Hampton Court

Our last day in London, we traveled out to Hampton Court.  In my preparation for the trip, I didn't research Hampton, but I did watch the Masterpiece series on PBS about Queen Victoria.  Many of the scenes are at Hampton.  However, I stepped through the gate with no real knowledge.  As we walked into the first rooms, I was delighted to discover half of Hampton was restored to Henry VIII's day.  What a delight!  I have always been fascinated with Henry, all his wives, Bloody Mary, and Elizabeth I.

For the record, I only was able to see a pearl from Elizabeth I's age.  I need to go back to find were Elizabeth items are.  I truly love her.  She was an amazing woman.  Since being in England, I am reading a book about Elizabeth I and her cousin, Mary Queen of Scotland.  I definitely am a fan more of Elizabeth, but both women fascinate me.  Both are determined to rule, but destiny only allows for one.  In my studies this past year, I have enjoyed learning about Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II, but my favorite is Elizabeth I.  I was disappointed not to tour anything about her.  Next time, I hope.  Also of note, I still have a spot in my heart for Bloody Mary, Elizabeth I's older sister.  Her life was filled with so much suffering and hatred.  She is truly a tragic character in history.

But, I digress.  The day prior, I saw many tapestries.  The tapestries at Hampton Court amazed me even further.  I have always loved the thought of sitting around a fire doing needle work.  I know I would have done tapestries if I lived in the era.  If I didn't love gardening and writing so much, I would be tempted to try my hand at the task.  So, walking into the dining hall of Henry VIII, my jaw must have hit the floor.  The walls were lined with tapestries, just like in the books.  Stained glass windows adorned the upper reaches of the walls.  And in the ceiling beams, the heads of a king looked down on the diners to remind them the king is always watching.  My skin tingled.

Touring through Windsor and Hampton, workers keep watch of the tourists and answer questions.  The ones I talked to were delightful.  I wondered onto a stairwell landing and the guide joined me as I looked up on the wall at a display of mounted stag antlers.  He pointed out the largest rack.  The antlers were found in a bog in Ireland.  He said they were 10,000 years old.  After he left, I thought of my dad.  He would love to hear that story.

A little later, as I entered the Chapel Royal, I was greeted by the smell of incense.  My first thought was that even after all these years, the smell lingered.  However, they still hold services in the church.  Amazing.  Thus, the smoke lingered from the day prior.  The affect still transported me to the days of Catherine of Aragon.  I stood in the balcony and to the right a little day chapel was roped off which is dedicated to the Virgin Mary.  This was were Catherine must have spent hours in prayer while her husband plotted to divorce her so he could marry Anne Boleyn.  I prayed here in the balcony.  My second experience in a holy place.

 

Internet

My favorite piece of artwork was a family portrait of Henry VIII and his family.

 

Internet

I was disappointed in not being able to see the gardens of Hampton Court in their entirety.  I caught glimpses of them through the windows.  I longed to wander, but I grew tired as did my companions.  Again, I will have to come another time to this spot in the spring or summer to witness the grandeur of such manicured plants.  My heart did patter as I looked out towards one sight.  Just in the past couple of months, I saw this very scene on the show about Queen Victoria.  She walked here.  Everywhere I walked in the palace, I am sure she was in the same spots along with other historical figures.  In fact, I watched the episode of when Victoria gave birth to her first child.  I have been there.  Extraordinary!!!

My other favorite part of the tour was the armor room.  The displays amazed me.  I have always found weapons beautiful.  Yes, they kill senselessly when in the wrong hands.  But they also defend and provide sustenance.  When it comes to firearms, they are fun to shoot.  Walking through the display I drank in the artistry of how they showed the items.  Dad and Jerry would appreciate the room.

We stopped in a gift shop.  I picked my items and chatted with the clerks.  My heart flowed with excitement and awe.  I laughed with the women and in a hurry took my leave.  Going through the kitchens, another gift shop enticed me with a thimble like corkscrew and a cork stopper.  As I opened my handbag, my credit card was missing.  I panicked but had cash.  I dug through everything.  My sister ran to the first shop and she backtracked our steps.  I opened the two pockets in my backpack I never use.  The card was in one of them.  The rest of the trip, I double checked for my credit card.  I haven't been that scared in ages.  Geez, in England with no card!  I could have made it work, but I thanked God for finding the small piece of plastic!

Looking back through the pictures, Hampton Court was my favorite of the three castles we went through.  I would love to study Elizabeth I to see if she spent a lot of time in this grand home.  I really could envision myself living there back in the days of old.  The ceilings, lanterns, furniture, all were extremely beautiful.  I think I will always feel this trip was only in my dreams.

Windsor Castle

All of my life, I have dreamt of going to a castle.  I read stories of knights in shining armor.  I studied the histories.  I envisioned going through the dark rooms with smoke stained rocks surrounding large fireplaces.  Windsor Castle failed to meet those past daydreams.  I am not sure why I didn't think of going to a functioning castle.  The thought never entered my mind.  Walking through the archway entry onto the grounds, filled me with awe and wonder.  The flag over the castle alerted all the visitors that Queen Elizabeth was in residence.  I was close to royalty.  Surreal! 

 

The Visitor's Entrance

The flying flag indicates the Queen is in residence.

I believe we only saw the back part of the castle.  Even this area with the vivid green lawns were immaculate.  The foliage, though in the winter sleep cycle, stood tall and proud.  I imagined the beauty of the flowers growing and trees budding.  Magnificent.  I strolled the cobbled road with a headset on listening to the tour.  I loved the majestic structure of the buildings and delighted in the arrow slits.  Yes, I imaged them and saw them in movies, but I actually looked through them.

Not surprisingly, pictures are not allowed when you enter the castle.  I have taken the liberty to find pictures on the internet to use.  Being overwhelmed by the tour, I forgot to use my recorder as I walked through room after room.  Tears came to my eyes as I strolled through the shield room.  A fire went through this section of the castle in about 1992, destroying everything.  The Queen and Prince Philip commissioned artists to reconstruct the palace to its former glory.  I could imagine their broken hearts after all that was lost.  I longed to be able to know the story of the families that all the shields represent.  Breathtaking.

 

Internet Photo

Internet Photo

I enjoyed the Waterloo Chamber with artwork by Thomas Lawrence.  My favorite piece being that of Pope Pius VII.  I appreciated that even though England left the church long ago George IV honored the Pope in his part of defeating Napoleon.  The portrait is exquisite.

 

Internet Photo

My favorite of all the artwork though was the Massacre of the Innocents c.1565-67.  The piece is a depiction of King Herod's ordering of all male children two and under killed.  The points I found interesting is the artists use of a Flemish village instead of a Jewish village.  I imagine it as if an artist of today using a Montana town as the backdrop.  The piece would take on an air of what if it happened today and the little one at church was killed in front of me.  Because of this emotional wrenching of the heart the portrait conveyed, years later a new artist was commissioned to paint over the babies.  Now the instead of babies, the soldiers are stabbing at food, packages, and animals.  I would love to see the original, but the fact that it horrified the people of the time enough to change it speaks volumes. 

 

Internet Photo

Disappointingly, we were unable to go into the St. George Chapel.  They close all the churches on Sunday's for services.  Next time in England, my Sundays will include a service and touring in the afternoon or a simple picnic at a local park.  And yes, there will be another trip.

Waiting to enter the castle.

Magnificent

The making of Fairy Tales

The Tower of London

My excitement overwhelmed me, reminding me of my young self being giddy with excitement for Christmas, as we walked up to the Tower of London.  I studied this historic landmark during my time in college as I worked toward a degree in history.  Over the years, I have read numerous stories about the Tower.  The story that always fascinated me the most was of the little boys who disappeared while imprisoned in the Tower by their uncle, King Richard III.  Well, and of course, the beheadings that took place on the Tower grounds. 

The White Tower within the Tower of London

As I listened to the guide, I marveled at the age of the buildings and the stories.  Hundreds of years of history surrounded me.  How does a person capture all of it in a picture or a blog post?  The thought of writing a travel memoir slipped away.  The task too large.  Even sitting here trying to remember, I get overwhelmed by the extent of my experience.  The visit filled me like a dream.  I walked through the grounds, snapping pictures, and listening, but I failed to grasp the reality.  Now the time is gone, never to be captured again.

Our last spot for the guide to speak with us was the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula.  The spot has been a place of worship for over a thousand years.  However, the building isn't that old.  The current building began construction in 1519 with alterations being made throughout the years.  The guide pointed out the burial spots of Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard (the two wives Henry VIII beheaded) next to the alter.  He talked about hundreds of bodies being buried under the floor where we sat in the pews.  Even with all the bodies and violent history, I felt at peace in the chapel and on the grounds.  I agree with the guide when he said we must not judge the past with the same focus that we judge in the present.  Yes, today, beheadings and torture are condemned, but that was the way of life back then.  We can't fully grasp the culture.  I believe that is why there is peace in the chapel.  God has forgiven.

 

Curtesy of the Internet

Pictures were not allowed in the chapel.

As we left the chapel, I detoured to the side, stopping in front of a wooden down that led to more dead bodies.  Saint Thomas More rested behind the deep brown wood.  I stopped for a moment and read a plaque.  In my emotional state, I don't remember what it said.  The words failed to register.  I prayed.  About five years ago, I went to confession about a situation of being around worldly people who criticized my way of life.  The priest gave me an odd penance.  He told me to watch the movie, A Man for All Seasons, the story of Saint Thomas More.  The lesson for me?  Thomas stood up to Henry VIII in his worldly desire to divorce Catherine of Aragon by leaving the Catholic Church and starting the Anglican Church.  Saint Thomas was beheaded for his convictions.  I must always remain steadfast in my own faith just like Thomas.  I said a prayer for him, thankful for his example to follow.  Overwhelmed at being near his relics.

The Memorial to the Executed moved me much like the chapel.  In roughly the same spot that blood spilled and heads fell into baskets, a statue memorializes the deaths.  A poem is written on the bottom section, which I have to admit I don't remember.  On the top circle in a beautiful light blue, the names of those beheaded was printed around the glass.  I walked around, reading the names and said a prayer for them.  In the middle a glass pillow led my imagination to Anne placing her head down in great fear.  Breathtaking in elegance, I marveled at such a tribute for a harsh time in British history. 

Stunning

I would be remiss in not mentioning that we did see the Crown Jewels.  Though impressive, my mind returned to the chapel and the monument.  Of course, I delighted in seeing the metal statues of some of the animals that lived at the Tower during the days of the Menagerie.  I kept in mind the woman who stupidly showed off to her friends by putting her arm into the lion's cage.  As lions will do, he had a tasty snack on said arm.  The story reminds me of the things people do at Yellowstone or Glacier Park.  We haven't learned much over the centuries.

As we left the Tower, I was content with my time in London.  Yes, I still had two more days of touring, but the Tower was my true destination.  Someday, I will go into Westminster Abbey, tour the Globe Theatre, see the changing of the guard, look on Buckingham Palace, and visit the museums.  But for this trip, the Tower of London fulfilled the ache in my heart to be near Saint Thomas More and feel the history soak into my skin.

Sensitivity Readers

As expected, I work every morning on the current events of writing.  I follow a few blogs that discuss little ways of enriching my work.  They also talk about new trends, business, marking, and all things that go into the world of the written word.  Today, I read about a new trend: sensitivity readers.  Are you kidding me?

I am frustrated.  The industry says I have to pay thousands of dollars for a cover, thousands of dollars for a book doctor, and thousands of dollars for an editor.  Now, I am supposed to hire a sensitivity reader.  Writers are beginning to get criticized for writing about things they don't know about.  Really?  Isn't that the whole point is for the writers to research and discover and take their readers with them?  We can't come off as racist or prejudice in our books.  We can't offend.  I am sorry but people offend me all the time with their liberal agenda, loose sex, extreme violence, and that is perfectly is okay.  Yet, now they want to sensor me?  It isn't all okay.  I as a writer have a right to express my ideals in my writing.  If I offend a reader with my ideals that they don't want to hear about, go somewhere else to read.  I don't care.  I have all of their agendas shoved down my throat.  Face it, pay back is a bitch!  If they can have their voice, so can I!

Now the industry is saying we need sensitivity readers.  I don't think so.  I hope I piss people off because no one is being sensitive to me.  I am so sick of seeing and reading through sex scenes.  I am beyond appalled at all the sex outside of marriage that is promoted everywhere I turn.  I want to pass my ideals on to my reader.  They can reflect on them and apply them or toss them.  It doesn't matter.  I just want people to hear another perspective.

Anyway, as always, I am feeling very emotional about this and struggling with the writing.  And yes, I have gone on a tirade.  Let me breath for a moment.  I want to be heard.  I am getting tired of being the little mouse in a corner and writing fluffy stuff so I don't get any controversy thrown in my face.  What happened to the days of having a voice and people either loved the writer or they simply stopped reading the work.  People weren't lambasted all over the media.  I miss those days.

Okay, now that I have spouted, I will try to be a little more logical.  The article I read about sensitive readers had a few good points.  One, if I am writing about modern day poverty and my main character is poor, I need to do some major research because I am not poor.  To write authentically, I need to try to walk in their steps, interview them, and hire a couple poor people to read the manuscript to show me where I am wrong.  I shouldn't be hiring a sensitive reader.  For heavens sake, they are probably just as white as me and probably making more money.  They know poor as well as I do!

Now, let's say I write about a white middleclass prejudice woman working with the poor through ministry.  She is going to be offensive.  That is reality.  So hate the character, not the writer for goodness sake.  Show authentic resentment from the poor people she is helping.  If the writer doesn't show the resentment through the secondary characters, they aren't a good writer, people won't buy their work, and voila, problem is solved.  We don't need sensitivity readers.

I will never hire a professional for this task.  I may ask for help from people who know.  I may pay a laymen of the group I am writing about if I think it is needed.  I might end up writing things wrong.  However, I will always write authentic to who I am, warts and all.  People have found Mark Twain and Harper Lee offensive.  I congratulate these authors because they have also made people think.  What a compliment!  Have I been offended by writers?  You bet.  I hated "The Golden Compass," "The Da Vinci Code," and "The Magicians" with how they represented my faith.  Would I ban them?  Not in a million years.  People feel that way about my faith.  Reading the books helped me to understand a different perspective.  Would I lambast Dan Brown?  Even if he asked my personal opinion, I would tell him that I loved the detail and research he used in the book.  I would tell him I have a completely different idea of who Jesus is and that I am sad that there is in fact corruption in the church.  I respect Dan for his fine writing and staying authentic to himself.

If we as readers and writers hide from the truth of life and let it be censored from our lives, we become ignorant.  However, with that said, I am sick and tired of all the yelling and tantrums that every side is taking to be heard.  Grow up people.  Show a little decorum.

Life is very short, and there's no time
For fussing and fighting, my friend

                        Beatles, "We Can Work It Out"

Depth

Taking this class, my muse has taken some hits.  I don't go deep enough because I do too much plot at the beginning of my scenes.  I like this piece that I just sent in to my instructor.  What do all of you think of it?

Threatening darkness loomed in the background.  Swirling puffy snowflakes assaulted the asphalt road, turning it into a gray wasteland, like a desert backdrop.  The glitter on each flake reflected off the headlights, blinding, reminding Nancy of a spaceship going into warp drive into the desert of space, only the small Escort lacked four-wheel drive let alone the navigational system for the confidence to propel forward with security of travel. 

Forty mile an hour winds whipped the hazardous snow around causing low visibility, much like what her military husband explained to her about the sandstorms in Iraq.  In the comfort of her own home, typically she loved to watch a winter storm from her kitchen window, all snug in the warmth and safety home.  She also loved shoveling the sidewalk and driveway in a snowstorm.   The exertion of conquering the elements, like her pioneering ancestors, filled her with a sense of accomplishment.

Drifting snow piled on the side of the road against the silver guard rail, slithering out into the lane ready to strike out at the tires.

The jeering of the windshield wipers mocked me as the rubber grated on the window.  The heater roared.  All the noises clawing on her stressed nerves.  The music from the stereo blared Beatles tunes to distract from the loss of site, the fear.  She hated snowstorms while riding or driving in a car.  Visions of her sister-in-law laying in a casket assaulted her memory, dying in a storm in the middle of Minnesota countryside.

The musky smell of wet dog permeated the air due to the Beagle standing sentinel in between the front seats shielding his desert queen sitting next to him and the princes in the back from harm.  His back paws on the rear seat and the front paws on the seat divider in the front.  His eyes never leaving the darkness in front of them as if he willed the car to stay on the road, their little protector. 

Her parched mouth thirsted from the anxiety as if she was in a desert.  The irony of the wet flakes falling in front of her only made the desire for drink heightened.  A thermos of hot chocolate lay on the floor of the car, like an oasis, just out of reach.  She longed for a stiff drink to calm her nerves.