Ahmed the Elephant

Ahmed might be the most famous animal in Kenya. He was a forest elephant who lived for 55 years--a good, long life for wild, bull elephant--in the Marsabit National Reserve. Marsabit is famous for its extraordinarily large elephants. Ahmed became a symbol for the people of Kenya after independence from Great Britain, making them aware of the importance of both wildlife and ecotourism for their nation's future. Ahmed has magnificent, ivory tusks, as you can see in the old photo of him in the preserve. The people of Kenya became so concerned for Ahmed because of the danger from ivory poachers that many wrote to their first president, Jomo Kenyatta, asking him to protect Ahmed. President Kenyatta assigned two, full-time game wardens to follow Ahmed day and night to guarantee his safety. Everywhere Ahmed roamed, his two guardian angels watched over him!

When Ahmed died of old age in 1974, a death cast of his body was made and the full-sized replica was made and placed in the Kenya National Museum. That is where the title picture was taken. I am 5 feet 2 inches tall and Ahmed towers over me!

Elephants still roam the Marsabit Reserve, wild and free, along with lions, leopards, buffalo and rhinoceros. There are many such reserves here in Kenya. I am going to one this afternoon for the first time, Nairobi National Park. I don't know whether or not I will see elephants today, but I will certainly see lots of big animals. When I do, I will think of Ahmed and the what a gift he was to all of us.

La Dolce Far Niente

The sweetness of doing nothing. No matter how much I try to emulate this famous Italian saying, I'm just not hard wired for it. Here we are in a gorgeous hotel located on a stunningly lovely bay on a tropical island, surrounded by beauty, and I'm mentally tapping my feet. Despite the heat which gently (or not so gently) urges you to slow down, I want to be up and doing. The Caribbean culture in general, and Martinique in particular, do not really support anything but a leisurely approach to life!

Perhaps that is why I have been unable to settle down to blog any earlier on this trip, which started on the even less touristed island of Guadeloupe. No matter how hard you concentrate, you just can't do a lot of things here. For one thing, everything closes down between 12:00 or 12:30 and 3:00, no matter what the printed tourist information tells you. On Saturday, we took a taxi to the sugar plantation where Josephine Napolean was born and spent the first sixteen years of her life. Posted as opening after the mid-day siesta at 2:00, it actually opened at 3:00. For another, it's simply time-consuming getting from place to place. Traffic is difficult and the roads are slow. Despite our best efforts, we are spending a lot of time spending time.

Now, it is not a tragedy to be forced to watch the rain blow the palms around or to enjoy a leisurely sunset with a cold drink in my hand. This is not a complaining blog--or not too much of one--but it is a self-enlightening one. Not for me the South Pacific atoll or the Caribbean paradise, unless I'm strenuously hunting for a life bird or performing some other Type A activity. For me, la dolceza sta farcendo qualcosa. The sweetness is doing something.

The Tower of London

The first time I came to London, I was an eager, young history student and the city both disappointed and disconcerted me. I longed to step back in time and feel the past all around me. Instead, I was confronted by a pastiche of eras and traditions from pre-Roman to all-too-modern. Bauhaus, post-modernist ice cube, Jacobean and Georgian architecture were jumbled together cheek-by-jowl. I could hardly see Christopher Wren's masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral, for the tatty office buildings around it.

While my views have changed somewhat and I have come to embrace the layers of history that this most fascinating of cities has to offer, the Tower of London does not disappoint the history seeker. Sitting on the banks of the Thames where the eastern edge of the Roman walls of Londinium ended, it is almost a shock to see it's massive, Norman towers--twenty in all--and enormous moat. The original buildings were started in 1086, twenty years after the Norman conquest that displaced the Saxon dynasty. Edward I, the "Longshanks" you might recall from "Braveheart", extended the walls, gatehouses and the moat to its present size. Henry VII added the Tudor buildings lining the green inside the castle. The Tower of London, in fact, is also a compendium of historical times and styles.

What makes the Tower different, however, in spite of the tourists and the gift shops, is that you step into a flowing river of history which continues unbroken from the past. The yeoman warders or Beefeaters who walk you around are there primarily as guards, not guides. The reason they are dressed in their peculiar, red uniforms is that these are what they wore to guard Elizabeth I when she was imprisoned by her sister, Mary I, in the tower. The reason that they are all retired non-commissioned officers is because the Duke of Wellington, the hero of Waterloo who defeated Napolean for good, only wanted trusted men of battle in charge of the ultimate defensive building in London. Wellington had been made Constable of the Tower as a mark of favor and reward for his long and distinguised military and political career. It wasn't a comfortable sinecure, but an important, working position.

The Beefeaters actually live inside the Tower with their families. They have their own doctor and their own, parish church, St. Peter ad Vincula, or St. Peter in Chains. Their children have the right to be baptised and married in that church even after their yeoman warder father passes away, a right that continues for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren in perpetuity, since anyone baptised in St. Peter ad Vincula can be married there as well. This makes the Tower of London the most exclusive village in England with the possible exception of Windsor Castle.

Somehow, it's easier to come close to English history here than just about any place else. You can, for instance, see the carvings in the stone of the Beauchamp tower made by state prisoners to mark their imprisonment with verse or coat of arms or, in the case of Robert Dudley, a later favorite of Elizabeth I, a cunning Latin play on his name and an oak leaf. You can also see Henry VIII's massive armor--he had 54 inch shoulders and a 51 inch waist the last time he managed to struggle into it. You might also talk to Dave, a yeoman warder who guarded Rudolf Hess, a prisoner in the tower after World War II until he was removed to another location. The British army was concerned that his guards disliked him too much and might harm him. Dave, our guide, told us that he believed him to be an unrepentant Nazi to the end. This is history with a vengenance.

My point is that in spite of the moving walkways that take you past the crown jewels in the tower vault, the Tower of London is the real deal. It is as close to living history as we will ever get. Except, of course, for the history that we all live through. Because today's current events are tomorrow's history. Like it or not, we are all living in the Tower of London.

Jews Court

It is so easy when traveling to fix on the things I see. Sometimes it feels like I am in a travelogue, moving from one amazing sight to the next. Walking up Steep Hill in Lincoln is a bit like that. Whether it is the Cardinal's Hat or Jews House, the Castle or the Cathedral, it's just one early Norman structure after another. From immediately after the Conquest in 1066 to about a hundred years later, the Normans were in a frenzy of building, using the remains of the Roman colony, Lindum Colonia (Lin-coln) as a convenient source of dressed stone to do it. I got so caught up in antiquarian delight that I forgot to think of the town as a place where people once and still live.

On the way down, however, I stopped at the book store now housed in Jews Court, at one time a synagogue before Edward I decided that Jews in England had already loaned him as much money as they possessed and had them expelled. Jews were directly under the king's protection, which made it difficult for them to refuse to finance royal military adventures as long as they had assets. In a neat move that foreshadowed today's financial shenanigans, Edward decreed that all monies owed to the Jews would henceforth be payable to the king. It might be considered as nationalizing the banks, if the concept of a nation, instead of a fief, had actually existed. In one stroke, the king made an entire people redundant. Jews Court stands next to Jews House and until 1290, this was the heart of a small, but important community. Now the two buildings house a restaurant, a used bookstore and the Lincolnshire Historical Society.

I was just looking for a Margery Allingham novel, an obscure and delightful mystery writer from the 40's who can be difficult to find at home. I was successful, but found myself talking with the proprietor about Jews Court and then, without warning, we were deep in an hour-long conversation about Cromwell, intolerance, the American Civil War, the rise and fall of Lincoln as a city, labour politics and primary source material. It was one of those far-ranging discussions where your brain has to skip to keep up with the lightening flashes of connection.

The owner admired Cromwell, a generally unlovable figure, and detested Charles II. "A waste of space," was how he put described that charming and lazy Royal. It wasn't just the rise of Parlementary authority that he approved. He reminded me that it was Oliver Cromwell who, inspite of his strict Puritanism, allowed a group of Sephardic the Jews to remain in London in 1656 at a time when they would well use a safe haven. We moved on to Gettysburg and Robert E. Lee's fatal miltary mistakes at that turning point. He did not admire Lee, whom he considered at prig and a traitor to his oath of service to the United States.

Hmm. What about Cromwell's oath to King Charles I as a member of Parlement and outlawing Christmas revels once he became Lord Protector? Traitorous? Priggish? More intense discussion ensued, ending with a recommendation that I read Antonia Frasier's biography of Cromwell, which he conceded was very even-handed for a Catholic. Startled, I said that surely that kind of personal alliegance didn't matter to a modern historian. "Oh, no," he protested. 'You must remember that Lady Antonia was a Pakenham, a famous English Catholic family."

Clearly, I was wandering in unfamiliar forests of social history and personal bias with surprising glens of tolerance. I wondered if the 13th century was contagious. We talked on until closing, shook hands and parted, having exchanged everything except our names. As I walked down Steep Hill, it occurred to me that this is what is missing from history, the complex, emotional quotient. Just like my new acquaintance, Edward Plantagenet, Oliver Cromwell, Charles Stewart and Robert E. Lee all had their individual prejudices and quirks and should be painted, as Cromwell once said, "warts and all." Wherever there are people, there is politics, but also, an internal psychology that both resembles our own and is wildly, almost unintelligibly different.

Cuthbert Tunstall

Unlike other Castles, Durham is located directly across from Durham Cathedral, barely a stone's throw across the green. This is because it orginated as the dour fortress of the Prince Bishop of Durham, tasked not only with opiscopal duties, but also the defense of the border against the Scots after the Norman Conquest. William I thought a bishop, dependent on the king for both appointment and succession, would be a safer alternative to a baron to hold this strategic position.

Today, because Durham Castle has become "Castle" College, one of the several colleges of Durham University, you can't just wander about on your own. Instead, a student well-versed in Durhamiana escorts you through the impressive warren of 11th-to-19th century buildings. Our guide had loads of fascinating stories to impart about hidden Norman arches and the Tudor kitchens, but my favorite came at the very last as we rested our weary feet in the chapel.

Hanging descreetly on the wall beside the choir stalls, was a strange portrait of Bishop Cuthbert Tunstall, who was appointed to office just four years before Henry VIII broke with the pope and made himself the head of the Church of England. In the painting, the bishop holds his hands up awkwardly in front of his chest, just slightly apart. That's because his portrait used to show him holding a rosary.

Turnstall succeeded Cardinal Wolsey as Bishop of Durham and undoubtedly did not wish to continue that pattern after Wolsey was arrested for treason. Wolsey died in prison before his trial, but there's little doubt that he would have followed Sir Thomas More--now Saint Thomas More--to the block if he hadn't acquiesced to Henry. The rosary was hastily painted out. Tunstall was long-lived and survived both Henry and his sickly son, Edward VI, into Mary's reign. When Mary returned England to the Catholic fold, Cuthbert Tunstall followed her lead and the rosary was painted back in his portrait.

An octogenarian, Tunstall was still in office when Elizabeth I came to the throne and the country was once more Protestant. His portrait was again adjusted to fit the prevailing mode.

It seemed a bit late for heroism after so much accommodation to the prevailing political winds, but Cuthbert at last made a stand. He refused to take the Oath of Supremacy and was imprisoned in Lambeth Palace. Like Wolsey a generation before him, Cuthbert died in captivity at the age of 85.

The interesting thing, however, is that although the rosary was painted in and out with changing fortunes, the hands maintained their stiff, unnatural pose. How easy would it have been to pose them in prayer or fold them diplomatically! Throughout his life, however, the bishop continued to hedge his bets.

It's a measure of how uncertain the times were and how of how hard it is to understand them when we have the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight. After all, we know how the story turned out. It seems unthinkable to us that Elizabeth might have been overturned or that her successor, James I, would have followed Rome. It wasn't clear to Cuthbert Tunstall and many others. This painting with its strange history, made me feel that insecurity.

Evensong

Durham Cathedral is the church militant and triumphant. Unlike Chartres or Salisbury, which seem about to leap into heaven, Durham shoulders its way upward. With massive pillars in the jagged Norman dogtooth supporting the highest cathedral in Christendom, the ceiling almost disappears above you. Imagine sitting in the choir stalls, peering up into the dark shadows while voices, like incense, rise all around you. This is evensong.

When the host of my B&B suggested the service to me, I remembered attending a gorgeous evensong at York Cathedral several years ago with Keith and immediately planned my visit accordingly. It was a surprise, however, when one of the priests invited the half dozen of us huddled below the towering roof to come into the choir and sit in the empty stalls next to the singers. Unlike the well-attended York service, this was suddenly intimate and deeply personal. Only a dozen choir members filed in: a few men, a couple of boys and several girls. But when they started to sing, the sound filled the cathedral vaults.

Almost all of the content comes from biblical text. Originally a combination of vespers and compline, most of the service is sung. I was unfamiliar with the sequence, but a summary was conveniently provided for the uninitiated. As an attendee, this leaves you free, for the most part, from response so that you may pray, meditate or, like me, simply float upwards with the song. The power of the music was profound. It echoed through the immense spaces above us and wrapped us in an intertwined web of soprano, baritone, tenor and bass voices.

Walking out into the cloister into the summer rain afterwards, I had the impression that I was stepping out of a stream of faith that had preceeded me by two thousand years and would continue on long after my departure.

The Omphalos

The British Museum might be my favorite place on the planet. It's certainly my favorite museum. How can you beat a place with so many iconic pieces of human civilization? Want to see a Neanderthal hand axe? A 1.8 million year old pebble tool? How about a winged bull from the Assyrian Palace of Nimrod? Or do you fancy the stunning garnet inlay on a belt buckle from the Sutton Hoo ship burial? It doesn't really matter which you choose, because they are all at the British Museum.

Walking around the BM, as the Brits call it, is like visiting a cross between an exclusive gentlemen's club, a 17th century curio cabinet and an archaeological site. Perhaps because the collection morphed from Sir Hans Sloane's unwieldy 18th century private collection, even the modern bits have an eclectic, Renaissance Man feel to them. This is enhanced by the BM's new, "Hands On" program, where staff members bring out authentic relics which you can handle under their supervision.

Today, I was allowed to hold an 800 year old Viking ivory comb from York. I felt like a guest in Sir Han's house being given one of his latest artifacts. It was smooth and surprisingly heavy. The tines had been set into the frame in sets and then filed individually. I imagined a woman from the Danelaw running it through her thick, blond hair. There were also bone skates and a bit of twisted, silver bracelet with a tiny, dragon finial. It was fascinating to hold such personal history in my hands.

Strolling through the overwhelmng Egyptian sections, I looked on the enormous red, stone head of Amenophis III, once pharoah, and realized that I had first seen it 39 years ago when I was 21 on my first visit to England. It was time travel in every sense of the word.

If the Smithsonian is American's attic, then the British Museum is the Omphalos, the navel of the world where we can speak to the gods and come to understand at least a part of the cosmos.

The New Forest

The New Forest is not really new. It was established around 1079 by William the Conquerer as a royal hunting park out of 20 separate settlements and farms, hence a "new" forest. William didn't ask the conquered Anglo-Saxons occupants' permission for this. Instead, he imposed Draconian forest laws and his ill-fated son, William Rufus, introduced mutilation for any breach thereof. William Rufus died while hunting in the New Forest in 1100 in what we would call highly suspicious circumstances, but he was so universally hated that there were too many suspects to batten on the downtrodden peasants.

In exchange for losing title to their lands and the right to hunt the deer, however, the New Forest inhabitants gained a few privileges: to graze their stock on the common land, including pigs in the fall to eat the fallen acorns and beechnuts. Some commoners also were allowed to cut wood, although that right went with specific properties. Not everyone who lives in the New Forest owns a house with that ancient right. Yes, these customs still continue. Your property may come with grazing or wood or pannage (i.e. pig-feeding) rights. Of course, you can't increase the footprint or livable space of your house by more than 30 percent, but that's another story.

So, while the origins of the New Forest may be somewhat grim, they don't in any way reflect our experience this weekend, when we were guests of Sue's childhood friend, Sandy, and her husband, Andrew. Yesterday, for example, was a perfect English summer day. We bicycled across the heath, the wind billowing the manes and tails of the grazing ponies, and through the twisted woods of beech and oak. (Too early for pigs!) The enormous trees were so tall overhead in places that they formed a green bower through which we sped. Deer barely bothered to lift their heads as we passed. We ended up at the Royal Oak, a tiny pub in a clearing with picnic tables where we carried our drinks to take advantage of the sun. As lovely as this was, we could see that the snug parlor, barely large enough for three tables, would be even more welcoming on a chilly day when the mist came down and the forest was wreathed in fog and mystery.

Ten miles out and ten miles back again to Sandy and Andrew's warm, brick home and lovely garden full of fuschia, roses and rhododendrum. Andrew barbecued a leg of lamb while robins, nuthatches, great tits and a song sparrow topped up for the evening at their bird feeders or took a late bath in the fountain. Best of all was the talk and laughter, wide-ranging and generous. William Rufus may have come a cropper in the New Forest, but we came away with friends.

Hut Circles

As we have walked through the pre-historic downs of Dartmoor and Exmoor during these last ten days, we have frequently seen bronze age hut circles and standing stones...in our trail guide. Our experience, however, has been that we on the path--or what passes for a path--looking vainly at the place clearly described--usually far more clearly than the trail itself--and wondering, "Where is it?"

"Do you think that depression could be a hut circle? It looks kind of roundish."

"Hmm. Maybe. Maybe not."

"It says here that there is a standing stone at the top of the moor."

"Hmm. I don't even see a kneeling stone."

These are the conversations Sue and I had as we traveled the 89 miles from Ivybridge to Lynton. Both of us studied anthropology at University, so it was more than a little demotivating to be unable to recognize a hut circle when we saw one...or didn't see one.

We are, however, very happy to have completed our odyssey in good weather--mostly--and in good spirits. Here in Lynton, on a cliff above the fishing village of Lynmouth, we awoke this morning to the sound of gulls and the smell of frying bacon in our Georgian bed and breakfast, Croft House. As Bridget would say, "Life is good!"

What's in a Name?

Withypool. Drewsteignton. Morchard Bishop. Chagford. As we walk through Devonshire (and bits of Somerset), we can't help but wonder how these names came about. Many are purely descriptive. Withypool stands for willow pool after the many willows growing along the River Barle and the pool the bend of the river created. Chag, it turns out, means "gorse" and Chagford marks one of the only fords over the Teign River in the district. In a place where people have lived for over 4,000 years, the old names tend to stick.

Drewsteignton is more of a johnny-come-lately as English towns go. Drewe de Teignton, a Norman knight, held the manor under Henry II and his son, Richard the Lionheart, which means sometime after 1154. Morchard Bishop is an even later creation. Morchard or "morchet" is Celtic for great (mor) woods (coed). The Bishop wasn't tacked on, however, until it was sold to the Bishop of Exeter in 1165. The London Inn, where we had dinner, went through many morphs and belonged to the bishopric as the London Hotel until 1908.

Of course, we knew none of this before we arrived. As George Bernard Shaw memorably wrote, the Americans and the English are two peoples separated by a common language. It's fun, however, to speculate on the names and try to puzzle out their meanings. We are most often wrong, but thank heavens, there is always Google.

Meetings

Perhaps the best part of walking the Two Moors Way has been meeting other people on the same path. Take Bridget, whom we've run into three times now, an almost 70-year-old German free spirit who travels with no accommodation booked and no baggage forwarded. She told us that she always finds something at the end of the day. Earlier on her walk--like us, from south to north--she ended up spending the night in an innkeeper's mobile home. We found her again at West Bowden Farm and had dinner with her tonight in Withypoole at the Royal Oak, where she has a room across from the bath. "Very comfortable," she said, approvingly. Bridget strides along with all her possessions on her back, chatting with everyone. After dinner, enjoying a half-pint of Guinness, she suddenly grinned infectiously and said, "Life is good." Clearly, this is her basic philosophy.

Then, there's Roy and Olive, who also shared West Bowden Farm with us. An English couple who have been married for fifty-seven years--a life sentence, mock groans Roy--they finish each others sentences and tease each other unmercifully. Olive is apt to break into a dance for no particular reason except that she feels like it. Roy examined Sue's walking stick, which she picked up on the River Dart, and authoritatively pronounced it hawthorne. He explained that it had once been part of a hedge, showing us how the conveniently shaped "handle" had been espaliered to make a ninety degree turn.

One of our favorite people was Mrs. Doris Snell, the doyen of Shippens in Morchard Bishop. Not an inch more than four foot six inches high and perilously close to ninety-years-old, her energy and brisk kindness were amazing. "Can I help you with yer suitcase?" she asked me, as I struggled up the narrow staircase, trying not to dislodge the dozens of china plates and brass bells crowding the wall. Coming home from dinner at the London Inn where Mrs. Snell had booked an open reservation for us for dinner, we found her doing her ironing in the kitchen. When Sue couldn't finish her second (and enormous) sausage at breakfast, she asked chirpily if she could "wrap it up for yer in a nice bit o' bread?"

In Holne, an entire pub befriended us. Jim--"just call me Darling"--gave us a lift from Scorriton to Holne when we limped into the only pub on the first day after getting lost and spending an extra two miles on Abbots Way. Bo, a displaced Swede who now runs the Dartmoor Spring water bottling operation, talked politics with Sue while Alan, a teacher passionately in love with Shakespeare, told me all about the latest Globe theater production of MacBeth. He actually went home and then returned with the program to encourage me to take in a performance when I got back to London.

There have been so many people who touched our lives on this trip. Jo, a Welsh girl in Ivybridge, tried to teach us a few words in her language as soon as she found out Sue's ancesters had immigrated from Wales. Monica from South Africa, who looked and dressed exactly like our image of Miss Marple, talked science, literature and politics with us in Chagford. It seems as though almost everyone we met has jumped into our lives as though we have known them forever, even though in the nature of rambling, we part almost immediately and permanently. There's a metaphor here somewhere, but right now, we are too busy and too happy experiencing this brief, but poignant comraderie to ponder its meaning.

Another Hobbit Moment

"Jen, just look at this. Is it another hobbit moment or what?" Sue and I contemplate the twisted and polished tree trunks overhanging the River Teign, crystal water racing over emerald moss and gray rock. All around, dappled light is sifting through the leaves which arch above our heads. It's the Shire and we are looking at the Withywindle.

Of course, I don't know that J. R. R. Tolkien actually used Dogmarsh, below Castle Drogo, as his model for the Old Forest, but he certainly could have. All day, we have been having hobbit moments. The West Ford footbridge below Hill Farm was lacy with cow parsley, reminding us of Goldberry's garden. Helmoors Down, louring above the Two Moors Way, was as grim and forbidding as the Barrow-downs. West Walton Farm, thatched and well-tended, smoke pouring out of its two chimneys, recalled Farmer Maggot's place, though we couldn't see if they were growing mushrooms. From greenways to buttercup-stewn pastures, wherever we turned our heads or came upon a break in a hedge, we found an archtypical English scene. If it wasn't Tolkein, it was Constable.

Coming home to Chagford in the summer evening, the lights in the valley below just beginning to prick the dusk, I could hear Frodo saying softly in my ear, "Shall I ever see the lights of Hobbiton again?" There's just no question. I shall.

Terra Incognita

We have contoured, typographical maps. We have a booklet explaining the byways and turnings of the Two Moors Way in exquisite detail. We have a compass. Both Sue and I know how to use all of these aids. Yet every day, we have gotten lost.

On Tuesday, for example, we missed the crossroad of Two Moors and Abbots Ways. Not until we ended up at Venford Reservoir--nowhere on our guidebook--did we realize that we were astray. After retracing our steps, we found Huntingdon cross, our marker, but we still couldn't find the path! We ended up tracing the edge of a fenced barrow and picking up a disused tin mining road which eventually intersected the Two Moors Way. Relieved, we continued onward only to lose the completely unmarked trail on the steep slope down to Scorriton. We stumbled onto the Way again at the Chalkford footbridge. Thank goodness the walk paralleled the paved road to Holne, where our lodging was booked, from that point onward!

How could it be so difficult to stay on the path? First of all, unlike Hadrian's Wall Walk, the Two Moors Way is not very well marked. "After the stile, walk across the moor," say the directions. When you do so, however, you are confronted with a vast heath with unnumerable pony tracks or perhaps just a greensward. And then there are the misleading sign posts, some of which point away from their destinations. Today, we completely failed to find the Moorgate, in spite of the fact that we followed the sign clearly labeled "Moorgate" until the track petered out in someone's field of cattle.

I'm not saying that these missteps haven't lead interest and variety to our holiday. Sue and I, however, have taken matters into our own hands. After the Moorgate debacle, we backtracked to the country road (in the oppocite direction, mind you) and happily ambled along a stunningly beautiful lane with views of the heather-covered moors and enclosed pastures of sheep or horses or cows or alpacas (yes, alpacas). We arrived at Chagford to our lovely B & B, Farleigh Cottage, just in time for our hostess, Lynn, to serve us tea and lemon cake in the sunny garden.

By great good fortune, one of the other guests staying at Farleigh Cottage, Ann, has been able to tell us from her own experience how to find the Two Moors Way from Chagford for tomorrow's walk. Unsurprisingly, both the map and the directions are quite misleading. We have also found a road to shorten the back end of the journey, avoiding a long diversion up and over another moor, to arrive at Colebrooke at a reasonable hour.

Wish us luck.

Dartmoor Ponies

When I was nine-years-old and the dearest wish of my heart was to own a pony, this was the creature I imagined. I met an animal yesterday high on the moors who looked almost exactly like my childhood dream, a wild, handsome animal sheparding a small harem of mares and foals. Sue and I had stopped for lunch beside a lake, once a tin quarry, and were resting in the shade of a stone bridge. Suddenly, they were there: dappled gray, white, pinto and the gorgeous bay stallion with thick, wavy mane and long tail. They moved like dancers, picking their way through the grass and gorse, grazing and occasionally whinnying to stay in contact.

We froze, almost afraid to breathe for fear of dispelling the magic. Carefully, Sue pulled out her camera. Slowly, she advanced the film for the first shot. At the mechanical click, the stallion whirled and lead the entire troop off to safety.

That evening, twelve miles further on in Holne, we heard more about the Dartmoor ponies in the pub below our rooms at the Church Inn. While they seemed so feral and completely free, it turns out that all of them belong to local people. Dartmoor is not only a national park, but a local commons. The ponies are turned loose to graze over the spring and summer where they grow shy and skittish, behaving more like mustangs than farm animals. In September, Devonshire holds the Pony Drift where all the animals are rounded up and run through the narrow lanes. One inhabitant described it as sea of heaving backs between hedges. They are sorted out and returned to their owners.

While it was a little sad to have the illustion dispelled, I could so clearly see the Drift, smell the animals' sweat and the dust rising from over two hundred ponies' hooves. It was ritual, pagentry, husbandry and tradition wrapped into one day. It made us want to come back in September to watch a custom that goes back centuries.

Ulysses

It started with my Jubilee year. Turning sixty seemed to call for something other than birthday cake so incendiary it would require a standby fire extinguisher. Five years ago, I walked the center section of Hadrian's Wall. I wanted something as dramatic, something that would signal my resolution to continue adventuring as long as my spirit and body hold out.

This is where Ulysses comes in. My friend, Sue, is also celebrating this milestone and it was she who gave him to me. We are both Tigers, born in the Chinese year of that fierce creature, making him the perfect traveling companion. It also seems only fitting that she share this 89 mile walk across both Dartmoor and Exmoor.

At the moment, we are lounging in the pub at the Sportsmans Inn in Ivybridge, listening to a bizarre mix of 50's through 70's pop music. (Andy Williams is crooning "Paris Skies" right now.) Tomorrow morning, we start the hike. We walked as far as the Dartmoor boundary just after arriving by train from London, to be certain that we can find our way. It's stunningly beautiful, but a cold front is forecast for later in the week. We don't care. We have our waterproofs. We have our maps.

I'm not sure that Ulysses will make the entire walk. He may turn out to be more of a hotel potato. We'll just have to see. At the moment, we are drinking Guiness on tap and enjoying life, the universe and everything.

Abbey Road Forever

Pilgrimages are not limited to cathedrals or cities. All of us have somewhere we long to visit, a place with purely personal meaning. We made just such a journey this morning to see the famous crosswalk where John, Paul, George and Ringo walked from the EMI studio into pop history. Sue and I got off the Underground at St. John's Wood station and stood for a minute, blinking in the sun and wondering which direction to take to reach the Abbey Road on our map.

True to form, a thirty-something Londoner stopped almost immediately with his family, including an infant in a stroller and asked, "Are you looking for Abbey Road?"

"Yes," we replied, somewhat sheepishly, thinking that our age and gender had betrayed this guilty pleasure. Both of us came of age with the Beatles. Despite our years, we retain real affection for that long-ago time and incredible music. Just as half-forgotten smells, like the scent of new-mown grass, can bring back a childhood summer, "Yesterday" or "Michelle" or "Norweigan Wood" all have the ability to transport me to another era and another, younger self.

We needn't have worred. The iconic, zebra-striped crossing is a shrine for more than two, aging Beatlemaniacs. Almost as soon as we had repeated the Fab Four's Album cover pose, snapping photos of each other in turn to memorialize the occasion, other communicants arrived. A Japanese man strod across, holding his hands stiffly out as though doing a version of the dance performed by Little Egypt, giggling wildly. When we smiled widely at him, he nodded vigorously, saying in strongly accented English, "I know, I know."

During the next forty-five minutes, we watched a dozen people perform this act of homage in nearly as many languages. A Frenchman broke out into a heary, "Vive le quatre!" A mother patiently photographed her peace-symbol bedecked pre-teen daughter for nearly twenty minutes, directing her in an eastern European language as the girl tried to express her vision of the event.

A shy college student from Indiana, studying abroad, diffidently handed me his camera to film his somewhat stilted walk. "I hope it comes out all right," I said afterward.

"I'm sure it will be," he replied, a grin splitting his somewhat pudgy face. "It's my first weekend in England," he confided. For just a moment, happiness made him look quite handsome. Four boisterous Brazilians arrived, including a psuedo-McMartney with bare feet and holding an unlit cigarette for verisimilitude. None of them were born when "Abbey Road" first came out. Old and young, fat and thin, hip and hopeless, the pilgrims came.

Other supplicants had been there before us. The walls outside the recording studio had been whitewashed and were covered with graffitti. Most of the writing was composed of lyrics, more or less correctly quoted, with a few personal comments thrown in.

"Ringo Starr is more snoggable than Stephen Hawkiing," read one.

"Gracias por me nombre--thanks for my name," was signed by "Michelle".

Sauntering back to the Tube, I pondered the phenomenon of four, working-class musicians, who had touched so many lives, forty years after they had disbanded. A verse from Abbey Road came back to me:

"And in the end, the love you take,
is equal to the love you make."


"Gracias por mi nombre --thanks for my name," wrote "Michelle".

Regent's Park

Tourists don't go to Regent's Park, except perhaps to see the Zoo. There is nothing much for a tourist to do but walk along the flowered lanes, row sedately on the canal, feed the greedy ducks or play soccor. Londoners go to Regent's Park. Today, the will-o'-the-wisp sunny weather--on a Saturday, no less--lured them out in droves with picnic baskets on blankets, bathing dress, sun dress, wedding dress and practically no dress at all. The appearance of all that expanse of white skin was reminiscent of Moby Dick, in more ways than one, and just as rare. The famous English complexion was all too exposed and, come sundown, would be redder than raw beef.

Of course, Londoners come in all colors and all ethnicities. Everyone was soaking up the sun, whether in skimpy bikinis or swathed in decorous cloth. Asians, Africans, Middle Easterners: there were representatives from every former colony England had ever ruled. Families lay on the lawns or in the long, unmown grass underneath the trees dotted with white daisies, buttercups and a few, late bluebells. It was amazing how quiet it was. No children screamed, although there were infants, toddlers, tykes and teens. People conversed in low tones or laughed quietly. There was virtually no trash, either. While the sight of so many polite Britishers lolling on the grass--actually on the grass!--was slightly shocking, nothing could have been more proper than their public behavior.

Everyone was universally friendly and chatty, too, something I have always found to be the case in Great Britain. Really, you have only to stand still for thirty seconds with your map open and a puzzled look on your face before someone will stop and ask if they can direct you. They may address you in a Caribbean lilt or a Scottish burr, but they will be Londoners all. On my first trip to London forty years ago, also with my companion on this journey, Sue, an elderly Brit not only helped us to find the British Museum, but thanked us "yanks" for pitching in during World War II. Neither Sue nor I had been born yet and were flabbergasted by good will that lasted so long.

This time, fresh from a 9:00 a.m. Heathrow landing, Sue and I walked to Regent's Park to stay awake and beat our jet lag. We were too loopy from lack of sleep to take in a museum or an art gallery, but could appreciate watching the grand parade. It turned out to be a treat that I would recommend for any first day in London, barring truly terrible weather. Even in the rain, there are cozy tea shops in the gardens and rarely is the downpour so torrential that you can't enjoy a stroll under an umbrella. So saunter through Queen Mary's Rose Garden or appreciare the many herbaceous borders. Most of all, enjoy that unique breed at play, Londoners.