a new air.

nights in charlbury are like turning over rocks to see what’s really going on underneath.

for the most part, though, from an outsider’s perspective, they’re quite hauntingly hushed. it seems as soon as the sun sets, everything is serenely silent. masses of people coming in from the city scurry off the trains at dusk and disappear into their homes where strains of muffled music and mirth can sometimes be heard. everything shuts down and peace settles; even the pubs close relatively early.

the city is another story, as you can imagine.

one of the first nights i was here i became somewhat lost and a gentleman walking a dog directed me to ‘ye olde three horseshoes’ pub, where he told me to ask for a certain barry who could supposedly set me on the right route. so in i went, announcing i was a poor lost canadian looking for my home, and sure enough, the good sir barry pointed out the way and told me not to mind the haunted graveyard. i think they may have been slightly amused as i thanked them with a gracious heart and headed home with a greater confidence in my step, trying not to think too deeply about the cemetery comment…

around midnight sometime last week i locked up the church and began to head home when i paused and saw that the streets were shrouded in a heavy mist; the entire town was frozen in a fog; i held my breath.

while there are street lamps every few hundred feet in Canada, here there may be the odd light every couple of roads or so. they suggested we bring a ‘torch’ to light our way but i much prefer to let my eyes adjust and not disturb the darkness, for there is a different kind of depth to the dimness of night. in the chilled air, things can take on an altered shape or sheen, appearing or disappearing, as the lack of light allows. i walk boldly now, my feet familiar with the stones and sidewalk below. more often than not my eyes are more concentrated on the sky where the stars seem to be simultaneously singing and swaying -- or maybe that's just me.

the raindrops are reverberating off the rooftop of the church and echoing into the sanctuary sending 'sheer brilliance' soaring to the ceiling...

one night in particular i simply had to stop mid-step and pay homage to the beauty that begged to be acknowledged above me. to humbly quiesce. in the very middle of the graveyard i paused to lay flat upon one of the raised tombstones as i stared unblinkingly into the sky and imagined marvellous meandering meteorites mingling with their mirrored mimes in the murky seawaters below. no great philosophical thoughts graced my mind as i fancied the planets dancing in the ballroom of the universe. instead i wanted mostly to empty the mess, clear the clutter, blank-out my brain to allow the immensity and majesty of this dazzling scene to completely consume and cocoon my entire self, to be in pure communion with the creator.

when i walk home late at night my lungs tend to inhale more deeply than usual for i find the air of charlbury is laced with the lovely scent of tea leaves.

last night we peered beneath the stone, however, as we ventured over to ‘the shed,’ to take in ‘the green weasel,’ an evening of eco-tinged music, poetry and performance. to see that creative, talented side of the town was fantastic, especially considering we were barely able to squeeze in to join the low-lit and lively atmosphere. we were astounded by some of the young voices, and were marvelled by their beautiful small-town pride. this initiative to embrace and showcase their gifted locals displays a wonderful appreciation for the arts and i found myself wishing i had grown up with similar opportunity. and though there was laughter and love all round, i was somewhat glad i wasn’t american…

the differences between canada and england are sometimes quite amusing, especially when you’re noticing the bizarre contrast of roadkill; in the maritimes you find poor raccoons, skunks, and porcupines along the highway, and here you see foxes and badgers. bizarre.

wednesday of last we ventured off again to view yet another of shakespeare’s histories, henry v. studying this play has meant more to me simply because of my father’s influence. i remember watching the kenneth branagh film with him when i was younger and being excited about it because he was excited about it; the scenes of the saint crispin speech and the tragic death of the boys stood out most vividly in my memory. unfortunately i went in expecting the same sort of performance and found myself frustrated with what seemed to me to be misplaced humour and lackadaisical monologues; i was quite disappointed with henry. i am just being honest. but it was still spectacular in many ways, with the flying frenchmen, elaborate costumes, and dramatic battle scenes that sent me out of my seat a number of times. so while it didn’t entirely match up with what i had envisioned in my mind, the show went on most beautifully.

friday meant more auditions, choir, formal hall, karaoke, missed trains, and nando’s.

there is an owl in the train station.

we rose early saturday morning to head over to warwick castle. (pronounced warrick.) there was plenty to fill the hours we had there. going up and down spiral staircases in tall tall stone towers. and then through dark passageways where waxen figures looked so real i was perpetually bracing myself for any one of them to suddenly jump out at me. and then through rooms lavish and rich. we dressed up. we went bravely through the ghost tower. we wandered about the grounds looking for peacocks. it was quite the workout. following the castle we drove to coventry cathedral, a newish building to replace the old church which had been bombed during the war, the remains of which are still there as a reminder of mercy and forgiveness. the new cathedral, though, was overwhelming in its magnificence. you couldn’t dismiss the aesthetic beauty and creativity that went into its design. the colours of the towering stained glass windows glowed in a deep and bold radiance. each little chapel off to the side contained work from different artists. mosaics. tapestries. sculpture. i struggle sometimes, though, with what seems like an awful lot of money put into only solid, material things, when it could be put into people and programs. but on the other hand i saw a church that seemed to value God-given artistic ability, hopefully using it to give all glory back to Him, instead of attracting mere tourists and profit. this is my prayer.

we also finally made it out to the charity shops in oxford. mark joined us girls in hunting for fashionable bargains as we filled the tiny shops with our loud canadian laughter.

today jillian made a most delicious feast of cottage pie and vegetables followed by british pancakes, the thin kind, sprinkled with sugar and a wee bit of lemon juice, folded up and topped off with some ice cream. so tasty. my goodness.

watching rugby makes me want to tackle someone.