Football

I went to my first ever football match, which is probably also one of less than a dozen sporting events I've attended. The teams were Queens Park Rangers and Sheffield Wednesday. The Rangers (or Rs, as the fans called them) were the home team, and most of those in attendance were supporting them. Wednesday was hailing from over a hundred miles north, but a significant and very vocal following made the three-hour trip for the game. I supported Wednesday, in part because they had the one American player in the match, and in part because I wanted to wear my orange hoodie.

The game ended with the score that American-football fans so hate: 0–0, but it was an exciting game anyway. I felt like Sheffield was dominating the field, but I would have put more trust in the QPR goalie. The Rs did manage to get a ball into the net once, but the goal was discounted due to a player being off-sides (whatever that means). I couldn't really keep up with all the reasons behind the numerous kicks and throw-ins, but it didn't matter. My chosen favorite, no. 20, Frank Simek of Missouri, made a couple of impressive tackles, and the Wednesday fans sang almost continuously. Oddly enough, the QPR fans who comprised the majority of spectators seemed very passive, staying seated and quiet. I think I would find it hard to play home games and have my opponents fans cheering loudly, but I don't think QPR has any stellar record, so maybe their players are no different.

News from the trenches

Having never gone paintballing before, I couldn't pass up a chance to try it out for a mere £10 on a school-subsidized trip to Paintzone, especially with a hearty Pizza Hut lunch included. The park was about an hour south of the school, at what seemed like the edge of London's suburbs. The base camp was cleverly designed, its ring of camouflaged shelters around a firepit giving it the military air demanded by the swarms of guests in green jumpsuits. The park consisted of five course of varying natures, my favorite of which was "Castle," which was dominated by a large wooden castle from which one team defended their flag. The suits were satisfactory (although many players had problems with their mask fogging. The guns we're a real mixed bag. The gun I was issued shot so wildly I never managed to hit any target with it. A number of times I left it on the ground and attempted to grab flags unburdened, so little did the thing help me. I got a very satisfactory taste of the real deal at the end of the day, however. "Castle" was the last zone we played, and halfway through the final round, when our team was holding the castle, the marshal tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a better gun. What a difference it made! I managed to eliminate three players in as many minutes, and felt much of my previous frustration drain away.

The only notable injury occurred when Ahmet, the security guard who arranged the trip, was knocked out by a blow to the head when a double shot to the head knocked him off balance and he fell into a barrel. He proved himself to be the hearty fellow we all expected, and he was his jubilant self when we checked in on him an hour later. The only downside for him was that he missed a half-day of the sport that he loves.

An old hat

Back in my sophomore year of college (coincidentally the last year of my blogless existence), I worked as a resident assistant in Dolliver House on the Simon's Rock campus. The job was quite easily the best job I've ever had, and although it didn't provide much that my scholarship wasn't already covering, I gained some quality life experience and got to spend time with what I've now come to realize was amazingly wonderful group of co-workers. As an employee of the office of Student Life, I was to some degree responsible for the planning and execution of student activities. The real perk of planning such an activity is getting something you want to do subsidized. I never managed to get the green light for skydiving, but I did manage to get a van to a Dave Matthews Band concert on time.

So I've missed filling that role in the years since I had to retire from that most ideal of jobs. Fortunately this semester offered me an opportunity to come out of retirement for a little while. While talking to Christopher Cook, who was my guide to Little Venice back in September, we cooked up the idea of a dinner outing, and eventually, powered by Christopher's knowledge, we settled on a trip to Brighton's Terre à Terre. Fastforward some weeks, and we, together with SUL staff memeber Linda Harkness, managed to put together a trip for twelve students, with the school chipping in a few pounds a head.

The twelve of us met up with Linda at Victoria station and railroaded our way down to Brighton, where we met Christopher at the Royal Pavilion. He gave us an oral history of the pavilion and the scandals surrounding its owners and occupants, and we had a bit of time to wander around and snap photos before we were admitted for an audio-guided tour of the interior. I've been to palaces in St. Petersburg and I've gazed up into the domes of the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, I was awed by the opulence of this "house by the sea." Grandeur beyond anything respectable it was, but my was it well done. Chandeliers, carpets, curtains, and wallpapers all managed to convey a sense of good taste in spite of their over abundance.

Lunch at Terre à Terre proved to be equally impressive, and everyone seemed happy with the exquisit vegetarian fare. A quiet afternoon on the beach and pier wrapped things up before we headed home, and I was left ready for another visit to Brighton.

DIR a:\british_library\ /s /b | FIND "relevant information"

I've just returned from the British Library, which has an amazing collection, accessible to the general public free of charge. For obvious reasons, this service comes with heavy restrictions. Card application is like a trip to the DMV, requiring multiple proofs of ID and a lengthy wait for service. Items may be brought into reading rooms only in clear plastic bags. Water, pens, and cameras are prohibited. Books may not be removed from the library. And essentially all stacks are closed. This last restriction is the one that crippled my efforts for the day. I found the online catalog to be rather crude, and without being able to browse shelves, I was rather hapless in finding sources.

It really felt like trying to work in DOS without any proper experience. Most libraries are at least partially GUIs, navigable to some extent with the eye alone. The British Library is 100% command line interface. CLIs are efficient and often preferred by those who know what they're doing, but its a suffocating experience for those who don't.

And God cast the tripod from the garden...

The security personnel were apparently ignorant of Kew Gardens's policy on photography, and they wouldn't let me bring my tripod into the park. This put an initial damper on my visit, but I found the place to lend itself satisfactorily to leisurely walks and viewing of both flora and fauna. Highlights included the world's largest water lily, the world's oldest potted plant, and a number of rather docile peacocks. Chris and I wandered together for the morning, and had a surprisingly good lunch at the Orangery. I wasn't outright impressed with any of the architecture, but the placement of buildings within the landscape was worthy of study, and the historical context of the Palm House increases its worth tenfold.

A rustic paradise

There was no tarrying in town today. After a hearty English breakfast (during which classmates expressed disdain for my letting the baked beans, sausage, mushrooms, eggs, and tomatoes co-mingle on my plate), we piled into a comfortable motorcoach for the not-too-long drive to Cragside. Once the home of inventor and businessman Lord William Armstrong, the house and estate is now part of the National Trust, a non-governmental organization that protects, maintains, and promotes historic places throughout the island, much like the Minnesota Historical Society and other state-level organizations do in the US.

The estate is expansive and amazingly beautiful, furnished by the impressive Craghill with uncountable observation points. The landscape includes one of the largest rock gardens in Europe, a pinetum, a children's labyrinth, and numerous bridges criss-crossing the stream at the bottom of the slope. Upon arrival, I plunged ahead of the slowly-dispersing group and was rewarded with a hour of exploration in complete solitude.

Also notable in the lands was a powerhouse, which used water power to generate electricity for the house, the first in Europe to install electric lights. The house itself was impressive in size and tastefully modest outside. No classical or Gothic ornament interfered with the idea that this was a rustic palace. Architect Robert Shaw instead implemented a pallet of stone, stucco, and half-timber that speaks of comfort and leisure. The inside, however, shows little such imagination and talent. Most of the rooms are simply boxes (now cluttered with historic decor), and the few rooms at the top of the house that strive for grandeur each have significant failures in the architectural language.

In some ways I think that all architects should pay a visit to Cragside. The poorly resolved interior should insight students to avoid such failings and the amazing grounds should remind them that landscape must not be neglected.

Towards Polaris

Our class ventured north to the formerly industrial city of Newcastle upon Tyne, not far from the Scottish border. Prior to departure I had a bit of time to look around King's Cross, which has been so familiar to me from reading Harry Potter books. The real item was significantly more contorted than I imagined, a little less monumental, but no less intriguing. Our train from Platform 4 made good time as we left London but was seriously delayed halfway along by a failed train on the line ahead of us. My table played a game of hearts to pass the time, and the sandwich and yogurt I packed kept me fueled without resorting to the dining trolley (which served no pumpkin pasties).

We arrived, took taxis to the Tulip Inn and more taxis into the town of Gateshead, Newcastle's neighbor across the river, taking a brief look at the Gateshead Sage before heading over to BALTIC Centre for Contemporary Art, which, like the Tate Modern, occupies a respectfully refitted industrial building. Work at the BALTIC is pretty edgy (one work is currently being investigated for breaking child pornography laws), and some of it I found to be unpleasant, but even many of the unpleasant pieces had sufficient thought, insight, and/or wit to be worth a serious look. Although not what I perceived to be the deepest work, Kendell Geers Irrespektiv will probably be the most lasting memory for me. The massive room full of artifacts of riot and protest included police lights, spiked fencing, and a still burning wreck of a car. The building itself seemed to attempt to be as generic as possible, providing little more than a series of large vertically arranged rooms. The narrow west edge of the building was the only one that seemed to have seen significant alteration, being mostly glazed, therefore allowing a rather impressive view to occupants of its two glass elevators.

From the Baltic we walked across the famed Gateshead Millennium Bridge into Newcastle upon Tyne. We ended our walk on Grey Street, voted "best street in the United Kingdom" by public radio listeners. The street was indeed beautiful, curving gently down the slope towards the water. Since we were most unfortunately without our guidebooks, we found food and drink by wandering alone, and both the food at Coco Mos and the atmosphere at Bar 38 was disappointing. I did finally getting around to trying a Strongbow, which I hadn't realized was a cider. The Strongbow I could recommend.

A way with words

Peaking over the shoulder of another Underground rider, I saw this quintessentially British headline in this morning's Metro.

The one that got away

We, of course, can't get around to seeing everything cool that happens over here. This evening Chris discovered that we missed Abbots Bromley's horn dance.

The Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, performed at the Barthelmy Fair in August 1226, is one of the few ritual rural customs to survive the passage of time. Today the Horn Dance, which takes place annually on Wakes Monday, offers a fascinating day out attracting visitors from all over the world.

After collecting the horns from the church at eight o'clock in the morning, the Horn Dancers comprising six Deer-men, a Fool, Hobby Horse, Bowman and Maid Marian, perform their dance to music provided by a melodian player at locations throughout the village and its surrounding farms and pubs. A walk of about 10 miles (or 16 kilometres).

You can visit the Abbots Bromley website for more on this.

Oh, it's all very British…

I've got to say, Londoners just aren't as brash as I was hoping. I know the Sex Pistols are decades gone, but I still see Beefeater ads showing Londoners as a stylishly edgy lot, and the Spice Girls in Union Jack platform shoes were not that long ago.

Truthfully, this was not something I had consciously noticed until today, when I sat across from a lady who did live up to my expectations. Note if you can in this oh-so-small photo:

1. four inches of height gained through hair gel alone
2. green eye shadow
3. think plastic glasses
4. hoodie printed with the words BROWN BLONDE NEON in their respective colours
5. ring with numerous sharp points
6. watch the size of a Sony MiniDisc
7. jeans with horizontal seams at the knees.

I noticed that she wasn't all that young either, so I wonder if this generation is just quieter. I certainly get that impression back stateside. But I'm not worried. Once it cools off, I'll break out my blaze orange Puscifer hoodie, and I'll have all the brashness I need.

Wiltshire

Our Survey of English Architecture under the guidance of architectural historian Jeremy Melvin began today with a trip to Salisbury and its neighbor to the north Stonehenge. The coach ride was about two-and-a-half hours from our school in the heart of London, which provided time read up on the sites and catch a little sleep.

The five thousand year old earthwork was our first stop. We spent some time exploring the oldest and most subtle features of the site, including a cursus, which looks like nothing more than a long shallow groove and ridge running through the sheep pastures. Stepping carefully we made our way to pair of barrows. The sunshine made the place merry enough, but a Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadildo! or two drifted through my thoughts nonetheless.

Back across the road, we started our slow orbit of the stones themselves, sketching as we went. We were there over the lunch hour, and it seemed to me that the flow of tourists lightened briefly. I was surprised by how many of the elderly visitors were natives of the island. I would have figured that in sixty years of life in Britain, a trip to Stonehenge would have been inevitable, but perhaps the place draws repeat visitors. I certainly wouldn't mind returning, perhaps in some colder weather, when the place might be further vacated.

Our second destination was the much newer Salisbury Cathedral, which, at a mere eight hundred years of age is practically contemporary. The Gothic architecture somehow seemed perfectly at home in the comparatively squat town, and I appreciated the perfection of so many complicated intersections of form and geometry in the ornament that covered every surface save the floor. I wish I could attend a Sunday service or two. Whatever I saw in my too-short stay today would be a drop in the bucket compared to the observations I would make if I was trapped in a pew for the better part of a morning. That would teach me something.

'Nuf said.

Cheese, Gromit!

This morning we took a ride down to the Borough Market, the oldest food market in London (it's newest incarnation predates the American revolution). I wasn't yet shopping for groceries since my move to the flat wasn't quite complete, but I did enjoy a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of New Forest Cider. The place itself wasn't much to speak of in that shows no signs of its long, rich history, but the craftsmanship in all of the products was magnificent. The second of my two sandwiches was a grilled cheese. The cheese was being cut out of the wheel in front of me, the bread was fresh, and the healthy dose of onions and leeks giving the sandwich zest were from the vendor next door. I'm looking forward to numerous return visits.

Arrival

I made it to London in one piece and in a reasonably good state of mind, given the time difference. My flights were more or less on time, and the in-flight movies were familiar and likable (Mission: Impossible and Ferris Bueller's Day Off). I slept a couple of hours between Minneapolis and Reykjavik, and I've limited myself to 45 minutes since, so I'm hoping to beat the jetlag in a single night. Heathrow wasn't too bad; finding the right line for immigration was the only trick. Getting to the Underground wasn't too bad either, although finding the right kind of machine to sell me a ticket was a little more frustrating than it should have been. In the end, I managed to get my own ticket and get on the right train while helping a young lawyer from Philadelphia do the same and assuring three Russians that they were in the right place to take a train to Earl's Square.

The train ride was long and hot, both in part because of the overly crammed cars, the latter also in part due to the rather warm weather. I am very glad I kept my summer attire for the trip. I arrived at the Generator ("Europe's Funkiest Hostels!") after some wandering, some map reading, and some navigation by sun position. I ended up with a four-person room instead of the six- I thought I was getting, so that was a welcome surprise. I also snagged a top bunk, so I'm happy about that. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't get the room mates that the website suggested I'd get ("hot blonde," "rather hungover 'hardman' winner," "hot blonde's mate"), but I've been pleased to make the acquaintances of Michael and John, recent college grads from Austen, Tejas, roaming the world before the settle into the nine-to-five routine. We think the forth sleeper, who has the bunk below mine is Czech, but we've yet to meet him.

I'm taking it easy this evening, forgoing travel on the Underground and probably even travel to anywhere but downstairs. I do plan on hitting the first floor bar soon though: I've got a free drink coming to me during my first happy hour, and I wouldn't want to miss that.