Tomorrow, I’ll be going to Stonehenge. The Spouse and I are tag-teaming host duties for the in-laws: each day one of us sets off in the rental car for some English explorations while the other stays home to get some work done. The kids go out every day, spending as much time as possible with the grandparents because, really that’s what this visit is about. Today, they were off to the Cotswolds and Warwick Castle. They said they would have dinner out somewhere, and would come home much later. So, I’m home tonight to listen to North London’s sirens on my own. We live near the hospital, and it seems like a fairly normal night – a relief after last week’s excitement.
And tomorrow, Stonehenge and Salisbury.
I’ve been there before – the spring of my grade seven year. It was one of those difficult years when you can’t quite believe just how hard it is to grow up and just how awful all the more grown-up kids now seem. School was a social disaster. And I didn’t talk about it which, in retrospect, made everything harder for me. But along with misery went shame, and I kept to myself. My parents eventually saw through everything and decided I needed an escape. A prolonged family vacation. During term-time. The excuse was my mother’s fiftieth birthday which coincided with a cousin’s wedding. Serendipity.
My parents took me to Northern Reflections and bought me a new raincoat for the occasion. Pale blue and lined with quilted, plaid flannel. It felt so protective.
I don’t remember much about Stonehenge. There were lots of people and a fence around it, so you couldn’t walk among the stones. It was one of many historic sites we visited – there did seem to be a lot in England. I remember long walks from rainy parking lots, my little brother running on ahead. Small rounded hills, which explored more closely, were tombs, older than ancient. The odd creepy feeling of places built so long ago, of myths and meaning so old that even the earth has begun to forget. I caught my raincoat on a barbed wire fence, a tiny mark in the plastic sleeve near my elbow, a tear. And my dad wanted me to write my name in the guest book in a visitors’ centre, but I wouldn’t. Outside again somewhere, there were crows flying over a field near one of these tombs. I wondered about the family lines of crows, and how many centuries the crows had been there. Somehow, knowing that crows continue made all things a little more manageable. There was strange comfort there.
Tomorrow, we’ll be looking for crows together. And cats, too. I hear that Salisbury Cathedral has a resident cat, so we’re in for a spot of cat hunting, I think, though perhaps our church mice souls should shiver a little at that thought. It will also be a good place for wondering. After seeing Canterbury a few weeks ago, I’m prepared to be with the kids more than learn about the cathedral. They aren’t yet at a stage when we can talk much about architecture or church history. That’s okay. We can look at the wonderful windows. We can wonder about tombs and what the people were like. Wondering is a good game to play in ancient places.
I hope for a dry day so that we can sit together on the grass. It will be good to be among all these ancient stones, to look – and in looking, to look up.
