Chasing the Dead

As mentioned in my previous post, after catching a bus to the airport at 2:30 a.m., and four different trains, I was in Oxford! Now I'm in Linköping, Sweden. My goodness how time flies and a back-log of living builds up. And traveling somewhere new certainly forces me to catch-up on my writing, lest experiences be lost to bright mornings and an imperfect mind.

Sunrise over Wolvercote Cemetary, Oxford

Sunday (12-19-16) morning I returned to Dublin from Galway and spent the afternoon re-packing and mentally preparing for my early morning flight to Birmingham. I was sufficiently tired from a restless night before that a 21:00 bedtime meant I was asleep by 22:00. Four hours of sleep later, it was time to wake up and catch a bus to the Dublin Airport for my 06:25 flight. The flight was uneventful, giving way to a hurriedly relaxed train into Birmingham and pleasant stroll to another nearby train station, where I would soon depart for Stratford upon Avon. One of the only disappointments in all of this was that I just missed an earlier train for Stratford-u-Avon and, thus, ended up having to take the train I originally planned on taking anyway. The other disappointment is that my tight train schedule did not allow any time to explore Birmingham, an undoubtedly exciting and lively city. But few things are more exciting than chasing the dead.

Shakespeare's birthplace -- This back section of the house was
built after William moved out and inherited the house from his father.
The people he leased the house to turned part of it into an inn and
needed more room for guests, hence the addition.

Essentially the sole reason for my five-hour stop in Stratford (as I'm sure it is for most who go there) was to pay homage to the greatest writer in the English Language -- William Shakespeare. Despite the distinctly touristy feel to the village, my traveler's and writer's heart exploded with joy at the chance to walk in the life of the great bard.

Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon.
The rectangle of rope demarcates what is believed
to be William Shakespeare's grave, inscribed with
a curse against any who might move its contents but not
a name. On the wall to the left is a monument to
Shakespeare built while his wife was still alive and
holds a statue that is believed to be one of the
most accurate physical likenesses of Shakespeare.

With only four hours before my train to Oxford, I had to be very conscious of the things I wanted to see. So, as anyone who only got four hours of sleep the night before would do, I stopped for a flat white and brownie at a great cafe right next to Shakespeare's birthplace. From there I went to the Shakespeare visitor's centre where I bought a ticket for admission to the visitor's centre museum, Shakespeare's birthplace, Hall's Croft (the home Shakespeare's daughter, Susanna, married to John Hall), and New Place (the site of Shakespeare's home where he wrote many of his later works and eventually died in 1616). I skipped Hall's Croft in favour of visiting Shakespeare's grave in Holy Trinity Church. Standing at the supposed burial place of someone quite probably known by every English-speaking person in the world--plus more--was a transcendental experience. I was transported back to the time of Shakespeare's death, where with Anne Hathaway I mourned the loss of one of the world's greatest playwrights. I Once more sat in my high school English class, discussing Macbeth or performing A Midsummer's Night Dream (I could almost feel Shakespeare rolling in his grave, at the thought of it), while simultaneously I was transported to almost any English classroom in the world where his works are read not just for their importance to the English language with coined phrases like 'crack of doom' (Macbeth) or  'wild-goose chase' (Romeo and Juliet), but also for the lessons and themes, like love and war, that are just as relevant today and, it seems, the world so desperately needs to be reminded of. Finally, after several glances over my shoulder, I left Shakespeare's burial place inspired by a world of literary greatness and with the hope that maybe some of it rubbed off on me. Judging from the progress I've made on my novel since leaving Stratford, (none) ...probably not.

Holy Trinity Church sanctuary knocker.
A fugitive could grab the ring and claim
safety for 37 days before facing trial.

I just had time for some lunch and tea at Hathaway Tea Rooms (no affiliation to Anne Hathaway's Cottage, which I didn't have time to see). Alas, my time in Stratford was too short. But if I had to leave it for anywhere else, it would be Oxford.

By the time I arrived in Oxford it was already dark. But I had too little time in Oxford to waste a moment. So immediately after dropping off bags at my hostel, I left to go explore the unfamiliar city by the glow of lamp posts that gave birth to a world. I am, of course, referring to the world of Narnia, created by author C.S. Lewis, who lived and worked in Oxford for much of his life. My first night in Oxford I was intent on making it to Magdalen College, where Lewis worked as a Fellow and Tutor of English from 1925-1954. However, since it was already late, all university buildings were closed to the public. Instead I wandered around the streets of Oxford, taking in the vibrant student life around me and enjoying the jagged outlines of ancient buildings lit by lamp posts and Christmas lights. As I walked under the Bridge of Sighs a small tour group passed me going the other way. The tour guide stopped briefly to motion down a narrow, dark alley and mention a famous pub at the end of it: The Turf. So down the narrow, dark alley I wandered to a pub I would have otherwise had no idea existed. A wonderful pint of cider later, I walked to my hostel, challenging myself to check the map on my phone as few times as possible. I made it back without needing to check it once. I spent the rest of the night blogging and figuring out how to fit everything I wanted to see into half a day.

From University Church of
St. Mary the Virgin

If you know me, you probably know I'm a massive J.R.R. Tolkien fan. I learned Tengwar and designed my own Tolkienesque signature, for Pippin's sake. So visiting Oxford, where Tolkien studied from 1911-1915 and lived and worked from 1925 until his death in 1973, was like entering Aman--the Undying Lands. At 08:00 on Tuesday morning I was waiting for the front desk to open so I could check out of my hostel and avoid wasting time by having to come back. By 08:11 I was on a bus out to Wolvercote Cemetery to visit the grave of Beren and Luthien--John Ronald Reuel and Edith Tolkien. I hadn't even given myself time to eat breakfast but I had lembas to keep me going. I stepped off the bus, into the cemetery, and immediately felt a sense of peace I haven't felt for years, if ever. The only other person there was somebody mowing the lawn, but such an inner-serenity had enveloped me I didn't hear it; I only smelled the freshly cut grass and felt a comforting chill as the winter sun crept slowly over the trees. I would have liked to spend half the day there, wandering between row upon row of headstones until I found the one grave I was looking for. Unfortunately, time was not on my side as it is with the Quendi, so I consulted Mandos (Google) and found what I was looking for in the blink of an ent (it took an ent's blink as opposed to a hobbit's blink because Google wasn't very precise). Standing at Tolkien's grave, feeling so close to a person who has inspired me in writing, reading, and the field of Linguistics, yet, knowing he's been dead over 40 years, feeling more distant than if I were to read The Hobbit--it felt strange, but at the same time was the most amazing part of my time in Oxford. More amazing, even, than touring the Divinity School where scenes from Harry Potter were filmed (Hospital Wing in Philosopher's Stone and the dancing lesson in Goblet of Fire) or the ancient Bodleian Library, which holds many original Tolkien manuscripts (unavailable for public viewing) and was used as the Hogwarts Library in the Harry Potter films, or the Christ Church staircase, which similarly served as the entrance to the Hogwarts Great Hall. More amazing than ascending the tower of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin and getting a 360 degree view of Oxford. But with 360 degrees you only recognize your immediate surroundings. Standing at the Tolkien grave, I recognized my immediate surroundings and felt a deep sadness for our beautiful world filled with divisiveness and unimaginable tragedy (two World Wars in Tolkien's time, the current conflict in Syria); I recognized this world and the fictional world of Arda, where the incredible love story of Beren and Luthien took place; I recognized my own present, an uninterrupted moment of peace after three days of non-stop traveling; the past of those I came to honour, whose strong and loving relationship make them the only ones worthy of the fictional names engraved upon their headstone; the future I dream of, free from the hate and darkness sown in the hearts of men by Morgoth. All of this and more is what I experienced in ten brief minutes I spent in Wolvercote Cemetery.

Magdalen College, Grove Building,
 next to River Cherwell, taken from
Addison's Walk

Magdalen Chapel

The only thing that even comes close to my time at Tolkien's grave is a visit to Magdalen College. It was particularly significant because I did not have time to visit C.S. Lewis' grave. After breakfast, University Church Tower, Bodleian Library, Christ Church, and lunch I only had an hour and a half before my train left for London. It would take at least 20 minutes to get to the train station, and I still wanted to stop at The Eagle and Child, a pub where the Inklings frequently met. I needed to make the most of the time I had left. It helped that I got into Magdalen College for free with my University of Edinburgh student ID. Admission is typically £6 so I guess my 'other' ancient university education is worth something. Then, actually walking through the architecturally stunning Magdalen College, where C.S. Lewis would have spent much of his time, was a pensive experience. An atheist since the age of 15, Lewis rediscovered his Christian faith at the age of 32 while at Magdalen College. His return to religion is, in part, attributed to talking and walking with his friend J.R.R. Tolkien on nearby Addison's Walk. Though Lewis may say otherwise in Mere Christianity (I haven't read it), I expect the beautiful Magdalen College Chapel might have something to do with it, too. Apart from Lewis' theological works, exploring Magdalen College brought me closer to one of my favourite book series growing up, The Chronicles of Narnia. If only I could have spent hours at Magdalen College and returned to the outside world to discover only a few seconds had passed. I didn't pass through any magic wardrobes, though, so off I rushed to The Eagle and Child, where I gulped down a mulled cider and stood in awe of the corner where the Inklings met and their discussions gave shape to books like The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia.

This post is long enough and way over-due so I'll stop here and continue with my adventures through London and Norway in the next post. Until then...

Stay Informed.