Two Englands; or, Thoughts from a Yorkshire Moor Walk

Oh, hello. I promise that someday I’ll get back to writing book reviews again, but I just finished yet another Common Ground literary pilgrimage – this time IN PERSON IN ENGLAND LIKE WHOA – and I often tend to scribble stream-of-consciousness things I ultimately like in my journal during such pilgrimages. I put pen to paper one morning after a ten-mile hike the day before, wrote this, then cried for about an hour straight. So in the interest of pretending no time has passed at all and LiveJournal circa 2002 is the hot new thing, here’s a public glimpse of me processing some shit. You’re welcome, interwebs.

My mother had England in her bones and blood, as do I, but we often argued over which England to call the best England.

My mother’s England contained picture-perfect idylls, neatly partitioned by handcrafted stone walls. Thatched roofs, impossibly green grass, a scenic sheep placed every few yards, perhaps even lambs if you visited at the right time of year.

My England is wild and unkempt, free from livestock and their obnoxious early morning wakeup calls. Give me foxes and Heathcliffs, heather and the gusty coasts of Cornwall. My England screams romance.

My mother’s England loved the tranquility of the gentleman farmer. My England resists that tranquility with all its heart, yet can’t quite escape the picaresque completely.

My mother’s England was Sense and Sensibilty 1995. My England is Sense and Sensibilty 2008.

My mother could often be heard uttering her famous catchphrase when viewing a new landscape: “Not enough trees. I need trees.” Though secretly I share her preference for trees, I keep a special place in my heart for the unforgiving English expanses, born the first time Mary Lennox experienced the moors’ wuthering and I swore I could hear them, too, if I listened hard enough. A few years letter I would transform from Mary into Cathy Earnshaw, wild as my isolated home, laughing in the face of all who dared deny me and staying out with my soulmate after dark just to feel the icy wind on my face. I would silently urge Jane Eyre to do the same thing, and silently judge her when she did not.

My mother’s England was a private garden, meticulously tended before bursting into riotous color. My England is a garden locked away and hidden, guarded by a robin, overgrown yet filled with surprising life. A garden hushed and lush and entirely mine.

My mother’s England is a small village, cozy neighbors, a local butcher and chemist who remember your regular orders. And farm animals, so many farm animals! (I don’t care for farm animals. Smelly and noisy and far too much shit on your shoes.)

My England is a lonely manor rising up from the moors or, better yet, from cliffs by the dark and unforgiving sea. A long walk or horse ride to the nearest town, filled with plenty of stops to gaze moodily at the surroundings along one’s way.

BUT

not

entirely.

My England is also willow trees by the river. Ancient churches. The flash of a spaniel running through a field. The impossible green of a moss-covered tree when the sun pokes its head through the clouds.

And bluebells.

My England is bluebells. My mother’s England was bluebells. Always, bluebells.

Our Englands meet in a bluebell wood.

When I meet her again, someday, the sun will be shining. And it will be in England. The birds will be singing. And we will find ourselves surrounded by a carpet of bluebells.

And all shall be well.