Ten Miles

The week went by quickly here at the beach.  Tuesday, I ran three miles early and then we drove to New Bern, an hour away, for lunch at Morgan's Tavern.  Wednesday morning, I heard bagpipes playing again and saw our piper standing out on the beach.  He was attracting more interest by morning light than he had in the dark, and shell-gatherers and dog-walkers stopped to listen as he went through his repertoire.

For lunch, we attended a "Brown Bag Gam" at the N. C. Maritime Museum in Beaufort.  We have attended these programs in past years (in fact, we are members of both Fort Macon and the Maritime Museum).  Interested visitors pack a brown bag lunch (or pick up some take-out) and listen to a maritime-themed presentation by one of the curators.  A "gam," by the way, is "a social visit or friendly interchange, especially between whalers or other seafarers.  Today's program was about Lightships and Light Towers (as opposed to lighthouses constructed on the shore) and we found it interesting as usual.

After lunch we walked around Beaufort, one of our favorite places.  It was named by Travel and Leisure as “America's Favorite Town,” and its laid-back charm is infectious.  It is easy to find a shady bench down on Taylor's Creek and simply watch the boats come and go.

Thursday, after another three-mile run, we took a ferry from Beaufort to a destination we had never visited before, Sand Dollar Island, out in the Sound between Rachel Carson Reserve and Shackleford Banks.
 

We were surprised to find that the “island” seemed to be little more than an exposed shoal of sand, and indeed our ferry captain said that during the winter, it is often submerged at high tide.  There were no trees or vegetation of any kind, just a few shells and plenty of sand dollars.  It was a true “desert island,” and I found myself thinking of that Laurie Anderson song, Blue Lagoon:

I've been getting lots of sun.

And lots of rest. 

It's really hot.
Days, I dive by the wreck.

Nights, I swim in the blue lagoon.
Always used to wonder who I'd bring to a desert island.

The sand dollars were not lying around on the sand, but instead could be found only by wading out in the shallow water just off the sand shoal, where they told us you could sometimes feel them with your toes.  Martha found one, along with a pretty shell we could not identify, while I contented myself with wandering around on the sand taking photos.

The week, as I said, went by quickly, and every day was hotter than the preceding one.  So today, Saturday, we knew we had to get started early.  I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. and we were ready to go by 6:00 a.m.  I did a couple of laps around the parking lot, waiting for it to become light enough to safely run on the road and not trip on cracks.

It was a tough run, ten miles in unaccustomed heat and humidity, and we were both drenched with sweat when we finished.  It has been an unusually steep climb up the slope of this training plan to the summit of a final long run, still three miles short of the distance of a half marathon.  But it succeeded in making us confident that we could complete the race in two weeks time. 

Tomorrow morning we will drive back to Raleigh, and then to Highlands, grateful for this week of running and preparation and adventure, bagpipes and laughing gulls, sunrises and sunsets, and the ceaseless sound of the surf breaking on the shore.

There's Always Something to See

Have I said how good it is to be back here at the beach?  And how much we appreciate Lizette allowing us to stay here?  What a joy it is to go out on the top of the dunes to do my Tai Chi every morning, sunrise coloring the horizon.

The sun is rising due east, behind the neighboring houses, rather than toward the southeast as it does in January, I notice.  One of the peculiar delights of this south-facing beach is that we can watch both sunrise and sunset over the ocean; it rises straight out of the water towards the southeast and sets just beyond Oceana Pier toward the southwest.  Another change I notice this time of year (aside from the outdoor swimming pool being open and enthusiastically populated) is that, when I return to the dune-top deck for the second time with my cup of coffee, it is still hot when I arrive.  Sometimes in January it has gotten cold during the quarter-mile walk out to my frosty little seat.

Martha did not waste any time identifying events we might want to attend this week, starting with a 9:00 a.m. birdwatching walk at Fort Macon State Park; we have even packed our binoculars.  It is already warming up on this first day of Fall, and I have applied insect repellent against the gnats, which are non-existent in January.  Park Superintendent Randy Newman is waiting for us and he remembers us from programs we have attended in the past.  Randy is a kind of "bird whisperer" - sometimes he will actually whistle and coo, calling birds out of the foliage.  He observes these birds all year round and knows them well; his enthusiasm is contagious.

 
In no time we spot the ubiquitous mockingbird, which Randy tells us usually repeats his song three times, as opposed to the brown thrasher (twice) and the catbird (once).  He sees a scarlet tanager, too, and I am quick enough to follow his sudden finger-point.  We walk down onto the beach and watch some seabirds, sandpipers and gulls; Randy tells us he has seen some gulls making nests on the rooftops of Staples and Food Lion, which have tile roofs. 

These brown pelicans soar into view right on schedule.  We see laughing gulls, too, immature ones whose heads are not yet distinctly black.  Randy spots what he thinks may be a frigate gull, too, though it is too far away to be sure; these remarkable birds can remain aloft for months, riding the air currents for tremendous distances.  He ends up checking off 26 birds on the list in the little pamphlet he has distributed, whereas most of us are lucky to check off a dozen.

Randy despairs, as he usually does, that there was not very much activity this morning, although we thought the Fort was bustling with birds.  "But there's always something to see!" he says, a phrase that I love to use these days.

There's always something to hear, too!  After an afternoon walk on the beach, we ate dinner and watched the sun go down.  At 9:00 p.m., Martha said she thought she heard something, perhaps someone's ring-tone out on  the walkway.  We opened the doors and discovered that somebody was standing out in the darkness by the ocean, playing the bagpipes.  Bagpipes are not designed to be played indoors, and standing on an ocean shore (or perhaps on a Scottish moor) must be the best places to wail ghostly melodies out into the night.  The piper went through several familiar tunes, including Highland Cathedral, one of our favorites.  After he had finished, I could see him walking in semi-darkness down the walkway into our building, and as he passed under the balcony, I applauded.  "Enjoyed that!"  He doffed a red cap and disappeared inside without speaking.

Atlantic Beach

It has always been beneficial to me to have goals as a runner, and while they are not as ambitious as when I was younger (half marathons instead of full marathons, slower finish times) they still help to focus training and carry us to another finish line and its feeling of accomplishment.  The next goal for both of us is the Bethel Half Marathon on October 12, less than three weeks from now.  It is as short a time to "ramp up" for a race as Martha's handful of training runs before her Senior Games.  But perhaps we will both benefit from the down time as I am speculating she did.

My tried-and-true training plan for a half marathon consists of increasing weekend long runs, once every two weeks, from six to eight to ten to twelve miles, and mixing in hills and tempo runs during the week.  With only three weeks, we have done the best we could, running six miles the first Saturday we returned, and yesterday jumping up to eight miles; the plan is to run ten miles next week, back off for a week, and then run the race.  It has become very hot and humid here after that brief respite last week, into the upper seventies by mid-morning, so we set the alarm early yesterday and got started at 7:30 a.m.  It went well, although I could feel the effects of the heat toward the end.  But it was nice to be running on familiar Fort Macon Road again, flat, sea-level, and little traffic.  That is why we enjoy training here in January and February so much.

This afternoon, we had a nice visit with Artie and his stepson Troy, and then moved into the condo for a week.  It was good to be here again, and the improvements made since our last visit are good ones - new surfaces in the hallways and the balcony.  And, of course, that glorious wide beach, significantly warmer in September than in January.

North Carolina Senior Games

It has been almost two weeks since we returned to Highlands, and it has been a bit of an adjustment.  I am finding that I still awake at 6:00 a.m. or earlier, while it is still dark.  And when I get up during the night it takes me a minute to remember where I am and how to get to the bathroom.  Of special concern for we runners (which is the ostensible topic of this blog between all the traveling) is the paucity of running during out travels, almost a month during which we were able to find time to run only twice, a total of three miles.  We both resumed running as soon as we returned, though, and Martha ran some intervals this week and said that everything felt fine.  She has a short time to ramp up to the big event of the summer, the North Carolina Senior Games.

Readers of this blog may remember that, way back on May 6, Martha qualified for the Games by running a 5-K on the Franklin track and taking first place in her age group.  That meant that she could run the same event in the State finals, which were held in Cary this year.  I am so glad that she wanted to go on to the next level in a much more competitive field, racing against women in her age group who had qualified from around the State.  At the age of 64, she knew she would be at a disadvantage in the 60-64 age group.  (As I have discovered myself, only a year or two makes a huge difference in these more advanced age groups.)  But she has become a competitive runner who often surprises herself these days.

We were concerned about the heat in Cary, but fortune sometimes smiles upon determined runners, and a weather front brought cooler than expected weather.  The race was held on paved trails in Bond Park and was mostly shady, which also helped.  We had checked into a nearby motel the day before and had an opportunity to check out the course, although as it turned out on race morning, the route had been changed and was no longer the same as the course map posted on line.  The weather was perfect.  "I wish I were running, too!" I kept saying.

A timing company was present to manage the chip timing, and the race started on time.  Martha got off to a good start, and runners quickly thinned out on the narrow paved trails. 

She told me after the race that the course was deceptively difficult, with tree roots making for uneven pavement here and there.  And at one point, the volunteer who was supposed to be directing the runners was not at his station, and she ran for several precious seconds in the wrong direction before realizing what had happened and getting back on course.

For my part, I enjoyed chatting with the other men and women who were waiting for their spouses.  I walked several laps around the parking lot at the finish and returned when the first few runners began arriving.  What a surprise to see Martha's familiar pink singlet coming around the corner, way ahead of schedule!  She looked strong, but I could tell that there was not much left in the tank; she had given it her all.

Her finish time was 27:53, faster than we had both expected, and it earned her a second place finish and a silver medal.  In reviewing her race book later, she discovered that this was the fastest time she had run since 2012.  Not many runners in their 60s can claim an accomplishment like that!  Is it possible that, rather than bemoaning the lack of training over the past month, the down time could have been responsible for the faster time?

Races like this are inspiring to an aging runner like me.  The men and women walking up to accept their medals at the award ceremony looked very fit indeed, and the loudest applause was reserved for the oldest man finishing the race, who was 93 years old.

Martha had realized when we arranged earlier in the summer to travel to Cary that we would be less than half an hour from Raleigh, where her aunt Lizette lives.  For several years, Lizette has graciously allowed us to stay in her condo in Atlantic Beach, less than three hours from Raleigh, during the coldest winter months.  It has been a wonderful escape from the cold and the snow, and we have come to love that area of the State a great deal.  So she had arranged to stay at Lizette's condo for a week after the race at a time of year when we have never been there before.  The grass might actually be green!

So we checked out of our motel and drove to Raleigh, where we had a nice visit with Lizette, who turned 90 in March and does not look it.  Two beautiful women! 

As it turns out, Lizette's son Artie, Martha's cousin, was going to be visiting the condo the same weekend, and we were looking forward to the opportunity of seeing him, too.  We had made arrangements to stay at a nearby motel while Artie was at the condo, one that we had often passed while driving down Fort Macon Road, the Caribbe Inn, a name so corny it was cute.  The little motel is family operated and has five stars on TripAdvisor, and it was a gem, brightly painted in pinks and turquoises, slightly retro but clean and neat.  The owner, Trish, was (as we say in the south) "as friendly as she could be."

The Inn backs up on Money Island Bay and features boat slips; we watched one visitor arrive in a small boat, tie up, and go inside to register.

Out in the parking lot were several big pickup trucks with ice chests on racks behind the tailgates and holders for fishing poles.  The next morning we watched two or three of them depart shortly after sunrise for a day of fishing.  I sighted this fellow doing the same thing off the dock by the boat slip - a Great Egret.

London to Charlotte

For the last time on this trip, we set the alarm and prepared for another early day of travel, but this time back home to the familiar.  We have become very efficient at this!  I look around the room and ask, as Steve often did on the coach, "Now have a little think:  phones? chargers? passports?"  Bags were rolled down to the concierge desk at 8:15.  And then we sat around in the lobby of the Hard Rock Hotel, quiet 60s-era rock music continually playing in the background, visiting with a handful of our traveling companions, some of whom were returning as we were, others going on to further adventures; Vernon and Ruth and Mary were on their way to stay in a castle for a week.

Our chauffeured van arrived and in no time we were back at Heathrow, but this time (being seasoned travelers!) it seemed as if we passed through airport security and baggage much more easily.

Our flight was at 12:30 p.m., and we were scheduled to arrive in Charlotte at 4:30 p.m.  We had wisely anticipated the effects of jet lag and planned to stay the night in Charlotte rather than driving home, since 4:30 p.m. Charlotte Time was 9:30 p.m. London Time.  (And, surprisingly, I found that I remained on London Time much longer after returning than I had remained on Charlotte Time in England three weeks ago).

It was bittersweet to climb higher and higher in the sky and watch the City of London, and then the little patchwork-quilt fields and hedgerows and stone fences of the beautiful countryside through which we had traveled the past three weeks - "England's green and pleasant land" - disappear below us, finally vanishing suddenly in clouds.

What a surprise (we should have expected it) to find Charlotte baking in the 90s, the heat and humidity hitting us in the face when we stepped outside.  We were to discover that the East Coast was experiencing unprecedented heat, while snow was coming early to Montana.

After a good night's rest, we left for home, through the hot, sticky humidity of the upstate.  How true it is that travel gives you a different perspective!  I was struck, as if seeing it for the first time, by the roadside trash, the junk cars, the vacant fields in which no livestock grazed, the falling-down buildings of that particularly poverty-stricken stretch of rural roadside between Charlotte and home.  We stopped in the middle of nowhere at a red light, waiting and waiting, and I found myself thinking, "This intersection needs a roundabout!"  Yes, they really do work.

But make no mistake:  despite the lack of orderly fields and hedgerows and the ruins of old towers and cathedrals, our country is a beautiful one, and as we climbed higher and higher on familiar two-lane roads into the mountains of Western North Carolina, we were glad to be back home again.  And our little Town, Highlands, is truly remarkable.  It is wonderful to be able to travel, but this is a good place to live, and we were glad to be returning.

So I sit at my desk, reading the notes on the last page of the little diary I kept, looking at the handful of treasures we brought back home with us:  a sprig of heather from Scotland; a postcard-sized note card from Shakespeare's birthplace reading, "We know what we are, but know not what we may be" (Hamlet); and three small rocks, one from Scotland, one from Ireland, and one from the coast of England. 

But much more than that:  memories that will last a lifetime.

Stonehenge and Salisbury

We left Plymouth early to avoid, Steve told us, the "hordes of tourists from London" (and Plymouth, I thought) descending upon the ancient site on Salisbury Plain, one of the handful of places we had visited on our trip here 15 years ago.  Schoolboys and schoolgirls in neat uniforms were walking to school as we drove through the city, and then out into wide open country where hay had already been harvested.

South central England is indeed beautiful, with its rolling hills, woods, and fields separated by hedgerows.  Black-faced sheep grazed contentedly.

Stonehenge is still a mystery, after all this time, dating back to sometime between 3000 BC and 2000 BC.  A "henge," or circular monument, is not a fortification; it was probably either a calendar to mark the planting season - it was paramount in an agricultural community to know exactly when to plant - or a religious site, probably both.  It could also have been a burial site, as there are hundreds of other burial mounds nearby.  It was not constructed by the Druids, who came much later.

Gone are the days when, as we were told by a young woman in St. Ives yesterday, one could simply drive out onto the plain, park, and picnic on the site.  It has even changed from 15 years ago, as far as we could remember, with a visitor center located a mile and a half away and shuttle buses taking visitors to the stones.  We opted instead to walk across the windy open fields, approaching the site gradually.

It is generally believed that the stones were transported here from Wales where they were likely quarried, a distance of 150 miles.  How they were transported - barges? rolling on wheels? - is a subject of much speculation.  The standing stones weigh 25 tons each, a difficult feat even with today's technology.  To say that they are awe-inspiring is an understatement.

My question has always been the same:  granted that they were probably a calendar and/or place of worship, but why are they so huge?  Surely smaller stones would have sufficed, could have been transported more easily, and would likely have survived four or five millennia.  What was the point in their immense size?

We drove from Stonehenge to nearby Salisbury and toured the elegant Salisbury Cathedral, formally known as the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  We entered the churchyard through St. Anne's Gate, which had a history of its own.

In the rooms above the gate, George Frideric Handel, composer of the oratorio Messiah among other great works, held some of his first concerts.

There was also a plaque on the wall commemorating William Golding, author of Lord of the Flies, who was a schoolmaster here.

Less well-known by some, William Golding also wrote a book called The Spire, which I dimly recall reading under the pressure of an exam very rapidly in my college years and which I now intend to re-read.  The cathedral itself was completed in an incredible 38 years (I would have guessed a hundred or more), from 1220 to 1258, but without a spire.  The spire was added in 1320 and (Steve said), "as every schoolboy in England knows" is 404 feet in height, the tallest in the country.  The tower began to lean after construction, and is 2'-5" out of line; Christopher Wren, architect of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, was enlisted to assist, and he successfully devised a method of preventing it from leaning farther.  Golding's book is loosely based on the spire at Salisbury Cathedral.

The cathedral is extraordinarily beautiful, built in a single architectural style - Early English Gothic - because it was completed relatively quickly.  It is said to have more windows than days in the year, and more columns that hours in the year.

On display in the Cathedral was one of only four copies of the Magna Carta, the famous charter of rights agreed to by King John at Runnymede on 15 June 1215.  Written in remarkably tiny script on sheepskin, it is based on (as Wikipedia puts it) "the principle that no one was above the law, including the king."  With an impeachment inquiry underway as I am writing this blog several days afterward, it is important to remember that our own Constitution is based on the same principle.

There is a magnificent organ in the cathedral, called the "Father Willis Organ," which is one of the finest in the world, but it was being restored, its great pipes removed, awaiting re-installation.

 

We had lunch in the cathedral's cafe - surprisingly, most of these cathedrals have a cafe, and a gift shop as well - and then we paused for a moment of peaceful reflection in the beautiful Chapel of St. Michael the Archangel. 

Back on the coach, we realized we were on the final leg of this long journey, with Karl heading calmly into London rush-hour traffic and Steve continuing to describe the history and architecture that we were passing along the way - they were the best!  Steve said we had completed a total of 5840 kilometer, or 3615 miles, an average of 182.5 miles per day.  We crossed the Thames once again, three weeks after we had crossed it the first time.

Along the way we passed protesters outside Parliament, calling for an end to Brexit, the madness that nobody in Britain seems to want.

We passed the high walls of Buckingham Palace, topped with barbed wire as we had noted before.  "It serves its purpose," Steve said.  "It keeps them in!"

It felt strange to be returning to the Hard Rock Hotel again after all this time!  We had stayed in every imaginable kind of hotel and lodge in Britain and Ireland, and here we were back where it had all begun for us.  As Martha said on Facebook, "after 23 days of exploring virtually every corner of the British Isles, from London to Scotland, and Ireland, we covered over 3600 miles by ferry, steam train, coach, and cruise boats through five countries.  It has been an incredible way to celebrate our 40th Anniversary, and we have enjoyed sharing our photos with our Facebook friends."  It has truly been The Trip of a Lifetime.

But where to eat for dinner?  Shall we hit a pub for some fish and chips?  Or shepherd's pie?  Or perhaps some bangers and mash, or toad in the hole?  (I am not making these dishes up!)  No, we crossed the street and slid into the same table at Prezzo Italian Restaurant, where we had dined on August 14, and enjoyed some good old Italian penne and risotto.

Plymouth Harbor and St. Michael's Mount

Our tour included a cruise in Plymouth Harbor.  On the way to the Harbor, we passed the Royal Citadel, perched on high rocks above the harbor, built in the late 1660s; it encompasses the site of the earlier fort that had been built here in the time of Sir Francis Drake, he of the cool head and determination to complete his game of bowls (see previous post).

Nearby were the famous Mayflower Steps, where passengers had supposedly departed Plymouth in 1620, nearly 400 years ago, on their 66-day voyage to Cape Cod.  Other famous ocean voyages had begun here, including Charles Darwin on the HMS Beagle in 1841.

As we cruised down the harbor, we saw many military ships, and also the conning towers of several decommissioned submarines; we were told that the submarines had to remain where they were for 30 years until their nuclear reactors had cooled.

 
Karl was awaiting us in the coach at the end of the ferry cruise, and we set forth into beautiful Cornwall again.  Steve explained that Cornwall was unique because it contained many unusual minerals as a result of the weathering of the felsic intrusions (our Steve was a knowledgeable geologist as well as a historian) - felsic rocks are igneous rocks rich in elements like uranium, zinc, copper, antimony, and arsenic.  Kaolin was also deposited in massive amounts here, and we passed the world's largest clay pits; the clay is still mined and is used for fine porcelains by Lenox and Wexford.

Of special interest were the presence of copper and tin, which together can be alloyed into bronze; because of this, the area became, as early as 1500 BC, a place where the Bronze Age began in England - that crucial link between the Stone (or neolithic) Age and the Iron Age.  The presence of tin may have been what, legend has it, brought the merchant Joseph of Arimathea, uncle of Jesus, to England.  It is an interesting legend and purports to account for those missing years in Jesus's life in the Gospels by saying that Jesus as a young boy traveled to England.  That legend, completely unsubstantiated, has been alive for 2000 years.  Further legend believes that Joseph of Arimathea returned after the death of Jesus and started the first “cristen” church of England in the village of Glastonbury around  60 AD.  The myth purports that Joseph decided upon Glastonbury because when he put his staff into the ground on Wearyall Hill, it took root and flowered.  The legend is the basis for William Blake's poem Jerusalem, the unofficial "anthem" of England."

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark satanic mills?

This part of England is so beautiful that it is easy to believe that it has been touched by divine feet.

Here, too - in contrast to those "dark satanic mills" - we saw signs of a more progressive and enlightened England (which we also saw in other parts of the UK and in Ireland), miles and miles of wind turbines and solar panels:  clean energy (alongside Belted Galloways).

We continued along the coast to the seaside town of St. Ives, an artist's colony because, according to Steve, artists began coming here from London and discovered that the light was very special.  The Town is a popular resort, notably achieving the title of Best UK Seaside Town from the British Travel Awards; it is filled with galleries and shops and restaurants, and we spent some time wandering through its narrow, winding streets down to the ocean.

St. Ives is also known for its “pasties” – meat-filled pies that we first encountered in Michigan in 2016, coincidentally enough; the pies arrived in Michigan's Upper Peninsula in the 1840s, brought there by Cornish miners who immigrated to that part of the country.  Three years later, we were in the "Mother Country" of pasties.

We had had a filling lunch at a cafe in St. Ives, and had spoken to a friendly server.  We told her that we were going to be visiting Stonehenge, and she told us that when she was a little girl, her family would visit the site; it was deserted most of the time, and they would sit on the rocks and eat a sandwich.  

We did not opt for pasties today (although we had eaten them in Michigan).  But when we arrived at the beach itself and the usual seaside eateries there, Martha decided that the occasion called for an ice cream cone.

It was a warm and sunny day, and visitors were sitting on benches soaking up the last warm sunny days of September, eating fish and chips and pasties; some were wandering down to the water, taking off their shoes, and dipping their toes in the cool water.

We continued on from St. Ives to St. Michael's Mount.  Monks from Mont St. Michel in France established a priory here in the 12th Century on an unbridged tidal island like the one in France.  I collected another rock there - my third on this trip - a small round pebble; I am holding it in my hand as I write this blog and remember that warm, sunny day on the English coast.

We returned eventually to Plymouth again and enjoyed our "Farewell Dinner" at a restaurant called The Mission.  Their website describes it well:  "This 19th century Thomas Mission Hall, with its high ceilings and aromatic smells from the kitchen, is the perfect place to settle for a flavoursome, satisfying, and well accomplished British cuisine.  Our selection of menus cater handsomely to diners on the go, romantic meals for two, friends, and family gatherings."  I suppose we fell into the "friends" category, because at this point in our journey we had become friends with so many of our fellow travelers.  It was a good evening!