A Community of Remembrances 10-8-9

Abergwaun, Cymru

The climate was rather splendid today. The light was like that I imagine impressionist painters would have relished in the Loire River Valley. I set off on the long hike to the Internet café about 2 PM. I was perhaps half a mile down one of these narrow lanes that passes for a road when I encountered a rather intriguing traffic jam, a large herd of cows with a pair of temperamental bulls. A car which passed me previously was now waiting for the herd to be coaxed down another narrow lane. I found myself standing next to this car and a couple of farmers, waiting for these cows to finish their slow-speed rush hour to the milking shed.

As is likely to happen in this region of the world, a fleck of evanescent community washed up onto the shores of my life. The farmers gave me some assurances that the bulls were mostly ok; I found myself having an urge to hop into the nearby safety of this glass and metal cage next to me. The driver put down his window and we began the usual banter provoked by the presence of an American in a place most Americans would not know the existence of. He proceeded to tell me that he had and his grandfather had spent their childhoods in the very same four-hundred year old house I am presently staying in.

Roy and his wife Sandra had just made a journey from Carmarthen to a remote headland near here to leave flowers on the graves of family members. People here seem to remember those that gave them life and make sure that their graves are not forgotten; putting wildflowers on them.

Perhaps the most endearing story to come out of the colorful history of Dartmoor is the one of J’s grave. For centuries now the grave of a nameless indentured little girl, known only as “J”, has always had yellow flowers on it. Years ago I made a drive to the remote location to see for myself. There were, indeed, abundant fresh yellow flowers in place in an assortment of glass jars. It felt far more like an altar than a grave. I went to a nearby field to harvest some of my own and added them to the bouquet. I was a part of a community that finds it important to make sure J has flowers in the afterlife since she never got them in her tortured childhood. I remember that moment from another century as if it happened today.

Today I found myself a part of a community at bovine rush hour in a narrow lane, reminiscing about ancestors and our origins, because it was important for another grave to have flowers on it. Yet, during this conversation I was thinking about how glorious it would be to ride across the valley in that nice warm car, being spared a no-longer exotic eight-mile journey to an Internet café. They finally asked if I was interested in a lift. The cows moved on as I climbed into another place that felt like a gilded sedan chair. I had just been spared the ninety minute hike across the valley. Better than a free ride was touching another facet of the splendid culture that populates the valleys between the several ranges of mountains to the east. Roy and his hospitable wife Sandra shared animated conversation, and we swapped e-mail details as we arrived at the far side of the valley. I have yet one more motivation to get my computer fixed when I get home; it having lost its ability to connect to the larger glorious world out here.

I found myself in the public library by 2:15 PM instead of 4 PM by virtue of being given a lift. I was granted a whole hour of free access on a good broadband. I was able to upload many messages. The librarian was so pleasant and helpful, as to have me again thinking about the possibilities of immigration. After my hour was up I wandered into another part of the town hall that serves as a local history museum. I had the luxury of unbounded time to view a 100 foot tapestry made by forty women to commemorate the bicentennial of a locally famous battle with the French. There were three large paintings by Leon and Sylvia located in the small museum theater as well. It is such a great luxury to be unencumbered by people that so often want to be somewhere else. I can wander about as slowly as I wish.

In the brilliant sunlight, I wandered back across the square to St. Mary’s church and found it unlocked and went inside. The light was splendid for ‘collecting’ several of the windows that I missed last week. There was also a bowl of small perfectly rounded beach stones for those who left prayers on a small chapel altar. I took one. This church ‘works’, perhaps better than any I have encountered in all of Europe.

Given the brilliant sunlight, I decided on going the long way back to Fronhaul, walking about five miles along undulating coastal paths that took me around Lower Town and the harbor and then along the larger bay and back up into the western headlands above Wdig. The walk took about two hours, slowed down a bit by numerous coastal scenes in need of ‘collection’.

I returned to find Sylvia and Leon having just completed a painting session and now interested in making dinner. We ended up eating while watching a three and a half hour German film of life aboard a U-Boat during the Second War. This rather intense and graphic film was far more like an art film with a powerful message than a piece of Hollywood entertainment tripe. I am not sure it was such a good idea to load my brain with something this intense and dark, but many people do live unbelievably tragic lives and these lives need to be remembered, perhaps by viewing a film as much as by leaving yellow flowers on a grave in Dartmoor. I wonder why I have been allowed a life that now consists largely of hauling a computer and cameras to wherever I want to go in the world. I was offered more free air tickets today.

Revisiting the Past 10-5-9

Penfro, Hwlffordd, Cymru

The morning started out quite cloudy, but at least there is no rain. Jeremy and Andrea showed up in the junction on time and a pleasant conversation filled in the uneventful drive to Hwlffordd, where I was left at the bus station half an hour early. They walked over to wherever their dentist works and a rather pleasing woman waiting for a bus was exceedingly friendly; filling in that half hour nicely. These people can be the most engaging people in the world. The wait seemed instantaneous. Jeremy and Andrea were done with the dentist before I even got on my bus. They invited me to come by tomorrow and upload files; a six mile walk that will be well worth while for the new friendship that has emerged.

The sky was suggestive of eventual sun if one waited long enough. I got to Castelle Penfro after a long circuitous journey on a local bus, but being unfamiliar it was semi-exotic to me and interesting. The driver was typical for the region. I notice that everyone thanked him as they got off the bus and the driver was most helpful and jolly himself. The only reason I am even able to be on this bus is because I was able to sell a camera last week. I was able to pay for a day pass on the bus system, use a small amount for dinner and admission to the castle and make a donation to a priory church.

Castelle Penfro is an important one for me to revisit. Besides being one of the grandest castles in the world it is also one I saw in the distant past. It is the one that I took Elaine to in 1994. In the top of the Gate Tower she had given me a small piece of paper thanking me for showing her a real castle. We had on several occasions traded gifts of small pewter castles. I made it a point to go back into that same chamber today. Alas, she long ago happily married in another state.

There was virtually no one in the vast expanse of the castle today and most of the time I saw no one at all. It felt a bit like I had been given the place for my own use. A clearing sky and a lack of people made it very easy to get a good comprehensive set of pictures of the whole castle. I made it a point to climb on every tower and stair in the place. I interrupted my work by eating the nice lunch Sylvia had made for me. I had a choice of picnic tables and benches in the outer ward. At some point an older woman came and sat on the far side of the ward. One of the nice things about castles is the complete lack of over-bearing stewards, vergers, and photo-police. The places are rather durable without fussy art or furnishings for us destructive tourists to tear up. Other than the two very pleasant women in the gift shop selling tickets, I never saw an official person all day, except a guy in the distance running a lawn mower.

After finishing with my work in the castle I looked for three churches I had seen mentioned in a travel book. The first one had a sign on it indicating it would stay locked up because of vandalism and theft. The second one I found had been converted into a very large antique store. At the other end of town after some asking I found the Monkton Priory concealed behind a stand of trees at the end of a lane. I did not see a soul around the outside and figure it would be locked up as well. Despite being much grander than the others and much less obvious in its situation, I found it unlocked and unattended. It proves to be nearly a thousand years old in parts and had been without a roof for centuries. In the late 19th century a vicar took it upon himself to spend decades salvaging the church. Today there is a well mended large structure with a most pleasing quire and altar. There was obvious evidence of a substantial harvest service; piles of fruit and vegetables were throughout the church. I only thought about supplementing Chinese noodles with those fruits and vegetables for a nano-second. It would be a bit like stealing the show bread off the altar; wasn’t going to go there. Like the castle, I felt like I had been given the place for my own use. I never saw anyone in the church or in the church yard. I took pictures at leisure and left a small donation from my recently acquired largesse.

Images of a long cold night manifested when the bus did not materialize on time. I had always thought of trains and busses here being used to set atomic clocks. I knew if it was late, I would miss the connecting bus in Hwlffordd. Time has a way of standing still when uncertainty becomes prominent. I went to a nearby grocery and spent L a coin to get a decent meal of ‘just reduced’ prepared foods, knowing I would need some energy for night walking. I ate this at the bus stop wandering if any more busses would come along to get to Hwlffordd. I figured I could walk the thirty two miles to Abergwaun in about eleven hours if I did not make a mistake on the routing - which was not likely. Gloriously, a bus did show up as the town center was closing up for the day and I knew I would get at least half way back in relative ease. I did miss the connection in Hwlffordd and spent an hour roaming around, hoping another bus would show to get me to Abergwaun before total darkness set in. One did show up and I knew that I would only have five miles to walk, meaning I would not have an all-night wandering after all. As it was, I got to Abergwaun at sunset. I had yet to walk across town, across the valley, through Wdig, and then several miles out into the Highlands. These unnamed country lanes all look nearly alike during the day. In the dark they look identical. I had good fortune and my guesses proved correct. I recognized certain cars or gates along the way from prior daylight passages through here, suggesting a good meal and warmth were actually attainable goals. The last two miles of my night journey were illuminated by a rising full moon over the bay. Knowing I was almost within visual reckoning of something to eat, I was able to relax into the experience and enjoy the moon’s gilded reflections on the bay below. I climbed over a gate and crossed a field filled with cows, never stepping on a land mine. The short cut saved about half a mile and after four hours a fine dinner was still hot.

Fingerprints of God 10-4-9

Wdig, Cymru

It was one of those days with God’s fingerprints all over it, the kind that confirms one is in exactly the right place with the receiver tuned to the right frequency. The day began with me having great flow in my writing and I was able to complete eight essays in various states.

Sylvia offered me a ride into town so I would actually be able to eat breakfast and get to church on time, being spared my ‘usual’ eighty minute hike to get anywhere. I had written right up until 9 AM, thinking I had an hour to eat and get to church. Normally, fifteen minutes is enough to accomplish those tasks. I had not factored in five miles of walking across steep terrain.

Sylvia set me down in the round about in the town centre and I walked across to the church just as the tower bell was ringing. I was immediately greeted by Val, the one who had made the fine flower arrangement I photographed on the font Friday afternoon. She showed a surprising amount of enthusiasm for my arrival and I had a curious sense of her being in charge of me somehow. She commented on how I had been expected and that a lift back into the hills after church had been arranged for me in advance. She proceeded to point out a man up in the front of the church who would be giving me a lift back up the other side of the valley after the service. I had made every intention of walking back in leisurely fashion mid-day and finding an internet café down by the harbor. She thought a moment and then shifted gears, taking me up front and introducing me to Jeremy and his wife Andrea and inviting me to sit with them. This was a pleasantly surprising amount of interaction and attentiveness from someone I did not even know. I got this cathartic sense of God’s hand moving in the daily affairs of my life. I made it a point to pay close attention.

The church service was fresh and lively. A well-made video clip of rain water capture work being done in Uganda by Tear Fund was inspiring. A 17 year old boy with an oboe, a young teenage girl with a bongo drum, a young mother with her guitar, and Dick on a small spinet piano managed to string together a rendition of “Here I Am” during communion that sent me off to some sort of numinous space. I could have listened to this innocent, sincere, slightly uncertain rendition for days. It is not often that I experience this profound sense of musical worship. I was immediately transported back to an intense Cursillo experience, even to the early days of charismatic renewal in Chicago forty years ago. I made it a point to tell that young mother after the service of my reaction to her efforts. She responded by telling me they had only gotten together just before service and had never done the piece together. She then gave me her copy of the music.

The vicar’s wife is being sent out to Uganda on Thursday to visit a mission and she clearly struggles in life. A group intercessory prayer was made for her during the service. That prayer was led by Jeremy and Andrea who were sitting next to me. Jeremy and Andrea are clearly leaders in this church. It is also clear that the whole point of this thirty day journey was for me to meet these two. Jeremy invited me to his house for lunch. En route I asked him if we could check at the nearby Internet café for its opening hours. As we were walking up to it, he stopped. He then told me I could make use of his broadband service. Upon arrival at his splendid house overlooking the sea, I was able to upload for the first time in about ten days.

Jeremy wanted to talk about a project he is working on. It turns out he is the editor of a large format glossy national magazine that is currently promoting rural community building in a faith context. He asked me to write an article for the next issue and to include photos. I suddenly was gifted with something rather important. I have this powerful sense that this will lead to something far more significant. It certainly is a powerful validation of my writing. It also confirms clearly the whole point of the airline contest that has allowed me to go anywhere in the world I wanted. The contest was promoted to prove that meeting people face to face instead of by e-mail or phone is a far superior way to do business. This was certainly proven to me today sitting at Jeremy’s table and breaking bread with him and his fine wife Andrea. This would never have happened via e-mail or cell phone.

Jeremy’s more recent life work centers around a project that promotes efforts to get local people to see the familiar in their own immediate worlds as of value and worth embracing in a tourist context. I thought of my experiences in my own world every morning while on my bike. He is developing paradigms to encourage small towns to make themselves into micro-destinations, ones that people will appreciate and support with the vast flow of tourism dollars that typically leave the country. For a long time people in this region have had a disdain for their own countries and heritages. The containment of these dollars in local economies could transform the economies of these struggling towns and also reduce a lot of the resource consumption attendant to long-distance travel. I think about how the Eden Project has transformed the economy of Cornwall. I cannot think of anything that resonates more strongly with me than specific efforts to build community in any context. I have been gifted with something that can energize and empower me for a long time, something of far greater value than free airline tickets. This may well become my most significant link to this wondrous part of the world.

Our Sunday afternoon included bucolic time sitting in a glass conservatory that overlooks the universe - giving one a powerful sense of being ensconced in a crystalline tree house overlooking the hanging gardens of Babylon. The orientation of Andrea’s garden and some tall trees down near the shore line create a powerful illusion of height and texture. It has to be one of the most splendid views I have ever seen. I wonder how many of the people living up here on this hillside even see the wonder of the place they live in. It is quite a surreal context they live in.

Andrea made a splendid meal of hearty homemade soups and breads. She even makes her own wines and liqueurs. I thought about how glorious it is when God does the choosing, and one’s affairs just begin to flow easily. I have not had to resort to eating packs of cheap noodles bought with the coin I found on the station floor. I might just get back to the other side of the world with that coin still in my pocket. For some twenty days now I have had a most splendid journey and have not made use of cash a single time. The hospitality that I experienced at Jeremy’s table certainly far exceeded that which I found in a high-end hotel; where I was locked in the elevator because my credit had run out. I would not have been able to buy the hospitality I was shown today.

Jeremy happens to be taking Andrea to Hwlffordd tomorrow to see the dentist. He offered to give me a lift down there where I can get a bus to Penfro, saving me about two hours of journey time in the morning. The remote location I am staying in is actually on his way, if he goes over the highlands on back lanes. Penfro contains one of the grandest and best preserved castles in Europe. I feel some urgency about photographing at least a couple of substantial castles this journey so I can refresh my lectures on castle architecture. It has been years since I photographed many of them. Actually, I did just get a fine set of images of Leeds castle in July, so I will have those along with Penfro and Carew - enough to refresh these lectures nicely. Jeremy said he would come collect me at the junction at 9:10 in the morning. I never had to walk over the mountains today.

Time Distortions 10-3-9

Fronhaul, Rhosycaerau, Cymru

Time has taken on very strange dimensions for me, pleasant ones actually. Another week slips gently into my experience. It seems as if seven lifetimes have been lived out during this short interval. It seems as if I have always been here. Images of life here on these rocky outcropping have soaked deeply into my experience - the experience of sunrise over the Preseli Mountains, watching light pools dance across the valley, the sounds of farm animals embracing the day, the way wind blows through the sturdy stubby trees. As I often found on board ship, clouds seem to have the ability to disappear after sunset, and magnificent scatterings of diamonds appear in a clarified sky on the event horizon that rushes across the heavens at the edges of night.

My world was very compact today. I never got more than fifty feet from where I started the day, yet great vistas of mountains and seas were before me all day. A couple of times tiny squalls of rain passed over the skylights but it was always dry when I went outside.

In Absolutely the Right Place 10-1-9

Fronhaul, Rhosycaerau, Cymru

I am having this strong feeling of being in absolutely the right place out of all the millions of options in the world I was given. It also seems absolutely right that I am here without anyone in attendance. It is the first time I have come here without someone in my company. It also seems so right to be disconnected from the cyber world for this season. The last thing I need to be doing here is pumping up e-mail all the time or running threads in Facebook. I would like to be posting to my blogs but this can simply be time shifted a few weeks. It is about a six-mile walk over mountainous terrain to get Internet access so my enthusiasm for daily posting is inconsistent.

There continues this amazing stillness, so rare for this part of the world. There has been no rain in my world since I left South Carolina. We are able to walk in deep grass in the fields without our shoes getting the least bit damp. Paper is not even getting limp.

During the morning Leon and I went out for a roll in his old 4-wheel Land Rover. Along the way we had a close encounter of the fourth kind and came to a very rapid stop when challenging a boulder for time and space. We eventually ended up in the funkiest house I have ever seen - a throw back to a munchkin house in the Land of Oz. I was able to get what will certainly be the most interesting pictures of this journey. An eccentric artist living in the place drives an amazing car that runs on old chippie oil he collects in town. This fellow has retreated into a strange inarticulate crusade against carbon consumption and environmental degradation. The complete chaos of his property did not suggest that his alternative thinking would lead to a serene and sustainable aesthetic life experience. Yet, he was rather hospitable and pleasant to talk with.

The climate continues surreal. I am in the eighteenth day of this journey and have not had a drop of rain impinge on my experience. There has been enough sunlight to allow for grand photos. I am told the weather here had been daunting for months, with dense rain and strong wind nearly daily for ninety days. It suddenly changed a week or so before I came over.

The late afternoon was given to driving to a fine castle about twenty miles south of here. This ruin must have been magnificent in its day. Enough mullioned window casings remain to give suggestion to the grand banqueting halls that existed at one time. Sited next to a small river with tidal pools, we dinked with cameras, getting a lot of interesting images. I wonder why such a grand structure was simply allowed to decay into the sand. In its day this castle was grander than most palaces.

It is like old times for me. I find I am never getting to bed before the next day, staying up running my mouth with good conversationalists. Some nights it has been past 2 AM.

Tests of Faith 9-29-9

Fronhaul, Rhosycaerau

I arrived early afternoon in this place that is straight out of Jules Verne’s classic novel, Time Machine. Prepaid tickets allowed me to get here without money, a good thing since my total negotiable resources now consist of $8 in American currency and $1.64 in local currency by virtue of finding a coin on the floor in the St. David’s station a few days ago. My faith journey was just made infinitely easier by virtue of being offered rather exotic accommodation far below the tourist radar screen, within minutes of my arrival at the harbor. I really had images of sleeping outside in a small tent and eating cheap Chinese noodles until something sorted itself out. Fortunately the climate is civilized at present so I would have not frozen to death if called to actually walk out this journey.

From an objective viewpoint, the stone structure I am to be staying in is far more interesting than the most lavish of hotel rooms could ever be. I look out onto water that stretches unbroken for at least five thousand miles. Jets far overhead leave this Old World behind and head to the New. I wonder if passengers on those contrails can even see my ancient refuge up here on this outcropping of fragmented rock. I can lie in bed and see the sky through Velux windows. Sunset over the sea is included in the price of admission, which is nil. This place and location are far more than I could have conceived of at any price.

Within an hour of arriving here I had an indoor bed with duvet designated as ‘mine’ and was out hiking on the highlands of the coastal park with two good friends, two fine dogs, and filling up one of my camera bags with black berries. In short order we collected more than a kilogram of these luscious berries. Sylvia took these and later converted them into two fine hot crumbles. Harvesting one’s own dinner is certainly a way off the ‘pay and play’ tourist economy.

The highlands here are propped up by rugged cliffs of fractured stone that thrust up about two hundred feet from the swirling waters. They then rise another eight hundred feet in places. One has a world-class view of the universe from up here.

There is powerful evidence that the universe really is a friendly place, if we let it be and leave our fears at home. I am a week now without money and I have not missed a meal and have slept in some really splendid situations, always indoors so far. Prepaid air and train tickets have allowed me continue forward in my journey. I think of the most oft cited scripture in the Christian world. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” For sure, I am not wanting for anything.

With these good friends offering me fine hospitality, we stayed up far past midnight at the kitchen table in a four hundred year old stone house, drinking hot ribena, having a splendid meal of freshest ingredients, while talking about art, global warming, old cars, and even the true essence of good art. Sometime in the early morning I wandered out into the moonlight to find ‘my’ bed. I did not have to go very far.

The connection I have made to this windy outcrop of rock is far more substantial than I realized. Coming here alone is really the best thing I could have possibly selected out of all the infinite options British Airways gave me. I almost missed it up until the last minute. At 1 AM I feel completely off the grid, actually rather safe and at ease. The air is absolutely still, the stars are brilliant in a dark sky, yet a magical waxing moon over the Celtic Sea is creating amazing patterns behind a small clump of cloud. I thought of the Flemish masters ‘collecting’ such moons with their oils and linseed oil. The rural silence is amazing. This area which is legendary for howling unremitting winds is absolutely calm. I can hear bugs and things flitting happily about in the air.

Exeter - Magic Images 9-27-9

Exeter, Devon

Happily, Tony and Gill like late starts to the day, not coming to fetch me for church until about 9:45 AM. They figured correctly that I would want to attend at Exeter Cathedral, as I had very positive experiences there years ago. The cathedral web site had the wrong times because of a special service so we found ourselves turning up just at the passing of the peace. The place was nearly full and there did seem a good bit of freshness to the energy there; even a couple of Cursillo praise songs were sung during communion - albeit a bit sluggishly.

Following church we went across the cathedral close to a tea room to actually have tea. The warmth was splendid as there was a crispy edge to the air. Tony and Gill pointed out how the town council has cut down all the nice trees on the close in order to allow unfettered night views from surveillance cameras. England is really paranoid about security issues and fear and negativity might actually be stronger here than in the US. I wonder who is sitting where to monitor all of these cameras.

After tea, I went back into the cathedral to take pictures of it, as there was very good light. There were no vergers, stewards, or other official types to impede my wanderings or assess me tariffs for collecting images. The place felt free and open. It was a very nice change from all the others that prohibit any photo work at all - forcing one to buy overpriced books in their gift shops. Tony and Gill did not come in with me and were out in the High Street enjoying a stroll when I came out. They were a little surprised when I told them no one had attempted to extract money from me. A good thing since I don’t have it to be extracted.

We ended up in a pizza place that had a very upbeat cosmopolitan feel with fusion jazz playing. I realized that I have missed music a lot the past weeks. We had a very leisurely pleasant meal. I stayed with the starters off the menu to lessen the economic impact of eating in restaurants. Tony is spotting me lunch and I am trying to walk lightly on his working ATM card. Gill is taking care of my nutritional needs in the evening with fine grazing at her table in an idyllic setting where sunset floods the space with magical light.

I made query about the location of old castle ruins I saw on a city map, indicating they were within a couple hundred yards of the cathedral close. We walked around one block and came upon the absolutely splendid Northernhay Park on a high point overlooking the city. The plantings were nearly botanical in their quality and level of maintenance. Thousands of annual and perennials were making their brilliant spectral offerings to whoever wanted them. The bright sky with cirrus clouds made for really splendid images. A surprising number of statues and obelisks added a fine historical sensibility to this pleasing space.

Also adding fine sensibility was an eighteen piece brass band playing under a temporary band shell to an audience of about ten people. I was intensely curious as to why this fine band in full uniform with a conductor was out here playing to no one except the random passer by. We loitered for the whole of the concert given to a couple of families obviously connected to band members. It felt a bit like a private concert. Directly in front of the band, there was a statue on a raised platform with an iron railing around it. Gill and I stood up in this and had a sense of being in fine box seats in an opera house.

I am reminded of the time recently when I showed up in a plaza in Copenhagen and a brass band in full uniform set up and played to whoever was there. In that case there were hundred of people milling around, coming and going from the canal boats. At these times one almost feels like a participant rather than a tourist observer. It is a nice change of status. Perhaps the best thing about this season with Tony and Gill is watching these septuagenarians hold hands and treat each other with dignity and respect. Unlike cheap wine that turns to vinegar they seem to have a vintage of love that only gets better with time and will one day sell for far more than the reserve price set at the auction house.

Rosemoor Gardens - Cornwall 9-25-9

Oakhampton, Devon

Conversation with the retired couple at breakfast reveals them to have the same concerns as others I have spoken to regarding the direction England is taking spiritually and socially. Steve and Caroline perceive England as becoming far more secular and much more stressed as a result of indiscriminate immigration policies. They sense that the true England they love has been getting diluted and is now fading from the horizon. I wonder if this genealogy craze I am seeing is a result of people trying to get back to a world that no longer exists except in old parish records.

About 10 AM Tony and Gill came by Woodbarton House and we then headed to Rosemoor Gardens in the West. An intermediate stop at a bank in the small town of Topsham confirms that I will not have access to my accounts while over here; something about pins, buy-outs and bankruptcy of my U.S. bank. The idea of being 5,000 miles from home without access to money is suddenly a good bit of a challenge. Life goes on.

Topsham proves to be a pleasant little village on the Exe River. It was a vital port at one time but the silting up of the river brought that to an end. The main street in town contains a nice admixture of architectural styles from the past five hundred years or so. An antique cooperative had fine furniture and books at amazingly good prices. My recent failed mission in the bank kept me from any kind of temptation to see if I could strike the deal of a lifetime. There is a quay populated with small boats that adds a nice waterfront sensibility to the town. As is true of every place here, the town is pleasing on foot but in the car parking was tedious and expensive once found. There are far too many vehicles in this place.

The Rosemoor Gardens are perhaps the best gardens I have experienced anywhere. These gardens are very large, diversified, especially well maintained, mature, very unpretentious and very appealing to the senses. Despite having only been developed as a public horticultural garden since 1988 there is a very pleasing sense of age and establishment of the specimens. The diversity of plants is quite astounding. I did not find out the history of the family that gifted these gardens to the horticultural society in 1988 but obviously this family knew a lot about creating world class gardens. They were quite uncrowded and enjoyable to be in. There is a wide range of garden type going from very formal with severe clipped hedges to very comfortable informal landscapes. There were abundant blooms of every conceivable type - no sense whatever of a summer blooming season being over. We had a very fine luncheon in a concession much like the one we enjoyed yesterday in the Eden Project.

The Eden Project - Austell Cornwall 9-25-9

Austell, Cornwall

I am basking in this 400-year old house in its pastoral setting. Jackie fed me a grand hot breakfast that should have held me for the day. I had pleasant conversation with an older retired couple that is down here from the Lakes District doing genealogy research. We had pleasant musings about the Lakes District, where I once lived in a castle. Tony came by with Gill about 8:30 AM and we then made the drive to the Eden Project, following a mystifying set of serpentine roads requiring utmost attentiveness. The density of traffic is surreal, even out here on remote country lanes.

The Eden Project again proves splendid. Going back there was a bit reminiscent of my anticipation of going to Carlsbad Caverns for the first. There are those places which are iconic in our experience and returning to them is a bit like going on a pilgrimage to Mecca. In the seven years since I saw it last, all of the plants and trees under the hexagonal panes that make up the vast geodesic domes of the Tropical Biome and the Mediterranean Biome have matured greatly and the feel of the exhibits is quite different, now far more realistic and enjoyable. After my experience in the Kew glass houses and having seen the film “Silent Running”, I found this a very good experience to add to a metaphor about life in glass houses.

We had a most splendid mid-day meal. I was quite surprised at what a really good value the meal was. The concessions in attractions here are really more like nice dining rooms with real plates and silver and glass, not our throwaway plastic and Styrofoam. There is a much stronger aesthetic to the experience here.

The quarry pits outside of the domes have also been heavily planted over the years and pleasing park-like vistas provide a sharp contrast to the barren clay pits I remember from seven years ago. Bright sun and millions of annual and perennials made for a colorful sensibility. I took close to 350 pictures of another world under glass.

I attempted to get cash out of an ATM. My efforts at a number of ATMs were futile. Something has changed about my debit card and it no longer works. Seven weeks ago it worked fine over here in seven countries. It is now not working at all. This might require a major change of plan. I cannot get off the tourist grid if I don’t have access to money from my own accounts.

My computer has corrupted. I cannot get connected at all. It is most disconcerting as to how powerful this addiction to connectivity is. I find myself almost flailing without being able to connect. I am suddenly without access to money or to people in my world. This is reminding me of a time nine years ago when I was in electronic and fiscal quarantine in the mountains, but then I had a car and was only two hundred miles from home and money. Gas was 89 cents then.

Reunions of The Best Kind 9-23-9

Woodbarton House, Farringdon

The morning proved easy. I packed up, had breakfast and had an easy walk to Waterloo Station where I arrived an hour before my train’s scheduled departure. For an hour I sat on one of about three benches in the whole of Waterloo Station and conducted a bit of cultural anthropology, actually writing down notes for essays. Place of transit such as airports and train stations and, of course, Trafalgar Square provide some of the greatest sources of field data in the world.

My journey through the emerald realm of the West Country was serene, restful, and productive. The four-hour train journey enabled me to complete several essays that have been languishing for a couple of weeks. I brought the makings of a vast lunch consisting of the remaining food I had at the university in London, so was chomping much of the time, while writing. It is amazing how four hours felt like ten minutes.

I really like where I am now. In some respects it feels like my journey is just beginning. My world is now utterly different from the frenetic pace of London. I am in a grand old estate house in a tiny little village of about 500 people called Farringdon; a tranquil place from another millennium. There is absolute silence and comfortable cozy darkness outside the mullioned windows. My room is large and fitted with a couple of beds, several wingchairs, and nice antique mahogany furniture. I have a fine view out into a bucolic pastoral landscape. Parts of the beautiful parish church across the field may be 800 years old and the place is never locked up. I went and ‘collected’ it earlier in the afternoon.

Reunion with Tony and Gill was most satisfying after my solo time in the big city. Just as I wrote in my last essay, seeing a good friend on the station platform and getting a hug was really grand. The very best things in life are so simple. Tony and his wife Gillian live in the first floor of a grand Georgian-style estate house with fine gardens, about a quarter mile from my roost. Gillian made a fine English supper and brought out the very same cookie jar I had emptied six years ago. I nailed it again - reverting to undisciplined behaviors of childhood. Tony was an RAF pilot and attaché for the defense department for better than thirty years and he plied me with stories of the planes he flew for decades and of his postings in India, Australia, Ecuador, and Germany. This was really inspiring. He showed me a whole world most of us are oblivious to. Tony is also a techno-geek and is responsible for me now being wi-fi’d to the planet with a bit of plastic on the window. Tony is the one that showed me how to get land wired here seven years ago when such things were still a bit exotic.

As old world as this wonderful place is I am now decidedly hi-tech, able to connect to the web with absolute independence from land lines or hot spots. I have a little piece of plastic on the end of a wire that I can hang up on a window frame and it will allow me to tap into cell phone towers and blog and mail to my hearts content. It would seem I will be able to stay in real time communication even in remote places, even sitting on top of castle turrets.

Tomorrow we are going to the most exotic botanical garden in the world - the so-called Eden Project. Ancient clay pits have been reclaimed as botanical eco-systems under geodesic glass domes. This place has been so spectacularly successful as to have revitalized the derelict economy of Cornwall. We also plan a journey to another botanical paradise that is much like the reclaimed quarries in Victoria now known as Buchart Gardens.

The Origins of Time 9-22-9

Westminster University, London

The idea that one goes on a long journey to rest and recoup from daily life is certainly not found in my reality. I figure I am falling about six to eight hours further behind every day in what I want to be doing. Part of me wants to sit in a little room all day and write. Dozens of new essays are lurking on specks of paper - napkins, receipts, bulletins, tickets. Yet, when a brilliant sun detonates in a cerulean sky and I know there is at least two thousand years of history within walking distance, the writing gets deferred. I rationalize that I will be able to write at another time. Sun and proximity will not always be viable options. I do have a four-hour train ride tomorrow so will get at least a couple of essays finished up.

For the first time since leaving New York, I did not ride anything on rails all day, electing to instead use boats. Wanting to go back to that Victorian wonderland with all manner of cool clocks, telescopes, and other scientific toys we science nerds thrive on, I walked to the docks and hopped a cruise boat down the Thames to Greenwich. An untarnished sky yielded grand images of the river front to replace many of the leaden images I made a couple of months ago. There was a whole lot more river front visible, as a very low tide had much of the shore high and semi-dry. I don’t things actually get dry here.

The Royal Naval College is en route to time keeper’s heaven so I detoured to take some additional photos of the Painted Hall and Chapel I missed getting in July. The Painted Hall is described as the grandest dining room in Europe. It is. It took nineteen years just to paint the inside of it. There must be some kind of magic in this room. I again found the guides in here to be the friendliest women ever placed on planet earth. One possesses a luscious accent and smile that has me wondering how I was going to tell you I had run off and gotten married as part of my British Airways total travel package. I considered taking my lunch and dinner and eating on one of their grand oak trestle tables, but food’s not allowed and being obvious doesn’t work in this culture; I will have to trust romance to the same One that makes thieves bring stolen cameras back to church.

The guide that was in the chapel a couple of months ago; one who had me consider moving my church membership over here is not present today. The one on duty today must not have gotten a pay raise and the place is very noisy as some trades people are building and pounding as part of some renovation work. I do believe that more time and money are put into scaffolding in the UK than into the actual projects contained in them. I went back to the Painted Hall. The sun came out.

I had to let puppy love go. I went across the Commons to the Maritime Museum and found all manner of interesting ship’s chronometers, astrolabes, and models; stuff nearly as cool as the kind to be found in the observatory. What I did not expect in a maritime museum was perhaps the most emoting display of stained glass I have ever encountered. A prestigious financial trading exchange in London had long ago commissioned a dome be made of stained glass reminiscent of Tiffany and placed over a grand stairway in the exchange. Alas, the historic Baltic Exchange building was destroyed by terrorists in 1992. After some years the glass was salvaged and restored, finally being tastefully installed in this museum. It was like being under a planetarium dome made of flower petals. I took thirty pictures of the dome and five very large windows that have been salvaged. The whole day was worth this one spectral find. I am elated that I didn’t find out about photography being the unpardonable sin until I was long done and in another part of a second building, merely taking a picture of a sign board on the wall, when accosted by the photo police. The glass images came out glorious.

It finally was time to ascend the hill and go into the observatories I always dreamed about as a kid. There are more kinds of funky telescopes in this place than even my active imagination could have thought up. In the stunningly beautiful Victorian brick buildings, one can find a strange transit telescope that has been in use since 1884 to define the world’s Prime Meridian. I was in and out of several hemispheres without leaving the room. For a long time I was not competing with hordes of tourists for floor space and actually was entirely alone in the main observatory where I carefully photographed a 28” refractor telescope. The guys in astronomy club are going to like this! After playing with a building full of interactive displays and quickly learning that I will not be winning a Nobel in physics any time soon, the time came for a cosmic descent back down the hill.

There were still a few remaining neurons that had not been stuffed with data; necessitating a quick wandering in the Queen’s house to fill them. This elegant house designed by the great British architect Inigo Jones was quite the surprise. An expected five-minute spin through the place turned into the rest of the afternoon and I ended up being conducted out by staff that wanted to go home for dinner. This has been happening with increasing frequency in venues of late. The place was actually already locked up when I was let out. I should have been taking cues when staff were going around and closing up wood shutters over all the outside windows.

A spectacular collection of Flemish maritime painting had me transfixed. There had been almost no one in the building earlier. What a glorious surprise to find this collection. I nearly did not go in, figuring there to be just more fussy antiques and rugs inside. Apparently others thought the same thing. There was no furniture or rugs whatever. Spectacular paintings carefully arrayed and illuminated in this grand classical structure made for inspiring reflections on centuries of life at sea. Works by many of the grand masters of maritime painting were represented - JMW Turner, Canaletto, and Hodges. The closest I got today to life at sea was riding back an hour on the tide into London on the river boat; the river being about fifteen feet higher than this morning.

The neurons are now overfull and I stopped at Sainsbury’s to buy something to make for dinner. Life is good.

Westminster, The Old City 9-21-9

Westminster University, London

Today I made it back to Westminster Cathedral twice. In the morning I ‘collected’ the place; getting a couple hundred images of the interior. A dear retired minister friend of mine really wanted me to do that yesterday. He especially liked the Stations of the Cross in there twenty five years ago. Tonight I went back as pilgrim for the choral evensong and Eucharist. In short order I was washed away in sonic strands that gave me imaginations of life in some grand monastery in the south of France. I certainly do have a sense of connection to the history of the place when there as a participant and not as a tourist. Tourists are by definition mostly disconnected. Actually, Westminster Cathedral does not attract huge numbers of tourists like St. Paul’s or the Abbey. Perhaps because it is not full of graves of famous people like the other two. Actually, I kind of prefer my graves outside.

The only part of the original Whitehall Palace to survive some nasty fires in the 1840s is the grand Palladian Banqueting Hall, which I finally got into today. Quite compelling is the vast ceiling which is entirely covered by vast panels painted by Peter Paul Rubens. He was paid the equivalent of $250,000 for the job. It is miraculous that the work survived. I cringe when I think of the Charles De Barromeo Church in Antwerp that got fried by lightning. The resulting fire vaporized about 45 Rubens paintings. I remember the ceiling panels in that church being similar to the type of wood panels in the present edifice, except they were replacements sans the Ruben’s works which had turned to ash. Today I was down on the floor on all fours in the main hall photographing the ceiling of this place. I must have looked really dignified in this elegant place.

The Jewel Tower across from The House of Commons is a place I finally got into today after walking by it for twenty five years. It is not epic, but rather old and adds a bit of context to the history of the Westminster Area. I was going to go into the House of Commons but decided I was not interested in shelling out $22 after learning I could take not take any images of the inside. The same proved true over at the Queen’s big house (Buckingham) where a $28 admission did not include a photo permit. I did redo the outside, of which I had made poor film images of twenty five years ago.

Most satisfying was photographing St. James Park and the Buckingham Palace Gardens. A number of very large Eastern White Pelicans were loose in the park. I think my favorite thing to actually do on these long journeys is visit botanical gardens and venues with critters in them (zoos, aviaries, aquariums). The floral displays right now are optimal and make good photography cheap and easy. The day has been much like a fine cerulean one in mid October in the American South. There were countless thousands of people in the parks, but the places felt Victorian and civilized. It is amazing that places with so many people in them don’t really feel crowded, but then I like being around a lot of people.

I have been staying up until 2 AM every night, writing and going out to do night photography and am suddenly very tired; might just go to bed at a rational time - unless I get a second wind.

I did end up with a second wind and went out and did some fine ‘collecting’.

Cultural Anthropology of Community 9-19-9

Trafalgar Square, London

For some weeks now, artists and carpenters have been building an astounding chess set and board here in front of the National Gallery, in perhaps one of the most public spaces in the world. This stunning construction includes ceramic chess pieces designed by Spanish artist Jaime Hayon; 5 feet tall; gilded and over glazed. These are nearly surreal in their perfection and size. A game is in progress, each player up on a grand platform reached by stairs, overlooking a board thirty feet square. A gallery of thousands is watching the life size pieces moved by uniformed attendants. An announcer calls the game, much as one would call a football match.

There are perhaps twenty thousand people here, some flowing swiftly through, others finding a destination here. I found a place on a short wall in front of the gallery’s Sainsbury wing. No longer a passer-by caught in the current, I become an anthropologist, observing the organic vortex that is Trafalgar Square.

Soon hundreds of cyclists in a British road race will storm though here, careening down Whitehall towards Big Ben. For certain, they will know what time it is. Countless resources have been used to close roads in one of the busiest cities in the world, set up barricades, create routes, and hire extra police and ambulance drivers by the hundreds. In the end, only one of these racers will have fifteen minutes of fame in the limelight. The rest will be able to say they “got the T-shirt, been there, done that.” That’s all. The possibility of accolades seems a powerful driver of human behavior.

Ambulances are careening towards the race route. It must be a high stake’s event.

The bully pulpit is occupied as always. Up there one can expound on anything at all. Free speech is still free here. A cherry picker just enabled a shift change. There is no way to and from the summit of the twenty-five foot limestone monolith short of being plucked or plopped by crane or picker. The newly arrived expositor is up there arranging his notes. No one is really paying attention to him. Most of the spectators are finding the chess game a more interesting past time than end time prophecies.

More ambulances are screaming through. A police chopper is hovering overhead. Security seems to be a big deal here. A couple of days ago after I was locked down in a glass elevator, a security man told me, “You just can’t be too careful.” I wonder; perhaps a bit paranoid. This may be understandable, given unsavory events in recent years. The chess game just ended in a stalemate - no winners.

The London Eye is just visible above the nine floors of neo-classical facades that line Charing Cross Road. Tourists in the top of the Eye can see the bully pulpit for about five minutes during their one hour spin through the London sky. Despite paying $25 for the ride, headphones are not included. They will have to come over here to listen to the circadian orations that will answer their existential questions.

It is intriguing, being an observer of all this rambunctious life, and having two people sitting six inches from where I am writing this. They speak in unknown tongues; with no one to translate. I am unseen to them. We could be like two galaxies that pass through each other but never touch. We go on our own ways, unaffected; they caught up in the current again; I clinging to my perch on the wall.

There is such an amazing density to life here, a world so far removed from the bucolic sensibilities in a Victorian world, one under glass. Yet it is good. There must be no place on earth that has this magnitude of diversity and quantity of people flowing by my wall every minute. To be in this concentrated caldron of life, yet unique; is good. Tourists on top of the myriad open-top double deckers have about forty-five seconds at the red light to experience this world occupied by about twenty thousand different kinds of us.

Another ambulance screeches.

Thin afternoon sunlight reminds me of approaching autumn. This is a good thing for the ‘freeze’ dressed in a black suit, wearing bright red braiding. He has not moved in an hour, trusting passers-by will be properly impressed by his immobility, putting their spare change in his dented cookie tin. I’m duly impressed with such stillness in this tsunami of humanity flowing in and out through a dozen hypertensive asphalt veins and arteries. Business looks pretty slow for him. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.

Choppers have appeared again, directly overhead. There seems to be some compelling need to keep all of us in proper order.

A gentle breeze has begun to blow. A cloud of pigeons at my feet are eating fresh bread dropped by tourists passing by my wall. I had a fine lunch myself consisting of a spring onion and cheese sandwich, yogurt, a peach, and a fair-trade banana. The pigeons are politely sharing. Several have jumped up here by my hands as I write. This part of the universe seems pretty well-mannered. Maybe we really don’t need the choppers.

Another chess game has just started.

The concrete wall beneath me refused to soften up and contour itself to my seat of knowledge. I got up to go wander in the National Gallery a bit; figuring on fruit from a Renaissance still life for an afternoon snack. Not thirty feet from my wall, I nearly stumbled onto a stunning piece of beauty. A true fleck of paradise just washed up onto the shores of my life, appearing at my feet. On the sidewalk is a seven by nine foot depiction of Botticelli’s 15th century masterpiece depicting Pallas and the Centaur. Its creator, a demure young woman sits quietly in lotus position at the top of her work. That I was seeing this image on the pavement in Trafalgar Square and not in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence is incredible. More incredible is the effect it has on the organic masses flowing past; instantly bifurcating on either side of the painting and then freezing, not unlike the nearby man in his red braids. They all pay homage with their cameras and coins. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.

The artist has just disappeared, leaving her masterpiece, her money, and her belongings there at the mercy of the hordes. Some people are profoundly trusting. I am seeing this being put profound beauty into the lives of thousands, with her brush and with her trust. I feel like I should go over there and put stanchions around Botticelli. I keep looking for her, hoping she just left to take care of essential needs. Amazingly, no one touches anything. Everyone watches his step. Everyone watches her step. Periodically, huge clots of humanity accrete around the goddess Pallas Athena, but never occluding her beauty. Admirers fill the artisan’s hat with their coins.

Choppers. We really don’t need choppers.

There is much beauty here in the currents of life and we are watching our step. Good. She has come back. I can cease being over responsible for something that is not mine. She trusts us.

The ice cream vendor is doing a brisk business. Children are getting their favorite flavors from attentive parents. Young women are smiling in expectation of their treats. I must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.

Two guys, not paying attention, just stepped on the Centaur’s head. They instantly backed up, as if they had just walked on hot coals. Botticelli’s protégé didn’t flinch. She seems to hold life with an open hand. Anita never received formal training in art, instead receiving inspiration from a former boyfriend who encouraged her to express her gift to the world. She is out here in one of the most crowded places on earth, subjecting her work to the scrutiny of thousands. So far, she has thumbs up from all.

A very street-worn homeless man has just climbed up next to me on the grass. He passed out within about fifteen seconds. I wonder why he is in frayed threads, appearing to have lost the urge for personal grooming. Survival probably uses up all his resources. Perhaps, the ice cream man will share his good business and give the guy a cone.

I went into the National Gallery and accessed the museum’s digital image data bases for Botticelli. Fifteen of his works showed up. Anita does really good work. She could have apprenticed to Botticelli if she had shown up about five hundred fifty years earlier. Two minutes later I was standing in a gallery full of the real thing, hoping that people outside were plunking down in Anita’s hat. I really must remember to carry money for unexpected purchases.

“And God saw all that He had made, and behold it was very good."

Oasis - The World Under Glass 9-18-9

The Palm House, Kew Gardens

In the early 1970’s a haunting science fiction film “Silent Running” was produced, depicting a world in which all natural flora had been extirpated by nuclear holocaust. The only remaining flora existed under glass, in modules orbiting above the earth. Virtually no living person had ever known the joy of walking beneath a canopy of leaves. No one had ever walked on grass barefoot. It was a rare privilege for one to walk in an oasis of green, being only possible for those that could afford a ride into space. Alas, the orbital transport service company responsible for the maintenance of the modules decided on other priorities and these islands of emerald were cast off into the darkness of interstellar space to die. Fortunately, it was but a work of fiction.

In the mid-to-late nineteenth century a powerful aesthetic of beauty emerged in the Victorian world, forever gifting the world with sublime music, art, architecture, and expansive places of public gathering. We ended up with the transcendent music of Ralph Vaughn Williams and the captivating visual images of Claude Monet from this inspired era. Perhaps the most compelling structures erected at the time were the great white iron and glass conservatories built as centerpieces of botanical gardens to showcase fabulous collections of plants and trees from around the globe.

Today I left the frenzy that is inevitable when twelve and a half million people live in a smallish space and hopped on a crowded train for an hour. I noticed that virtually everyone in the train was implanted with a phone and a frown. None seemed happy to be alive on a fine cerulean day of early autumn.

Alighting and walking half a mile through a quiet and pleasing neighborhood where the first fringes of autumn crispness were in the air, I soon passed through Victorian Gates into an oasis that put the modules of “Silent Running” to shame. In the context of “Silent Running”, it seems appropriate that I should now find myself in the largest surviving Victorian conservatories in the world. During the past century, other priorities resulted in the loss of most of these glorious structures. The far-sighted custodians of Kew Gardens have maintained and enlarged its botanical collections for two-hundred fifty years and a glorious preservation and conservation effort by visionary managers and volunteers has provided for us the spectacular crystal jewels I now find myself in.

Richard Turner in 1844-1848 built this particular imposing structure to the design of Decimus Burton, inspired by the shape of a ship. This grand edifice is indeed a ship, an ark. Unlike those of “Silent Running”, this one has not been cast off into space to freeze. An army of volunteers and staff take care of the structure and the legions of tropical plants tucked away beneath thousands of panes of glass. There is a potted plant here from East Cape in South Africa. It made a two-year ocean voyage in 1773. More than two centuries later this plant is alive and well in its very large pot. This plant has been running silently for two hundred and thirty six years with good care and attention. It is reported to be the oldest known potted plant in the world.

There is a thin consistent golden sunlight flooding the crystalline vaults above, the kind photographers pray for. I walk around softly in visual nirvana, collecting living images of the emerald realm, under glass. The white lattice of the ironwork weaves an entrancing pattern beneath the cerulean sky. I consider my great fortune to have been gifted with the opportunity to come across six time zones to such a place and find the patterns in my own life that give entrancing evidence the universe is really a friendly place after all.

I wander around the gallery catwalks, almost feeling the transpiration of all these vibrant tropical plants and trees below me. The tree ferns are huge and lush beyond words. Life feels strong and vital in here. Plants are not the only things fairing well under glass. A wavelet of serenity is washing over me and I am feeling a calmness and contentment that most people would give anything for. I am getting it for the price of admission, and even that was given to me by a friend who thought I needed to be here in this oasis, under glass.

I am suddenly back in another conservatory many thousands of miles away, one where I found daily refuge as I struggled back to life again after a long dark night of the soul, now twenty years distant. In that glass house at Birmingham I learned, as did Francis Bacon, "God almighty first planted a garden. And indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures."

There is a prominent sign in the nearby entrance of the Palm House that asks, “What Does Kew Do?” The expected answer is something to the effect of, ‘collecting, nurturing, propagating, and archiving the botanical heritage of our world.’ I would suggest a mission statement should include providing a place where one goes and then doesn’t want to be anywhere else. I wonder if all those passengers in the train might have found a reason to smile if they were to have come here, turned off their phones, and put themselves under glass. How grand to feel rooted, if not for 236 years, then a few hours at least. As Dorothy Frances Gurney put it, "Kiss of the sun for pardon. Song of the birds for mirth. You're closer to God's heart in a garden than any place else on earth."

Turn off the phone, find a garden, and find God.

Leave the Driving to Us - Above the Cumulus 9-15-9

Near Iceland

There is such an extraordinary world out here, up here, to be explored. Several miles below my dining table there are aureate tops to cumulous towers that bring much needed rain to those living in the far north. Beneath these cumulous towers, Icelanders are settling in for the night, about to enjoy their evening meals cooked on geothermal energy from the hidden fires of the earth.

Out one of my four private windows a subtle lavender rim is forming on the cerulean dome that forms the plate of heaven above me. In the west the sun descends for its rest from warming life yet another day. Those around me are settling in for sleep, cozy in their beds in cocoons of white down. There is a profound sense of repose; that is the perfect word. Life is presently very quiet, very generous, and wondrous; all is very well here.

One of our three impeccably trained stewards has just inquired if this would be a good time for me to have my dinner served. How could it ever not be a good time to have fresh canapés brought to me in a white-gloved hand attached to a radiant smile? Shortly a table for two was arranged with fresh linen, silver and goblets placed, a moist towel offered for refreshment. The four guests visiting me in my cabinette were invited by one of the stewards to take their leave so I could have a quintessential dining experience with full undistracted focus. Not liking to eat alone, I began to object and then thought the better of it and kept my mouth shut. I made peace with my guests by sending back glasses of 2000 Bolinger. The steward later apologized for dismissing my guests.

As the sky transmuted from cerulean to lavender to violet and finally into deep indigo before becoming truly colorless, I managed to stretch canapés, lobster bisque, a well-oiled salad with dressing from Castello Monte Vibiano and smoked chicken with Tuscan tomato across about seven hundred miles of cumulous tops. In proper European style, a plate of sweet Marion Bleu, Herb Brie, and Kilchur Estate Cheddar was then offered with a basket of chilled fruits.

The Icelandic world has settled down for the night. My heavenly world has settled down; low-level indigo lighting washes the ceiling, creating a sense of being in a planetarium. I wonder about the people who are granted the opportunity to design and build this kind of an environment. The stewards are performing well those things they do in hidden places to create an atmosphere of amazing elegance and attentiveness for those of us that have been admitted into a place of extraordinary privilege, here in heaven.

Enjoying the after glow of a fine dining experience, I now wonder about the true nature of luxury. Is it merely having the very best of everything? Am I having an epic bigger-than-life event because it normally costs more per hour to buy this seat in heaven than most people make in a week? Is it because I can be here and you probably can’t? Am I having a peak life moment because I don’t normally eat off crystal on the top side of cumulous clouds? Because it was given to me as a grand gift? Or is true luxury the ability to have a peak life experience no matter what? As I sit here, literally in the ultimate lap of luxury; I wonder if gratitude, the queen of emotions, what makes the experience transformative. Perhaps a profound appreciation for whatever life gives us is the key.

Last Saturday I was sitting at a picnic table under an old oak tree in the middle of nowhere. A nearby herd of goats was munching away at patches of brittle brown grass. A cloud of no-see-ums buzzing around my head reminded me that first frost was still a long ways off. I was eating a meal that cost me six bucks and was wiping with a thin paper napkin. Yet, I had a peak life experience every bit as powerful as the one I am having up here in the heavenly realm. I was seated at that battered green table with a dozen good friends who took time out of their Saturday to join me for brunch at a country eatery out on a goat farm in my county. Another couple heard I was going to be at this restaurant and made the journey out there to find me. I felt like true royalty, holding court with people seeking an audience. It was glorious; a transcendent life experience. The community that comes from true friendship and shared experience has few peers.

As I sit here in the clouds with an empty chair across from my table, I am reminded of the reality that relationship is ultimately the magic ingredient that produces peak experiences in life. This incredible opportunity to see the world from the top of cumulous clouds provided for me the right to offer that chair to anyone who wanted it, at no cost to them. The only thing that could have made this epic journey better would have been the opportunity to pay it forward - to gift it to someone who could never embrace it with their own resources; to show them the plate of heaven through the lens of crystal at 40,000 feet; to watch them slumber away in a cocoon of down softer than the clouds far below.

The next time you are offered something and you believe it too good to be true, reconsider. As the great British theologian, GK Chesterton, liked to say, “Occasionally, flecks of paradise do wash up on the shores of our lives.” Today might just be your day.