The Quest Continues

In which Lena talks with great perseverance of Dovedale and Matlock &c.

Next stop, Lyme Park. Now, the Mr Darcy link is a wee bit weaker here, but, recognise this...?



Yes, ladies, this was linked to so many wonderful moments, including the very famous and inspiring wet shirt scene, which Jane Austen must have edited out of her final draft of P&P as being too racy for Regency England, but which Andrew Davies wisely reinstated in the Official Standard Colin Firth Version.

Let’s all take a moment to remember the wet shirt scene. (sorry, can't embed for some reason).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hasKmDr1yrA


Ready? Then I’ll continue.

Here’s where Darcy ran down the stairs after removing the wet shirt etc, and replacing it with a very fetching ensemble involving breeches.




Here's where Elizabeth wandered around with the Gardiners.





Here’s where Darcy asked Elizabeth if he could introduce her to her sister!!! (you have to be JA to make drama out of such a moment?).



Here are some pretty pictures of the grounds completely unrelated to Jane Austen.




We drove through the Peak District, near Matlock, and through Dovedale, as mentioned by Elizabeth when she's having her awkward conversation with Darcy.



The Jane Austen/Darcy quest ends here, at Sudbury Hall. Several of the rooms were used for interior shots in the Official Approved P&P, including the grand staircase.
And Queen Adelaide (consort of William the nth) lived here for three years, if you want other kinds of historical detail.



On our way back, because it was (sort of) on the way, and because Tim and Jess made me want to see it here and here, we stopped by Warwick Castle. By this time, it was nearly closing time, plus it costs eighteen quid to visit, so we decided to defer closer inspection for another time. This is what it looks like from outside the gate.


So, no I didn’t find Mr Darcy on this trip. Not so much as a wet shirt in sight. But I did get to see some of the beautiful settings and buildings that inspired Jane Austen, and the landscape that her characters discuss. I got to see the rugged Derbyshire dales (plus a little bit of Cheshire), and some of the finest buildings and design work in the nation. And now, when I read the books, they may be, if possible, even more real and alive to me.

A Quest (part one)

“One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other” – Jane Austen




Several years ago, at a social gathering at my house, the female members of the group started having a spirited literary debate. Well, sort of – we were discussing whether or not we thought Mr Darcy and Mr Knightley were virgins at the time of their marriage. I can’t actually remember what side of the debate I was on at the time, but I do remember feeling very strongly about it. Z interrupted to say, “These are FICTIONAL characters, you know.” Before any of us could respond, James said drily “not in this house.”

It’s true. I’ve been a Jane Austen groupie since I was about nine. I’ve visited her house in Chawton, her grave in Winchester cathedral, the Jane Austen Centre in Bath (pretty much a waste of time). I’ve read her novels, her juvenilia, her letters, and various biographies and works of criticism, an excellent Choose Your Jane Austen Adventure book courtesy of Heidi, plus some really bad “sequels” – those are always a mistake. I’ve seen the movies (even the one with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, which is hilariously far from both the book and any semblance of the Regency period).

But this week, I was on a mission very close to my heart:

The search for Mr. Darcy.

The sexiest man in literature (don’t even talk to me about that co-dependent brute Heathcliffe).

I was off to Derbyshire.

It’s time I saw more of the Midlands anyway, and the Peaks have always sounded lovely. But it certainly didn’t hurt that I would get to visit Fitzwilliam Darcy’s old stomping grounds.

So, we drove up, watching the colours of stones and bricks of houses change, seeing hedges turn into dry stone walls, and the landscape become a little more dramatically peaked and valleyed. Our first stop was Chatsworth. It’s been surmised for ages that Jane Austen had Chatsworth in mind when she wrote about Pemberley, and there are a few details that make it likely. First, it’s gorgeous – an amazing house, with marvelous grounds landscaped by Capability Brown who was particularly expert at making things look naturally beautiful, and who today would probably have been a plastic surgeon. Second, it’s one of, if not THE most stately homes in Derbyshire. Third, it’s believed that Jane Austen visited it. And, total trivia, the woman who’d been Duchess of Devonshire* up until a few years before P&P was published was the rather notorious Georgiana (currently portrayed by Keira Knightley in The Duchess, who is apparently taking over Helena Bonham Carter’s 80s job as Official Period Actress of Britain). JA usually took her character names from her acquaintance or family, and Georgiana isn’t one of them, as far as I know. To add to the interest, bits of the Kiera P&P were filmed here. Exteriors, and the sculpture hall.






The gift shop is hilarious – lots of Duchess bits and pieces (peacock feather wreath, anyone?), the usual “you can garden like Chatsworth too!” type of books (they never mention the hundreds of gardeners, immense acreage, and famous 18th century landscapers in those books, I find); but best of all, they have lots of Mr Darcy kitsch – i.e. reproductions of that painting of Colin Firth as Mr Darcy that Elizabeth gazes at when she visits Pemberley. Now, I adore Colin as Mr Darcy, but I do not want a low-quality reproduction of an imitation Regency painting of him acting that role to hang over my fireplace. Even assuming I had a fireplace. I was quite tempted by the mugs, though.

The interior is full of lovely things, including Landseers, Tintorettos, a Rembrandt, beautiful furnishings and treasures – silver chandeliers, toilet sets, pistols, pottery. I also like that the place isn’t just a museum of the past – the current Duke and Duchess collect contemporary art that complements the interior beautifully (though I did overhear one or two people being a bit sniffy about the juxtaposition of old and new).

The grounds are also beautiful, with more contemporary sculpture.


I don’t know how this baby balances like this.




Back when people didn’t have Wii’s or flat screens, they had mazes. All the cool aristocrats had one.


There are all sorts of fun little secluded gardens, which were probably helpful when Georgiana (the Duchess, not the shy sister) and her husband and friend were conducting their rather complicated affairs.




And of all this, I could have…never really had a chance of being mistress. Though I did find out the heir only got married last year, and looks quite pleasant. Sigh. Really though, it was rather lovely to look out from the windows and see what Elizabeth saw…



*Chatsworth is the home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, even though it's in Derbyshire.

Brotherly Love

One of my brothers and I have a cell phone we keep in England for shared use, due to the annoying American system of cell phones being on a different bandwidth from the rest of the world. Knowing his thoughtful nature, it was no surprise that he left me a little message from last time he was over here. As I turned on the phone yesterday, the words “Hey, fatty,” blinked on.


The really annoying thing is that I’m not sure how to change it to something equally derogatory for him.

On Being a Chick

Apparently I'm having identity issues lately, what with the age and gender posts. Expect one on what it's like to be white any day now.

So, I do like being a woman. Love the clothes, makeup, talking about emotions, blah blah. I haven’t had to deal with glass ceilings or discrimination or serious sexual harassment. I open my own jars, change tires, and I replaced my toilet once! With a broken ankle! (OK, Adri helped).

But in a few ways, men have it better. [disclaimer: the following are gross generalizations based on one woman's experience. Said woman's experience may not be typical of your results. This blog disclaims all responsibility from insult to readers who are superior to the author (and many men) in the areas described. ]. *

Men can go jogging at night without fear.
Men know which end up the batteries go without looking at the little plus and minus signs.
Men can put the tent up right first time.
Men don't get scared when they attach jumper cables because they think the car may blow up, even when they're certain they put them on the right terminals.
Men can move heavier things without help.
AND, men know things about cars and don't feel that they are constantly being ripped off by their mechanic.

I try to fake it. I usually talk to my brother before going to the mechanic, and have him tell me any lingo I need to know, and what questions to expect. However, I've been caught out at least once. I once delivered my carefully prepared spiel and then looked blank when the mechanic asked me how many cylinders I have (um, an even number…shall I risk a guess... 4? 8? Good grief, I’ve looked under the bonnet enough times. Why don’t I know?). I don't think for one minute that he needed to know. He was just testing me.

This is bothering me today, because I have a CAR ISSUE. About a month ago I had a little blowout, and what with bent rims and old tires, got a whole new set of both. After spending an amount of money that could have bought three of the yellow patent leather handbags I've been coveting lately, and probably shoes to match, I drove off with my new rims, which I still suspect may look a bit too pimped for my ride.

Then driving to choir practice a few nights ago, with a full car, some scary sounds started emanating from the rear right. It wasn't a wheel bearing. And that is where my female brain reaches its limit of diagnostic ability.

I took it to a mechanic, and they told me that the wheel and tire were the wrong size and were rubbing against the wheel well. Clearly the tyre company should have known this, right? Jerks.

I took it to the tyre company, and they took a look. The guy said things about damage to the side, and struts, and other car words. He said there was no problem with the wheel and the other mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Then he mumbled something about looking into a different kind of tire and calling me back.

Now, if I were a man, I think I’d have a better chance of knowing whether or not he was being straight with me. Or, at least, I'd have a better chance of him THINKING I knew if he was being straight with me. As it was, I wanted to be assertive, but I wasn’t sure who to be assertive with.

So I called my brother. Guy brain. I started from the beginning, telling him there was a weird noise coming from the back. "That'll be the new tyre rubbing," he said immediately. OK, fine. He explained the tire issue to me in little words, he told me what to tell the tire guy, and that if he gives me any trouble, that he will come up to Salt Lake and "talk to him." (that sounds a bit like my brother is a mobster, but he's really not).

So, I guess the tire issue will get fixed, and it isn’t a big deal, and no-one will die. But I still hate dealing with mechanics.

* i.e. if you are a woman and way better than me and all men in dealing with cars and tents and jogging, and think I’m a sexist pig, don’t tell me. It’ll just make me feel bad about myself. And you know how emotional we women can get.

Being Big

I went to see Big, the musical, on Saturday. I enjoyed it (apart from the ending, which seems out of tune with the rest of the play) and it got me thinking about childhood vs adulthood. Big reminds us not to leave our childhood TOO far behind us, and seems to lean towards the “best years of your life” perspective about being a kid.

I’ve always disagreed. When I was in my early teens and loathing school, and getting my mum to write me notes so I could skive, I took some comfort in the fact that my dad also disagreed – and he was an adult, so his opinion had a bit more validity than mine. I was just hoping fervently that life would get better at some point.

It did. There were wonderful times in my teens, and yet I still love being an adult more. In a lot of ways, it’s actually lived up to the expectations and beliefs of youth. I can stay up as late as I like, read all night if I want, drive, eat whatever I choose, go to nightclubs without fibbing about my age, hang out with my friends all the time, I don’t care that I don’t look like Christy Turlington any more, and I don’t have ANY HOMEWORK. Plus I get paid for going to work. I always slightly resented the fact that I didn’t get paid for going to school.

Sure, there are consequences and flip sides to all of those things, and there are hard things about being an adult, but on the whole, I like it.

One of the wonderful things about being a kid, though, apart from the endless, sunny summers and meals waiting for you all the time, and having your mum be able to kiss anything better, is how you laugh ‘til it aches on a pretty regular basis. That kind of laughter is a little harder to come by as I get old and wrinkly.

But I've had it a few times over the past couple of weekends. First, going down the river at Lava Hot Springs last weekend in a big chain, almost having my arms pulled out of their sockets, screaming “bottoms up,” as rocks and little rapids approached.

Then on Friday night playing round the world ping pong at a party, as our group got smaller and smaller, and we ran around making ourselves dizzy more and more…

Then Sunday night playing a variation of Catchphrase (I really DON’T spend all my weekends playing catchphrase, despite blogging appearances). I was on the winning team--we won rather thoroughly and were very bad sports about it. We giggled helplessly as the other team struggled to guess things like “hat” (“helmet!” “visor!”) as part of “cat in the hat,” while somehow my teammates were thinking and guessing as one. It was beautiful. Of course no-one cared deeply about the outcome (well, let’s hope not), so we were free to gloat and patronise the other team to our hearts’ content.

For some reason, this all made me laugh until I was weak. It felt so good.