A Walker in the Suburbs

Dad would have been 103 years old today. If he’d been alive for the celebration, he would have gotten a kick out of knowing I spent the day in London. And what a day it was: no clouds in the morning and no rain until late afternoon.

Dad loved England, talked fondly of his time in Old Blighty during World War II. “Everyone said the American GI was overpaid, oversexed and over here,” he chuckled.

To hear Dad tell it, he had been sent here in part to defeat Hitler — and in part to enjoy himself. He jitterbugged at USO dances and made ice cream in the unheated cabin of a B-17 bomber. Of course, he also flew 35 missions as a tail-gunner.

As I walked across the Millennium Bridge and ogled the skyline of St. Paul’s, I felt that Dad was with me. I felt like I was living a double life for a day. My eyes were his eyes, my feet his feet. I was giving him a birthday present of sorts — only it was gift for me, too.

It’s nearly a thousand years old and most likely built by William the Conquerer. Guildford Castle is not your ordinary ruined fortress (if there is such a thing). Its keep is surprisingly intact and nobly presented, decked out with lush gardens, a statue, memorial and bowling green.

After the Norman Conquest in 1066, William the Conquerer needed a way to subdue the locals. Castles did the trick. Guildford Castle’s original keep was built of wood, but the structure was soon fortified with stone and the complex gradually enlarged.

It was a veritable palace by the time of Edward I and Queen Eleanor of Castille, whose young son, Henry, died at the castle in 1274. I reviewed a book about Eleanor a few months ago, and the Guildford Castle tour guide was reading it too. The guide pointed out some ancient graffiti and gave us a sense of the place as it once was.

At her advice we examined the ancient walls and marveled at their thickness. We also made our way up the spiral staircase to the top of the castle, which gave us commanding views of the town and hills beyond. Visiting Guildford Castle was a two-hour respite from the modern world.

I was looking for Newlands Corner, heading east from Guildford’s center city, searching for a trail that might lead to this local beauty spot and its fine views. I thought I might be on the right track when I began heading up a steep road … up and up and up some more.

Before long, the road ended in a well-pathed meadow. It was Pewley Downs. Downs are rolling chalk hills, gentle rises with green fields in the bottom lands, human-scale hills.

Walking along a downs path today I felt the pull of all the souls who’ve walked here through the ages. Isn’t every inch of British landscape imbued with story and history? It felt that way to me today.

Guildford is a small city, bustling and diverse. Less than 20 minutes away by train lies the town of Haslemere and, even smaller, the village of Grayswood, our destination for the day. There we explored All Saints Church, the village green, and the woods and meadows beyond.

There was an ancient, gnarled oak tree, a hedged path, a perfect pond, and a field of grazing polo ponies.

There was a family welcoming us with chili and apple crumble and two adorable dogs. There was a slice of life so very different from our own.

Heading “home” on the train, it felt as if we had stepped out of a fairy tale, back into real life. And in many ways, we had.

I’m a sucker for the half-timbered look, and we have it in spades here. The Angel Hotel was thriving in the 15th century and its vaulted stone undercroft dates from the 1300s. This is a beam and ceiling in our room. Sturdy, is it not?

Guildford’s sister city — Freiburg, Germany — also has its share of half-timbered buildings, or Fadhwerkhäuser. But the cities are linked by more than medieval construction methods. They came together in 1979 to promote friendship, cultural exchange and world peace.

They’re still working on that final point. But at least they’re trying.

From Dulles to Heathrow, from jet plane to motor coach, from a sleek modern airport to a 16th-century hostelry. That was today’s long journey, or I should say yesterday-into-today’s journey. The lines are starting to blur between days and continents.

I write this post from the Angel Hotel with its four-poster bed, half-timbered ceilings, and perfect view of Guildford’s High Street.

Our traveling companions just landed. We’ll wait for them in the pub.

The last time I was in England we just dipped our toes into the country. We’d been touring Scotland and took a day trip through the borderlands to explore Hadrian’s Wall.

Today, we leave for three weeks in Britain, almost 10 days of that time visiting Celia’s in-laws in Surrey, then some adventures on our own. We’ve been planning this trip for months.

Now that departure day has arrived I feel again that mixture of awe and anxiety that precedes a trip: Did I check all the boxes? Have I packed everything I need? Properly printed off the train ticket QR codes?

I’m hoping those answers are yes because I’m about out of time. Tomorrow morning we land on “this sceptered isle.”

(From Brampton near Hadrian’s Wall)

A return, a sigh, a backward glance. I’m home now, absorbing the trip to NYC. It lasted a work week, but my only job was to walk, tour and savor the city.

On one of many excursions, I briefly relived one of my all-time favorite running routes. I would roll out of bed a little before 7 a.m., lace up my shoes, and make my way, half-asleep, to the Central Park Reservoir trail.

Back then you could run around whichever way you liked. Now, it’s counterclockwise only. No problem: counterclockwise gave us this splendid view of the San Remo Towers, lording it over their wedge of Central Park West.

Did I really live and walk here? Yes, I did. And for five perfect days, I did again.

Ah, there is so much to say about visiting Manhattan. So much that when I first sat down to write today I didn’t know where to begin!

But I did/ do know this. Such richness, such crazy, jarring richness, is made possible by something we don’t have in the suburbs: urban density.

Here into less than 22.6 square miles flow three to four million people every day. Here are museums, concert halls, restaurants, libraries, universities, even cherry trees (take that, D.C.!). Here are all sorts of people rubbing shoulders (and sometimes bumping into) all sorts of other people.

I sample the city as if it were an exotic yet comforting stew, spoonful by delicious spoonful.

(It’s easier to photograph cherry trees than urban density. All that jostling, you know)

From the time I was a little girl I’ve heard on the radio, “Live from the Metropolitan Opera in New York City” — and last night we were there, in the very place.

Truth to tell, for most of my life that announcement prompted an immediate change of station. But lately that has not been the case. Living with an opera lover is starting to rub off on me.

Last year for Christmas, I gave that opera lover two tickets to Verdi’s “La Traviata.” I hoped he would take me along. And he did!

So we took the train to New York City and last evening walked six blocks downtown, entered Lincoln Center and were swept up into the crowd. It was a chilly Tuesday and the place was packed. Some women wore long gowns and some men wore tuxedos, though most were dressed more casually. In other words, it was an audience writ as large as New York City. And it was as enthusiastic as the city, too. Arias and choruses were greeted with applause and shouts of “bravo” and “brava.”

The beauty and pathos of the music would touch even the stoniest of hearts. Here was the human condition in voice and song — performed in a city that appreciates it.

For some people, attending a Met opera is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hope it isn’t for us.