Sometimes people ask if I grew up overseas, since my parents have been living in exotic places off and on for the past eleven years, and I point out regretfully that they started taking all the wonderful overseas assignments after they were empty nesters. While I think it would have been great to experience Vietnam, Poland and London as an American high schooler, I’m quite pleased and privileged to be able to enjoy these places as an adult with children of my own.
So in July, Elisabeth, Henry and I traveled to London for our second visit. The first week of our two week trip was spent on the Isle of Wight, along with my parents, my brother Josh and his children Timothy and Charlotte. (Sadly, work obligations kept John in the U.S.)
The Isle of Wight is off the southern coast of England, so from London we took a train, then a ferry, a train, and then a taxi. Shortly after arrival at our country hotel, we enjoyed a cup of tea on the enclosed terrace overlooking the garden. A rainstorm was keeping us inside, but it did not keep us from enjoying the view--off to the east we saw white chalky cliffs similar to what you see at Dover. Below us bloomed all sorts of flowers in a myriad of colors. The children drank their hot chocolate and then ran off to unpack. They were so excited about their room. The adults drank another cup of tea and entered into theological discussions which were appropriately cut off by the children begging us to take them to the indoor pool. True vacation.
On our first full day we rented bikes, walking to the train station to meet the rental company. This was in an effort to avoid having to walk our bikes up and down hill through the old town of Shanklin. We were duly fitted out, and reviewed the simple-looking route with the representative. But not all can be learned from a map.
Our children’s first experience with the bikes was taking them down a narrow staircase from the train station parking lot to the street. Henry was blocking a man on his way somewhere, so when the man saw Henry’s hesitation, he kindly asked if he could carry down the bike for him. I was carrying down my bike when I heard a crash behind me: Charlotte had attempted to walk her bike down and both bike and Charlotte had fallen. It was an inauspicious beginning and I feared the day would only get worse.
After several long minutes of trying to find the bike path that was right across the street from us, we finally began our journey. By this time it was late morning, but in the shade the air was still quite cool. We rode on a smooth crushed rock path through the woods. Elisabeth reveled in the taste of the air--so fresh, so unadulterated by exhaust or smoke. Soon fields opened up on our right, and on our left we passed a herd of very hairy bovines. When I tried to take their picture they mooed and seemed to rush towards me, so I hurried off.
We were on a loop trail that would take us 12 miles through towns and countryside and back to our town of Shanklin. All too soon, however, the nice tidy path ended and we were left to negotiate through and around a small town. Ten minutes later we found ourselves walking our bikes on the left side down a steep hill with cars zooming behind us. I wanted to ride, but was quite nervous that I would end up in a heap at the bottom of the hill. This lasted for less than ten minutes, but at the time it seemed endless. Finally we could turn left and on to a quieter path. But still Henry was nervous to ride downhill. I began a chorus I would take up for much of the day: “Come on Henry! It’s fun. Try it!” Then it was uphill again and thankfully Henry thought of the Tour de France. He told me after he’d pumped his heart out to ride up without stopping, “I’m going to get the Polka-dot Jersey for Best Mountain Climber!”
At this point we took a detour to avoid a particularly steep area, and while we may have had a route easier in terms of elevation, we had our own obstacles. First there was the truck heading towards us on a very narrow road. Our only choice was to find a small turn off in which to wait for him to pass. A moment later I didn’t know whether to laugh or moan in despair as a huge tractor full of bales of hay bore down on us from behind. I was sure we’d all be flattened. Henry and I pulled over to the side as far as we could, pressing ourselves against the shrubs.
Josh and I discussed with some pride how we had thrown our kids into this baptism-by-fire bike ride and they had done well. We didn’t know that up ahead, after the peaceful ride along the beach, was more uphill and confused negotiations. Like an embarrassed teenager, I watched my mom ask one local after another the best way home. Of course, it paid off eventually, and we made it back to our street. Henry was nearly spent, but Dad or Josh gave him a boost and he pedaled hard on the last bit of uphill, only to find out that he had overshot the hotel. I called after him and when he saw what he’d done he burst into tears while the rest of us laughed.
Biking is great for character building.
Subsequent days included historical visits to Osborne House, perhaps Queen Victoria’s favorite residence, and Carisbrooke Castle, allowing the children to roam the ruins and also play soldiers in the keep.
I think my favorite part of the trip was a hike we took on our last morning on the Isle of Wight. We had train reservations for late morning, but we had time for one last hike if we left before breakfast.
After some familial negotiating, we agreed to meet downstairs, ready to hike at 7:25. So we headed to the Coastal Path which ran along the street our hotel was on. Soon we were walking up a steep hill. The children seemed to be either lagging behind and complaining about the steepness of the road or overwhelming the peace and quiet with their exuberance. Several times a parent or grandparent would remind them, saying, “People are still sleeping!”
I glanced down to my left and saw a cross, a memorial from a mother to her son. My steps slowed and I grabbed my mother’s hand, one who knows that sort of loss. The memorial showed the dates of his life, his short life. He died in his teens. Too soon. The steps for the next little while were slower and sadder. My mind wandered back to my first visit to England. Tim was with us then. How is it for a mother who loses a son? I can only know second hand, and that is hard enough.
The length of our hike was governed by time--we needed to return to the hotel in time for breakfast. So after we’d hiked for an hour we stopped for a short geography lesson from my geologist father and then turned around. From the depths of my backpack which held water and jackets, I pulled some Digestive biscuits--cookies which are not quite sweet enough to be precluded from being a breakfast snack. All were grateful for a little sustenance for the return journey.
I hated for the walk to end because that meant our time on the island was ending, as all vacations must. It’s true that I still had another week to enjoy in London, but I hesitated to return to the bustling, noisy, hot city, and I felt a traveler’s regret for joys undiscovered, for all that was over, and for all that hadn’t been quite as I’d wished it to be.
As the ferry bore us back to the mainland, I watched the waves, green and smoky like coke bottle glass. Sailboats sported in the water. One had red sails and Timothy said maybe it was Russian. Mom and Dad talked to fellow travelers, Josh read a book and sipped espresso. Henry absorbed the scenes from the the on-board television which was playing a tourist bureau version of all the delights awaiting the visitor to the Isle of Wight.
But into both my regret and my nostalgia come the words of a poet, my father’s favorite, and one in whose steps we followed once on this trip.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, God’s Grandeur
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