers and socks would be soaked within a minute. The air was still soft and cool at this hour, and it rang with birdsong.

Mockingbirds, cardinals, robins, song sparrows, and other species sang as if there were no tomorrow--indeed, as if there would be no today if they didn't sing the sun into the sky.

We don't get much of a dawn chorus in my part of Seattle, so it was lovely to be in England in June, when the birds were in full swing as soon as the eastern sky began to grow pale around 4 a.m.

My favorite among these singers is the blackbird, a species we don't have here in the United States. We have plenty of black birds, but not blackbirds. The male of this species is clad in jet-black feathers set off by a bright orange-yellow bill. A yellow ring surrounds the inkdrop of his eye. The female wears more subdued brown, mottled plumage similar to that of a juvenile blackbird.

The male's song consists of fluting notes and chirps, a melody that blends the matter-of-fact cheer-up, cheerily song of its cousin, the American Robin, with the ethereal chimes of the eastern Wood Thrush. Sometimes he'll add a flourish that hints at the haunting downward spiral of a Veery's song or the upward one of a Swainson's Thrush.

Watching this bird as he forages really underscores his identity as a thrush (and not a relation of local birds such as the Red-winged Blackbird, which is in the same family as orioles). He resembles an American Robin who donned a black waistcoat before going out to do some worm-hunting. Otherwise, I could swear I was on home turf: the bird exhibited the same hoppity-hop, the same head-tilting as if he could hear the worms churning underground, the same dive-and-yank to retrieve his prey.

Perhaps the general cheerfulness of this bird has spared it from the burden of symbolizing bad luck, death, and darkness in popular culture, unlike ravens, crows, and vultures (of course, the fact that it doesn't scavenge battlefields helps, too).

But what about the four-and-twenty unlucky blackbirds who were baked into a pie and raised a ruckus when the pastry was split? Apparently these birds did frequently end up in the stews and soups of the poor, as they were a handy source of protein. Live birds flapping out of a pastry shell, however, seems to have been nothing more than a source of entertainment for the guests of the rich--though it's believed the popular nursery rhyme about this dish is really a coded appeal from Blackbeard for the recruitment of  new pirates.

Much more cheerful--and tuneful--is the Beatles' ode to the blackbird. And as someone who spent the first few days of a trip to England wandering around at 3 a.m.--not by choice outside in a dew-drenched garden but inside a house while others peacefully slept, undisturbed by jet lag--I can tell you that blackbirds definitely are "singing in the dead of night."

Trip to England, Part 4: A Sign Post

Another lazy roundup of pictures according to a theme as I continue to sort through 1,093 images, a collection that includes lots of fuzzy distant shots of birds. Today it's signs that struck us (fortunately, not literally) for one reason or another.

My favorite sign, frequently encountered in the UK

Just lovely old words that sound like places one would like to visit (Wallingford, England).

There are still ladies, gentlemen, and milliners in Wallingford, England.

I just like how this jaunty little fellow looks so happy about marching to neolithic Silbury Hill.

Oh. You don't believe us? You think we're overstating the case?

Fine. Go talk to the guy with the horns.

Danger: Pit of bacon ahead. Use caution while driving.

Life is full of uncertainty. One minute you're falling into the Sea of Curtain Ruffles, the next minute you discover that someone left the dry-ice machine running in your house.

Another wonderful old street sign, beckoning with so many places to go.

I love how somebody just said "You think it's twee, I think it's ME" and gave their house this name and plaque (Burnham-on-Crouch).

Profound? Misplaced priorities? Exactly right priorities? Sign of the end times, so to speak? Discuss amongst yourselves. It's definitely focused on the nitty-gritty and inescapable in life. Spotted in Wells.

Visit to England, Part 3: Puppy Dogs

OK, the cats got their turn in the limelight on Friday, so I'll start off this week with the canines we encountered in the UK.

Pupsy, devoted Jack Russell who follows my new sister-in-law 24/7.

Alfie, super-vigilant protector of 18-month-old great-nephew.

Dog who taunts and barks at Alfie when he walks by

Alfie with Bobby, Border Terrier later menaced by a sheep

Lancashire Heeler pup--I swear my husband's family just doles out small dogs to everyone. They're everywhere. Though we didn't come back with any pint-sized canines.

Waiting in vain for a share of the grilled sausages

A "Talbot," an extinct breed of hunting dog, atop the 1451 Well House in gardens of Bishop's Palace, Wells; apparently this dog was the Bishop's favorite hound. IMHO, he could've ponied up a bit more money for a better sculptor...this dog is a bit fetal-pygmy-hippo-looking to me.

Dog prints in clay tile, Roman Baths. Always makes me wistful to see humble touches of life in the past like this...just like pawprints in a modern concrete sidewalk. My parents found some among the Mexican clay tiles used to floor their kitchen long ago on Long Island in New York.

Dog playing fetch, mudflats, Burnham-on-Crouch

Dang. Dang, darn, and drat. I specifically wanted to visit Black Dog of Wells terracotta workshop in Wells, and we even parked right next to it. So why didn't I go in? What was up with that? Argh. Oh well. Obviously I must now go back there sometime.