Put Up Your Dukes (Lynn Kerstan)

This is Chatsworth, jewel of the Peak District and one of my favorite “Great Houses.” It doesn’t look very large in this picture of the facade, but the house has 125 rooms! In the ’90s, when I was writing Raven’s Bride, I spent a week checking out settings for the book, and naturally, Chatsworth had to be included. The 12th Duke and his duchess have spiffed up the place considerably since last I was there, and major restoration projects are underway.

Sadly, this was the last stop on the Alicia-and-Lynn-Do-the-English-North Tour, and we had only a little time to visit. But every moment of that time was a treat. Walking in from the parking area, I spotted three signs on a back wall that captured some of the reasons I so love the Brits. Low on the left are some bowls, a small pump, and a blue sign: Water for Dogs. The sign above it points to The Gardens, where visitors and locals are welcome to walk their pooches. You can read for yourself the directives for lorry drivers making deliveries. Only in England!

If the house looks familiar, you may have seen it in the movies. Pride and Prejudice (2005) and The Duchess (2008)—both starring Keira Knightley—and The Wolfman filmed there. But to me, Chatsworth remains the home of the 6th Duke, known to family and intimates as “Hart,” who inherited eight properties and 200,000 acres of English land when he was 21. Known as the “Bachelor Duke,” he was a dedicated collector, a profligate traveler, a friend of “Prinny” (the Prince Regent) and, later, Charles Dickens. He was also a womanizer, but we know little about his escapades because after his death, Victorian relations destroyed or severely redacted his journals and correspondence.

The dysfunctional marriage of his icy, autocratic father (played by Ralph Feinnes) and his mother, Georgiana, was the subject of The Duchess. We saw an exhibit featuring photos and costumes from the film, along with fascinating memorabilia of Georgiana, who was the Toast of England for a time but sadly addicted to gambling.

Here I am with the costume display. I fit right in, doncha think?

As for Hart, he has a new life as a recurring character in several of my books (including the one I’m working on now), as does the Duke of Wellington. I’ve read so much about them and had so much fun writing about them that I feel positively proprietary. In fact, I’d hoped for my first glimpse of Stratfield Saye, Wellington’s country house, on this trip, but once again, it was not to be. Next time for sure.

Meantime, that morning at Chatsworth, we visited Hart’s study where I was given the privilege of sitting in the actual chair he used. Once again, I fit right in!



After a visit to the shop and a snack on the sunny patio, we cavorted in the gardens. This is the famous "cascade."






If you mess with me, heads will roll!








Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?

















A couple of free-range chickens.

Goodbye, Chatsworth. The Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, I'll be baaaack.

Going to Extremes (Lynn Kerstan)

Over the years, traveling together or separately, Alicia Rasley and I have seen most of the famous sites in England, often more than once. London. Bath. Oxford. Blenheim. The Cotswolds. Hay-on-Wye (the world’s best place to buy second-hand books!). But we especially love England’s charming villages and old churches, which is how we came to visit Escomb.

In company with Natalie and T’Other Lynn, for whom Saxon culture is a passion, we spent a damp morning exploring a tiny church that has been holding services for more than 1400 years. Lovingly tended by the current residents of Escomb, the building is constructed of stones taken from the site of a long-abandoned Roman fort. We saw stones engraved with soldier-graffiti, and the arch shown in the picture was carefully removed from the fort and reconstructed over the sanctuary. Experts believe the church was begun around 670 A.D., at a time when most buildings, even the great halls of Saxon lords, were made of wood and thatch.

The morning after, Alicia and I braved wild winds on a cold, mostly sunny day for the long drive to one of England’s “Great Houses.” The last time I traveled in Yorkshire, it was March and Castle Howard had not yet opened for the tourist season. With my nose pressed against the locked wrought-iron gates, I made up my mind to return someday. And this was the day, although getting lost (as usual) and the scary (to me) narrow winding roads ate into our touring time.

While Howard Castle might as well be dubbed Ostentation ’R‘ Us, it is equally stunning in small, lovely ways. Created by the 3rd Earl of Carlisle about three centuries ago, the splendid house was nearly destroyed by fire in 1940. Children sent there to escape the Nazi bombing raids on England managed to carry many treasures to safety and the “castle” was meticulously restored. The picture shows one of many elegant, polished hallways lined with historical treasures and, for the moment, centered by one frumpy tourist (me).

I can't think why I took this picture. Must have been a reason.

Here's something more dignified. Can you imagine turning a corner in your home and seeing lofty arches curving over magnificent marble statues? But the house also features a small tablecloth embroidered by family children and many other lovely signs of down-to-earth human inhabitance. Castle Howard, part museum, part home, altogether jaw-dropping.

We author-tourists always pay special attention to Great House libraries and particularly love those that seem to be respected and often used. Not here, it seems, although appearances may well be deceiving. This is a small portion of the extensive library, and as you see, the bookcases are more like showcases for antique volumes, most of them seeming to be the same size and bound in the same manner. I longed to stick a copy of The Golden Leopard into one of those pristine displays. At least the library is not dark and dank. Windows dominate, and I must say the views of fountains, gardens, and a faux-lake are magnificent.

If any of this seems familiar, you may have seen Howard Castle in the remarkable 11-part TV production of Evelyn Waugh's 1945 book, Brideshead Revisited, starring Jeremy Irons, Anthony Andrews, Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Claire Bloom, and Diana Quick. It was a sensation at the time and I mean to watch it again soon, thanks to Netflix

A film, not at all true to the novel (how could it be, given a couple of hours instead of 13+) was recently filmed at Castle Howard as well. I may order it for watching. Film productions at Great Houses help keep these valuable places afloat, and I'm always happy to revisit them any way I can.

P.S. Even when tolerant friends travel together, Stuff Happens. When Alicia and I returned to the car, she was fumbling in her purse for something-or-other and came upon an unexpected set of car keys. They belonged to 'T'Other Lynn, which meant Natalie and LynnC had been stranded at the cottage all day, unable to go wherever they'd meant to go! I won't bore you with "how it happened" except to say I could as easily have perpetrated the crime. Alicia called them immediately, apologized contritely, and insisted on taking them to dinner at the place of their choice. After a good pub supper, all was forgiven. :)

Dames in Durham (Lynn Kerstan)

You can see from the picture why the county town of Durham takes its name from “dun,” meaning “hill” in Old English, and “holme,” meaning “island” in Old Norse. You can also understand why, surrounded on three sides by the River Wear, the town atop a promontory was virtually impermeable to attack by Scots and Scandinavians, all of whom kept trying for centuries.

I had just been on a glom of Bernard Cornwell’s Saxon and Archer series, so the history of Durham and north England was vivid in my mind when Alicia and I set out early (meaning “not at all early”), following our Rick Steves guidebook for parking and which outlying pub to choose for lunch. First things first.

Then, waddling somewhat after steak-and-ale pie and game stew, we crossed the bridge in the lower right corner of the first pic. In the next you can see Durham Cathedral looming over the river. It’s present Romanesque incarnation was begun in the 11th Century.

These days, the island core of Durham is pretty much a university town. From the bridge, I snapped a shot of a rowing team working out. Viewed from above, you can see the “ghost” traces of their previous oar-strokes.

While modern Durham spreads out around the other side of the river, the auld city retains its narrow, winding medieval streets lined with charming shops and places to dine or grab a snack. Only a few streets are open to service vehicles. The rest are crammed with pedestrians, and the town is so small that we almost immediately ran into our cottage-mates, Judith, Natalie, and t’other Lynn, who really did set out early that morning and had all but completed their tour while Alicia and I were just getting started.

Together we meandered to a small square with a church, a huge statue of some warrior or other, and an intriguing entrance to an enclosed market. Inside were stalls selling everything from cheap ($3) plastic raincoats to books to, well, name it and they had it. Here’s me waiting for Alicia and relaxing in the plaza after buying, yes, books. Also one of those raincoats, just in case.

Most tourists spend their time exploring the castle and the cathedral, leading to the ABC Syndrome (Another Bloody Castle, Another Bloody Cathedral) afflicting those with limited interest in such things. It was only for lack of time that we bypassed the castle—that’s the castle keep peeping out—and I confess we were both more fascinated by the startling and beautiful red ivy-like plant that scrolled over so many old buildings in northern England.

The cathedral was wondrous. After reading the Cornwell books, I was eager to see the final resting place of Saint Cuthbert, whose life (most of it) was lived out as a teacher/healer/mystic on the Holy Isle of Lindisfarne, and whose corpse was apparently in pretty good condition when the faithful bore it from place to place after his death in 698 A.D. But the cathedral is humongous, and while I found the respectful tomb of Bede the Venerable, a long-time favorite of mine, I missed Cuthbert because Evensong was about to begin.

This one was different. All the other Evensongs Alicia and I have attended featured organ music and a good-sized choir of men and boys sounding like angels on earth. Reflecting the stark and magnificent beauty of Durham Cathedral, this choir of twelve men (six on each side of the aisle in the choir stalls) sang a capella throughout the service. At first, I was sorry for that. Then, as they back-and-forthed lines from the two psalms chosen for that particular day, the stark simplicity of their music put me in mind of all the monks and nuns who sang the seven hours of the “divine office” in their monasteries and convents throughout the centuries. Gregorian chant. Plainsong. This was Vespers as it might have sounded in the medieval years of the cathedral. But when they came to the Magnificat, a hymn honoring Mary and the words spoken by her as recorded in the New Testament—“My soul doth magnify the Lord...— the choir sang in 6-part polyphony, two men to each part. It was utterly glorious.

I've spent rather a lot of time in England and have seen most all the major attractions, but Durham quickly lept to near the top of my favorites list. Being a history-lover and a former college teacher, I especially loved the many hundreds of years of history preserved in a small city now swarmiing with young, enthusiastic students. As I stood on the lawn (partly a graveyard) at the cathedral, I promised myself a return visit.

The Bowes Museum: A Love Story (Lynn Kerstan)

After the miserable odyssey in the Yorkshire dales (reported last Friday), I mentally swore never to set tire there again. The very next day Alicia Rasley, Judith Stanton and I climbed into the $#*&!* Mercedes and headed out for Teesdale. So much for my oaths! But our destination, the lovely town of Castle Barnard, was only half an hour from our cottage, and we had good reason to dip our toes back into the dales. NYT Bestseller Jo Beverley, whom I “met” online way back in 1992 and have admired, respected, and liked ever since, was staying in the area and suggested we join up for lunch and a tour of the Bowes Museum.

As you can see from the picture, it’s a pretty spectacular place. But how did this French-style chateau filled with an amazing collection of art and antiquities come to be in an obscure, rural area of north-east England? As it turned out, we later discovered, this was the perfect place for four romance authors to get together. Like so many good things in fiction and real life, the Bowes Museum began with a love story. The bastard son of an English earl! A French actress in a Parisian theatre! A fortune spent to bring art to the local people of Teesdale. You can’t make this stuff up.

Well, yes we can, and we do. But in this case, the story is both compelling and true. Also sad, despite the remarkable memorial the protagonists did not live to see completed.

John Bowes, born in 1811, was the only child of the 10th Earl of Strathmore and Mary Millner, a commoner. Although they lived together for many years, the earl didn’t marry her until a few hours before his death in an attempt to secure the inheritance for his son. Court cases ensued, and while John was not recognized as heir to the Strathmore title, the estates passed into his hands. A good businessman, a sportsman (he bred four Derby winners), and a lover of the arts, he spent a lot of time in France and even bought the Theatre des Varietes in Paris. Good for him. But what's with those facial whiskers. Really, what were men thinking back then?!

Josephine Coffin-Chevallier, fourteen years his junior, was an actress at the theatre and also a talented painter who shared John’s passion for art. They married in 1852 and immediately began to amass a remarkable collection of paintings, ceramics, textiles, and furniture. But the children they longed for did not appear, and as their hopes for a family diminished, the idea of a different legacy took root. They resolved to create a world-class museum in the coal-mining, sheep-breeding area of Teesdale so the local people could have access to the all beautiful things they’d loved and collected.

Both John and Josephine were deeply involved in plans for the building itself, and Josephine laid the foundation stone in 1869. They also launched themselves into a virtual orgy of acquisition, purchasing more than 15,000 items for the collection between 1852 and 1874. But in that year, Josephine died and John lost his heart for collecting and the museum project. The building continued, though, and seven years after John’s death in 1885, the Trustee-managed museum opened to an enthusiastic response from the public. It continues to thrive, and deservedly so.

I had never heard of the town or the museum before Jo Beverley spoke of them, but I will never forget the day we spent there. After a morning combing through the ground floor exhibits, we enjoyed a lingering lunch in the café and had to hurry upstairs to snag a spot for the daily 2pm performance of the Silver Swan, which lasts a grand total of about 40 seconds. Created in 1773, the swan is an automaton purchased by John Bowes a hundred years later and has become the emblem of the museum. Mark Twain saw it at the Paris Exhibition in 1867 and wrote about it in his book about his travels, Innocents Abroad:

“I watched the Silver Swan, which had a living grace about his movement and a living intelligence in his eyes—watched him swimming about as comfortably and unconcernedly as it he had been born in a morass instead of a jeweller’s shop—watched him seize a silver fish from under the water and hold up his head and go through the customary and elaborate motions of swallowing it....”

Like Mark Twain, I was fooled by the swan and thought he had indeed seized a fish from among the metallic fishies undulating in the shallow waters and swallowed it. In fact, the fish was in the swan’s throat all along. The machinery powering the automaton brought the fish forward when the swan went hunting for lunch and let us see it in the swan’s open beak before the bird tilted back his head and appeared to swallow. As P.T. Barnum noted, a sucker is born every minute. And for once (other than a sense of humor and our mutual concern about adverb abuse) I have something in common with Mark Twain! For Jo Beverley, the swan inspired her to give her most famous character (Rothgar) an interest in automatons, one of which played an important part in her “Malloren” books. For writers, just about everything of interest we do winds up in our “research” or “inspiration” files. This is a good thing.

I could have spent another two or three days at the Bowes. But all too soon it was closing time so Alicia, Jo, and I bade farewell to the gargoyle on the terrace while Judith snapped a picture. Then it was back to Arrow Cottage where I confessed to having changed my mind about the Yorkshire dales. I can hardly wait to return . . . so long as I’m driving a smaller, less fancy car.
And to John and Josephine Bowes, wherever your spirits may be: Thank you for the glorious gift you gave to the people of Teesdale and to all of of who visit there. To me, your love story and your generosity have been a true inspiration.

The Long Way 'Round (Lynn Kerstan)

A “dale,” I have recently learned, is a valley. I suppose everyone knew that but me. I’d have guessed something like rolling, grassy, sheep-studded hills. As opposed to a moor, which is open, rolling, infertile land. In Yorkshire, to my undiscerning eye, the moors and dales looked pretty much alike, and both were exceedingly beautiful. Or so Alicia tells me.

As we settled in the car and prepared ourselves to leave Fountains Abbey, I asked if we had to go back through Ripon. Nice enough town, mind you, but with twisty, crowded, confusing streets. After studying the detailed four-miles-to-an-inch map book, Alicia said we could take a road that went the opposite direction but curved to eventually join up with the route to our destination. Tuesday is market day in Hawes, which is practically in the middle of nowhere, and we wanted an authentic rural cobblestone-streeted market-town experience.

I agreed to the revised route without looking at the map, which I later came to regret. But no one was at fault for what lay ahead. Alicia and have have a No-Fault Travel Policy. We do out best, mostly, and if we screw up for whatever reason...oh, well. Besides, we had no reason to be apprehensive. For the first hour, the narrow road curled around lush grassy fields, flirted with burbling streams, and slipped through tiny villages you’d miss seeing if you sneezed. Throughout our trip, Alicia was on a mission to find the ideal village for a six-month stay, in part a dream and also a serious goal. If not for its remote location in Nidderdale, the lovely Pateley Bridge (shown above) might have taken the prize.

But soon after, the road began to rise into the hills and all I saw was a narrow pavement with a stone wall or a treacherous rocky gully or a precipitous cliff to my left. Or all three at once! The picture shows perhaps the only stretch of unthreatening navigable road that didn't have me in a state of near panic. Yes, the road was sometimes empty, save for us. But most of the time a vehicle had the audacity to come from the other direction. Let’s just say this dale road ain’t big enough for the both of us, cowboy. Not with me in the #&*@* Mercedes, terrified I’d scrape the purty silver paint against the rock. Invariably I slowed, snuggled as close to the wall as I dared, and let the interloper speed by.

As you can imagine, we weren’t making good time. Even when I was alone on the road, the blind curves held me to about 20 mph, if that. Which naturally annoyed the locals in smaller cars who swept down on me from behind and practically fornicated with my back bumper while insisting with hand gestures that I speed up. Nah gonna happen. Blind curves ahead. But the cars were too close for me to slow and pull over out of their way, and the drivers were too stubborn to back off, so they had to wait for the rare straight opportunity with no traffic coming at us. After a couple hours of this, I was tense, irritable, and No Fun to Be With.

Now and again Alicia would point out something special for me to look at, but my gaze was riveted on the road. I did perk up when she mentioned the signs offering sheep farms for sale. I could pull over, write a check, hand Alicia the car keys, and raise sheep! Better than getting squashed like a bug on the Road of Death. Oh. If you’re wondering why Alicia didn’t share the driving, that was my fault as well. For one thing, she wasn’t listed as a driver on the rental agreement. And for another, bad as I am when navigating killer roads with edges only inches from the tires, I’m even worse as a passenger.

This is pretty typical scenery in the Swaledale area, except for the lack of sheep in the walled pastures. As the sun sank into the west, I began to wonder if we’d escape the dales before dark. They seemed suddenly threatening to me, although we were passing into James Herriot country. The Yorkshire Dales veterinarian has become a draw for tourists who fell in love, as I did, with his books and the Brit television show, All Creatures Great and Small. The town where the series was filmed has a mock-up of Herriot’s office and lots of memorabilia, although we hadn’t time to stop there. We had a market to attend and cheese to buy!

Finally (!!) we came to where the teensy-weensy yellow “scenic road” on the map merged with the marginally wider and slightly less threatening route to Hawes. But we were still an hour away, and dusk was melding into dark by the time we arrived. Naturally, the market itself could not be found. Buyers had got what they came for and sellers had long since packed up and gone home.

The town, which we’d expected to be colorful and lively, looked gray and grim and dull. But that was more a reflection of the twilight shadows and our exhaustion than Hawes itself. In full daylight, it woulld be a charming place to explore. And let me add our experience there this was the only true disappointment we experienced on this trip, although not the most maddening. As always, in usual Alicia-Lynn fashion, we shrugged and soldiered on.

Legs uncertain after many traumatic hours in the car and both of us ravenous after a long day without more than a hurried snack-breakfast, we staggered into a small grocery and bought tacky packaged sandwiches for supper. After wolfing them down in the car, we set out for the dreary, multi-hour drive back to Witton-le-Wear. And no, this time we did not choose the “scenic” B-road back to the motorway.

But we did achieve one of our goals. Wensley cheeses are famous in England, and we had intended to stock up at the Tuesday market, buying from local vendors. But the cheeses were for sale in the grocery as well (yay!), so we did not return empty-handed. I considered, but rejected, a box of cheeses (pictured) that featured something called a “Middle Age Spread.”
Thanks very much, but I already have that!

A Day of Virtue and Awe (Lynn Kerstan)

There are plenty of ruined abbeys in England (destruction courtesy of Henry VIII’s brutal Dissolution of the Monasteries), with some of the most interesting to be found in Yorkshire. One stands on a rugged crag in coastside Whitby, where Jo Beverley recently moved. That was on my agenda, more for the company than the abbey, and I’ve always wanted to visit Rievaulx as well.

But when Krissie, she of Impeccable Taste, declared Fountains to be “glorious” and a must-see, it shot to the top of the list. So Alicia and I set out on a sunny, cool autumn Tuesday and, reluctantly passing Studley Royal, an estate joined with Fountains that we longed to explore just because of its name, we arrived at the abbey without our usual wrong-turn diversions. An auspicious start to what would surely be a blessed day!

Our first stop was Fountains Hall, a house built around 1600 using stones from the ravaged abbey. This picture of me at the gate shows the orderly structure and fondness for windows common to Elizabethan architecture. But the most interesting detail isn’t visible. Inside the arched inset above and to the right of the front door is a statue of a maniacal-looking male stuffing what appears to be a small animal or a child into his mouth. We later discovered it was Saturn gulping down a child.

Titan, challenging Saturn for the rule of heaven and earth, had demanded he devour any child born of his seed if he wanted to avoid war. Power being more important than his own children, Saturn complied, one after another, until his wife hid a couple of them away. Trouble ensued, and that is somehow the way Jupiter got to be the Big Guy. At least he wasn’t the nasty Saturn or Titan. Myths are weird. So is the fact that the owner of Fountains chose to put that statue where everyone who entered the house could see it. Ugh.

Here’s Alicia, reluctantly standing still for a picture alongside the oddly shaped greenery rimming Fountains Hall. After exploring the restored rooms and interesting displays recounting the history of the house, we hurried to the place where the guided tour of the abbey ruins was to begin. Provided by the National Trust, which brilliantly preserves, explores, and administers the property, the tour is free.

We made it in time to join about thirty Brits and the entertaining and informative guide who introduced us to medieval (the abbey was founded in 1132) construction, commerce, and the lifestyles of the poor and prayerful. The Cistercian monks and lay brothers who lived and worked there built a flourishing abbey from virtually nothing save hard work and determination. They were smart fellas, though, choosing a site no one else wanted for many reasons and knowing this one had what they most needed—a reliable source of water, stone, and timber.

Here’s what we saw when the tour started. The picture makes the abbey look small. It isn’t. When we stood close, it soared tall and reached wide. Fountains is England's largest ruined abbey, and because it's very big, we missed out on several wondrous sights.








Like this one, showing the cellarium where the lay brothers lived. The construction is awe-fully beautiful and has endured for many hundreds of years







The “reliable source” of water, the river Skell, looked like this when we were there in October. It drops down at this point to run beneath the abbey in important ways, like flushing the toilets. But in mid-June 2007, swollen by torrential rains, the entire valley was flooded and the waters roiled over the top of the abbey walls. Hard to imagine, especially for someone who lives in 9-inches-of-rain-if-we're-lucky Coronado CA. Much devastation at the abbey and for miles in both directions, but as the river scoured the Skell River Valley, it also uncovered ruins that hadn’t been seen for centuries. More revelations about the Fountains Abbey yet to come!

Never underestimate the curiosity of people about the everyday essentials of life, whatever the century. Our attentive tour group became positively giddy to learn that Cistercian monks were permitted no underwear, and they swarmed to take pictures of the abbey loo. Here it is. Beyond the arches were boards, some with round holes, for the men to do their business. Beneath them, the River Skell transported the doings to where they settled and became fertilizer.

Here's one of the giddy, curious tourists having her picture took at the toilets. Standing, mind you, leaning against one of the arches.

Then, moving from the necessary to the sublime, we entered what was left of a magnificent church. Imagine the stained glass that once filled the enormous window at the far end of the church nave.
I'd love to show more pictures of this splendid building, but I'm out of space and you must be out of time. Alicia and I were running out of time as well, because we had big plans for the rest of the afternoon.

But first we walked alongside the river, which widens as it emerges from underneath the abbey, to the Studley Royal water gardens. Serene, nearly deserted, the placid waters and grassy verges and clusters of trees took our breath away. We followed two magisterial swans as far as we could and then broke away to return to the parking lot.

A blessed day. Until we set out for the town of Hawes deep in the Yorkshire Dales. Tuesday was market day in Hawes, and we were on a mission: Enjoy a small-town market experience and buy some local cheese.

Needless to say, Things Did Not Go Well.