“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #4: Eachtraí in Éirinn (Adventures in Ireland)

Ballycarbery Castle, Ireland

Skylark B&B
Hounslow, London - England
and
Casa MarandAr
Santa Barbara, CA. - USA

Sleepy and disoriented, we peered blearily through the coach windows at the all-too-familiar florescent faces of Burger King, KFC and that syrupy siren, Starbucks. What? Had we driven through some strange portal and ended up at an Omaha rest stop? Nope— here we were in the English countryside somewhere outside Birmingham at 10pm, about a quarter of the way through our epic, 12 hour coach-and-ferry journey from London to Dublin… and here was Colonel Sanders, inviting us in for a lovely cuppa and some fried wings with chips! (We had blueberries and water from Waitrose Market.)

What struck me most about Dublin was the smell: petrol and diesel fumes, and raw fish wafting out of Asian markets, and suspicious sewer odors, and Guinness and the cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes! (Granted, as I had a chest cold my sensitivity was probably heightened, but I felt like I needed a surgical mask just walking around the place.) The only reason we’d even booked a few nights there was in order to do day trips to the nearby sites of Glendalough and the Hill of Tara, however since I was under the weather we ended up spending our time alternately napping, drinking tea, watching British reality TV (ludicrous/amusing in a whole different way from American reality TV), and roaming the streets in search of viable sustenance. The most entertaining bit was when we went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 at nearby “Cineworld,” and a world it was: with 5 levels, over 15 screens, a game room, a full bar, and a Ben & Jerry’s counter! The lobby looked like an airport, with films and show times listed on computer screens and miles of rope stanchions for people to queue in. (Apparently Dublin has the highest rate of cinema-goers in Europe.)

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon we were high-tailing it out of the city in our sporty black Peugeot rental car. (“Where can I get one of these in the states?” Marlon wants to know, and indeed— the car with the “zombie lion” emblem couldn’t be more appropriate for a metal head Leo!) We made it to Co. Cork on the southern coast of Ireland that night, and the colorful village of Clonakilty, where our room at the Bay View B&B literally had a bay view (and a cow view, which was nearly as exciting)! The next morning we woke to our first Irish rain and made our way west, along the wet, winding country lanes to the Drombeg stone circle (which couldn’t have looked more mysterious and alluring in the mist if a Hollywood set designer had conceived it). Drastically smaller than either Avebury or Stonehenge at only 9 meters in diameter, Drombeg had a wonderfully intimate feel, and also a preserved sense of sanctity and purpose that was truly special, with vestiges such as flowers and beads from recent private rituals. There I felt a wonderful connection with St./Goddess Brigid, which pleased me as I had been feeling too poorly the previous day to stop by her renowned well in Kildare.

Drombeg Stone Circle

After a night in Kenmare (which was notable mainly because the B&B only had a twin left so we slept like a couple from a 1950s sitcom, with a night stand between us: “Goodnight Ricky!” “Goodnight Lucy!”), we headed out onto the Kerry Peninsula. The 179 kilometer “Ring of Kerry” is one of the most popular of Ireland’s scenic drives, a route of sprawling pasturelands and picturesque coastal hamlets, of colorful cliffs and hills with “teeth”: jagged layers of rock jutting somewhat incongruously out of emerald carpets and flaxen mermaids’ hair, on which sheep perch stoically. The highlight of the peninsula was the ruins of Ballycarbery Castle (an excellent recommendation by Devon), where we spent over an hour scaling narrow winding staircases, peeking into yawning chasms, waving to the startled cows through beautiful arched windows, and taking pictures of each other in a variety of theatrical poses ranging from merry to melancholy to “metal.” (We wished fervently we could teleport Marlon’s drummer and bassist there, for some truly epic band photos!) Another highlight was Staigue Fort, an imposing circular stone structure which was pretty neat, but what endlessly amused me was the fact that we were the last in a line of seven cars filing up the road to the site, to the epic radio accompaniment of a selection from the opera “Carmen”!

Dingle

When we entered the smaller Dingle Peninsula, we literally drove out of charcoal rain and into crystal sunshine, blinded by the brilliant emerald, lime and jade that greeted us. (Is Dingle really greener than the rest of Ireland? we wondered, Or is this just the first bit we’ve seen in sunlight?) The lush fields soon gave way to sandy bluffs and sapphire seas, and the charming, laid back town of Dingle, comfortably snuggled between hill and ocean and appropriately, a sister city of Santa Barbara. (The sculpture of Dingle’s famous resident wild dolphin, “Fungie,” that sits in their harbor was created by Bud Bottoms, sculptor of several iconic pieces around Santa Barbara including the dolphin fountain at Stearns Wharf.) The B&B we’d been recommended by one of our Kerry hosts was full, so we tried the B&B a few cottages down, where a typically Irish older gentleman opened the yellow door, gave us a long appraising look, and said rather ominously, “I have one room… You might like it…” He then led us around the back and showed us a gorgeous, bright room right on the water, with a private patio embraced by wildflowers. Gee, we guess it’ll work!

I confess that there have been a couple occasions on this trip, after a looooong day of travel, where I have found myself sinfully desiring the anonymity and predictability of a Motel 6, where the most complicated question you’ll have to field from the desk clerk is, “Smoking or Non-Smoking?” However the B&Bs, their stewards and their guests have repeatedly proven that quite silly with their memorable warmth, genuine hospitality, and quirky Character! Every experience is different and unique (with the possible exception of breakfast, which is pretty firm at juice and cereal, or the “Full Irish”: fried eggs, sausage, Irish bacon, tomato, toast and—if you’re really lucky—blood sausage), however there are a few B&Ber archetypes that one meets again and again… Like the Snorer, whose wife you keep telepathically prompting to give him a good shove; the Guy Who Charges into Shared Toilet without Knocking (always, always, always lock); and the Hoofers, those perfectly nice and normal people who inexplicably make sounds like bulls break-dancing when in their room. And then there’s that Sweet Older Couple that just sits smiling serenely at each other through out breakfast without saying a word, who you’re pretty sure you want to go home with and have milk and cookies and hear bedtime stories!

We stayed 2 nights in Dingle and had the greatest time, touring the Oceanworld Aquarium, eating at the vegetarian café, shopping the local handcrafted goods, and sitting on the bench outside the Marina Inn, where we could both hear the live Irish music playing inside and enjoy the sea view. (Pubs in Ireland are truly communal and seem to encompass the sidewalk and street as well as the interior, with folks hanging out curbside with pints in hand, and occasionally toddlers on hip as well… By that same token, there are no “sleepy” little villages in Ireland— no matter how tiny, every single one of them has a pub which merrymakers will be making their way merrily home from at 2am!)

Cliffs of Moher

Heading north towards the Cliffs of Moher, we crossed the Shannon River into Co. Clare and passed through the charming surf community of Lahinch (a surf community in Ireland? Abso-freezing-lutely!). Devon and Terry had told us about a “secret” back way in to the Cliffs of Moher, so with great relief we bypassed the zoo of coaches at the entrance and wound through the little farm lanes, passing by foot through three gates and a field full of cows (who seemed downright perplexed by our adoring attention). Eventually we emerged on a positively breath-taking plateau 700 ft. above the ocean, with kaleidoscopic cliffs plummeting below us and parading down the coast as far as the eye could see, wearing crowns of silver and tawny grass and purple wildflowers. This was the rugged, windswept Ireland I had been anticipating, and I felt deeply, deeply blessed and grateful to be able to experience it in such an authentic way!

From there we headed into The Burren, a downright alien-looking limestone landscape where, word has it, exotic wildflowers and orchids grow out of fissures and crevices in the rock. Unfortunately we wouldn’t know, because we made it about a hundred feet down the trail in the horizontal rain with our umbrella bucking like an animal in the wind before conceding an indoor activity might be more sensible… So we headed to the Burren Perfumery (another great recommendation by Devon), from which we emerged smelling extremely attractive, if we do say so ourselves, after sampling the oils, creams and perfumes made on site (secretly I thought flower essences made from the native Burren plants would have been even more interesting).

Then it was on to Galway. Arriving at rush hour, we had a hell of a time trying to negotiate the one-way streets and find vacancies, but eventually found the Red Gate B&B, where a teddy bear of a man with a red beard and only three teeth that we could see gave us an enthusiastic welcome, and his last room (another twin… “Goodnight Darin!” “Goodnight Samantha!”). That night we enjoyed uncommonly delicious pub food and phenomenal Irish music and dancing at “The King’s Head,” supposedly named because the building’s original owner was responsible for beheading King Charles I (apparently the English wanted a non-English executioner)!

Galway

En route back to Dublin, we rather impulsively decided to spend a night in the Midlands, a decidedly less touristy part of the country with an authentic heartland feel. We ended up in the pleasant village of Birr in Co. Offaly, where completely incidentally, they were in the middle of their annual Vintage Week and Arts Festival. The most entertaining element of this by far was the “Mongrel Dog Show,” where locals young and old paraded around with their pooches in a generally disorderly, comical and heart-warming fashion, in classes ranging from “Fluffiest Tail” to “Most Gentle” (privately we agreed that if Mom’s dog Bella had been there, she would have swept the lot).

Leap Castle

The next morning we stopped by to play with the ghosts at Leap Castle, supposedly the most haunted castle in Ireland, however Lonely Planet had failed to articulate that it was a private residence! The master of the castle, Mr. Ryan, wasn’t bothered though, and invited us inside by the fire to tell us tales about the place’s original owners, the O’Carroll clan, who were apparently so greedy and quarrelsome they were shipped off to North America (perhaps that explains some of our political problems). Mr. Ryan—a wizard of a man with a gray beard that straddles a line somewhere between Santa Claus and Gandalf—is also a professional tin whistle player, and his wife and daughter both dancers, so we spent a great deal of time also discussing music and the arts!

Back to Dublin for one more night (and back to Juice Restaurant, this time for a banana-pineapple-parsley-spinach smoothie, among other goodies), and then it was back on the Epic ferry-and-coach journey to London, this time during daylight hours and significantly easier. The trip came full circle as we returned to our B&B in Hounslow (aka Little India) where we had initially met up with Devon and Terry… was it really a month ago? After a day spent recuperating and eating a LOT of Indian food, we did indeed head into London, where thankfully despite the recent riots, everything was British-as-usual. At the Tate Modern, we attempted to look as solemn and intellectual as the other patrons as we scrutinized “art” that included red paint splashed on canvas and, as far as we could tell, an entire room devoted to a pile of sunflower seeds. The highlight was Monet’s "Water Lilies" and of course, our very reason for being there, Raoul Dufy’s “Kessler Family on Horseback”, circa 1932! There were Marlon’s grandmother, great grandparents and great aunts and uncles, memorialized forever in paint for everyone to see and keeping very good company, just feet away from Rodin’s “The Kiss”! It was amazing to think of all of the family history this painting had witnessed, hanging in the Kessler home for fifty years… How incredible.

And that brings us to the conclusion of this particular MarandAr Odyssey. Our hearts over-flow with gratitude for the myriad blessings, perhaps the biggest being returning Home with an even greater appreciation for the everyday blessings! Thank you all as always for taking this journey with us (and having the stamina for some exceptionally long Logs, even by my standards!). (In addition, I have broken my own picture-taking record. Uh-oh...)

;) With love and gratitude, Always, Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #3: The Southern England Mystery Tour

The Roman Baths

Lynch's Cafe
Galway - Ireland

According to legend, the healing properties of the natural thermal springs at Bath were “discovered” by King Bladud around 863BC, when his skin disease was cured after bathing in the waters (or possibly when his pigs were cured of leprosy after a romp in the mud, depending who you ask). Today, the springs can be enjoyed in two ways: by touring the 2,000 year old Roman Baths, and by experiencing the mineral waters firsthand at the nearby, state-of-the-art “Thermae Spa.”

We arrived after a fairly harrowing time negotiating the trains, during which we were rerouted out of our way to Didcot Parkway (however as soon as we pulled in and saw the nuclear power plant situated less than a mile from the station, we knew we were there on a Divine Mission and happily sat on the platform playing guitar, singing and dropping flower essences until our train arrived). We were also suffering from a mild case of PRD (Post Reunion Depression), so we decided it would be in our best interest to start at the Thermae Spa, a futuristic building of glass and stone appearing like an alien mother ship that’s landed among its historical honey-stoned neighbors. There, we were tempted to use the provided foam noodles at the Minerva Bath as light sabers- or alternatively, laser controls for our rocket ships- but we figured that wouldn’t be appropriate in a spa setting. Instead we enjoyed floating in the built-in current and ogling the city views from the rooftop pool, followed by a visit to the Steam Room, where each chamber had a different aromatherapy scent!

First thing the next morning it was off to tour the impressive Roman Baths, followed by the most mysterious (and mystifying) part of our Mystery Tour: getting around in our rental car. As I am dangerous enough behind the wheel of a manual even under normal circumstances, Marlon the Manual Master deftly tackled driving on the left side while I “navigated,” which essentially involved frantically scanning signs as we entered a roundabout and then screaming, “Right!” or “Second Left!” or “I have no idea—go around again!” And around we’d go. (For whatever reason the English rarely put compass directions on their signs, such as East or West; they say “A330 towards Brandyshire” or “R597 towards Wheedleton,” so essentially if you don’t know your England geography, you’re royally screwed. Additionally, there are no signs indicating what road you’re actually on at the moment, so you might think you’re on the A330 towards Brandyshire, but in fact you’re on the A445 towards Sheepbury, and the only indicator you’ll ever have of that is when arriving in Sheepbury going, “#$%*!”)

Glastonbury Tor

Next on the itinerary was a night in the New Age-y hamlet of Glastonbury, which aside from being considered one of the planet’s most potent spiritual energy centers, is believed to be the mythical Isle of Avalon and the hiding place of the Holy Grail, among other things. We found the village a bit claustrophobic and the “vegetarian” restaurants somewhat of a joke, at least as far as breakfast is concerned (tofu sausage, beans and mushrooms, anyone? How about some 25% juice?), but the legendary Tor did not disappoint! I practically danced up the 521 ft. high hill, frequently pulled off the path to converse with the sixth-dimensional Ladies in White, priestesses of Avalon, and the third-dimensional sheep (who were actually one and the same). Afterwards we refilled both our water bottles and our spirits at the impressively beautiful and serene Chalice Well & Gardens, before it was back to the roundabouts!

We pulled into Avebury in the early evening, when the sun was low enough to give the standing stones a warm candlelight cast. (They say in ancient times, Glastonbury and Avebury were linked by a sacred track, which is now a narrow country highway… Was that the route we took? We have no bloody idea, but we like to think it was!) As promised, our B&B—along with a portion of the village—was actually inside the monumental stone circle, which was additionally quartered by the main road and highway (one can only assume the village was built during a time of anti-pagan sentiment… ya think?). We spent all that evening and the next morning playing among the stones— and with the sheep, who served the material purpose of keeping the weeds down and the spiritual purpose of acting as guardians to the site. Periodically one of them would baa plaintively for up to several minutes, until answered by another sheep across the field; then the first sheep would break into a mad dash, throw itself to its knees before the second sheep, and start suckling wildly, its cotton ball tail wagging like a puppy dog’s the entire time! (Sometimes two would even do this simultaneously, to great effect.)

While the presence and energy of the individual stones was still very much intact and they each had a distinct personality I would have happily chatted with all day, the energy and integrity of the circle as a whole felt markedly broken, or nonexistent. (Apparently the majority of the stones were buried or moved by the medieval church and an archaeologist restored the henges to the best of his ability in the 1930s.) To the best of my own ability, I redrew lines and filled in gaps in the circle with flower essences, and Marlon and I laid our hands on the stones and whispered to them.

Avebury

Around noon the next day we hiked across the cow pastures to view Silbury Hill, the largest artificial mound in Europe, believed to have been built to represent a pregnant goddess. However as soon as we arrived we were distracted by something imprinted in the wheat field on the other side of the highway. “Look…” “What the…” “Is that a… ?”

I always imagined that when I saw a crop circle it would be like lightening: a hair raising, flesh pimpling, electric zing of higher consciousness, and that sense of being touched by something greater and beyond one’s understanding that leaves a lasting impact (I’ve had a similar experience even just viewing images of genuine crop circles). We stood on the hill gazing over at what appeared to be a crop circle before our very eyes, and we said: “Hm.”

“It looks like ET Junior got a hold of Daddy’s toys,” Marlon remarked. The shape did seem rather elementary: a solid circle surrounded by two rings. And the edges seemed… sloppy. Things were further confused when a local man came by walking his dog and said, “Oh yes, that’s a crop circle. The man who used to make them died a few years ago so I don’t know who’s doin’ ‘em now, but there you go.” The man who used to make them died a few years ago?! With a statement like that, we could have just as easily been talking about ceramic squirrels as massive geometric shapes mysteriously appearing in the middle of the countryside.

Nonetheless, we had to go see for ourselves. And ladies and gentlemen, I am sad to report that it was a genuine “crock circle”: the wheat stalks were broken, big tufts were sticking up all over the place, and above all, it just felt energetically dead and uninteresting, like tractors and smirks. I was heartbroken, and sulkily complained to the heavens, why couldn’t I see a real crop circle… to which I received the rather wry reply that the girl who sees spirits and talks to rocks isn’t really their target demographic! I’m here to do the waking, not have the luxury of being woken. And— there would be other opportunities.

Last on our itinerary was of course, the quintessential site of Stonehenge. Initially I was horrified by the thick caterpillar of bodies carouseling around the monument, however once we made the commitment to go in, we flew on angel’s wings, in full MarandAr Style: a couple on the way out handed us their tickets so we had free admission, and we magically had a good five feet of personal, tourist-free space directly in front of the henge for picture taking (or perhaps we were just that smelly)!

It's been a week or so out in the Wild Irish West, without (convenient) Wi-Fi... We are in the edgy bohemian city of Galway now, with a couple more nights on the Emerald Isle before we head back to the England capitol for our final few days before flying out. Apparently there are riots in London (how unEnglish!) so we may spend our time hiding out in our B&B on the outskirts... I will be disappointed if we do not make it to the Tate Gallery and some other quintessential city sights, but on the plus side, I may be able to actually finish up the trip, Log-wise, before we leave European soil!

Love and genuine Irish blessings to all of you,
Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #2: The Kesslers and the Cotswolds (Part 2)

Lost in the Cotswolds

Juice Restaurant
Dublin - Ireland

I am counting on at least a few of our days in Ireland being exceedingly dull so I can catch up with myself! And thank you to all of you as always for your kind comments about the Logs- I'm glad to be entertaining others besides myself and Marlon with these epics.

Before we continue with the Reunion, I need to mention that I am writing you from the mecca of vegetarians and vegans (and those that are neither but consider there to be more than two food groups on the planet and like to partake in them once and awhile), "Juice" Restaurant / Juice Bar / Free Wi-fi Spot! We washed up here like 2 castaways on the shore of a tropical treasure island, exhausted and nearly drowned by Dublin's roiling sea of grunge and grime, and goblins in the form of confrontational street Weirdos. (And me with a chest cold after our nightmare experience on the over-nite ferry, surrounded by unfortunate individuals hacking and coughing moistly.) I nearly fainted away in the street when reading their menu: fresh squeezed juices, smoothies, dishes and dishes of vegan options, and- what do you know!- there actually are other teas in this part of the world besides English Breakfast! And Bob Marley on the stereo. Thank you Lonely Planet. :)

On with the Reunion:

Day 3 dawned clear and sunny to everyone’s relief, as we had weather-dependent activities that morning: Marlon was off to a local activity center for quad biking, skeet shooting, archery and reverse steer buggies, while Devon and I were headed over to the Jill Carenza Equestrian Centre for a “hack” (trail ride).

The Kesslers are a historically horsey family (Raoul Dufy paintings of Oma, her siblings and parents on horseback hang in the Museum of Modern Art in Paris and the Tate Gallery in London, respectively!), but I was still surprised by the large number of us signed up for the ride: 16 in all, a veritable cavalry! The staff at the stable outfitted us with compulsory helmets and “back protectors,” which resemble bullet proof vests at best and life jackets at worst. (Considering that ordinarily I don’t even bother with a saddle, let alone body gear, I found it all a bit fussy- however later on when we were careening down narrow lanes between 1-foot thick stone walls, I admit it was a comfort). I was paired with “Captain,” a huge, graceful dark Thoroughbred who took his name very seriously and attempted to race to the front and lead the charge at every opportunity!

"Kessler Family on Horseback" by Raoul Dufy, 1932

We passed through the picturesque village of Stanton and climbed up into the hills, crossing fields scattered with sheep and overlooking a breathtaking quilt of emerald, gold, russet and lavender. And we rode. We rode like the Nazgûl were chasing us, galloping up hills, whipping along narrow country lanes bordered by grass as tall as our horses’ shoulders, and diving into woods so dense that branches flew at our faces. It was positively thrilling, and well worth the saddle sores! (Unfortunately Marlon’s experience at the activity center was not quite so thrilling due to bitchy archery instructors and boring tracks, but at least he and his cousins bonded over the disappointment, not to mention the humorous retelling of their exaggerated yawns while they rode quads around in a circle like kids on a pony ride.)

The event that many had been most anticipating, and which there was perhaps most discussion about, was the traditional Family Football (soccer) Match on the morning of Day 4. Apparently an important part of this tradition was for the English, Dutch and Costa Ricans to kick the sorry bums of the “Yanks,” however considering that there were only 6 Americans signed up and none of them had played since the Holland Reunion, in my opinion this would not be much of a testament to skill, let alone sportsmanship (and I said so). Besides, wasn’t part of the whole point of the Reunions to bring different nationalities together and develop relationships? (And the excuse that “mixed” teams would diminish competitiveness was a lame one, as the teams for Quiz Night had been mixed and there had been what I would go so far as to term a juvenile amount of competitiveness in that activity.)

After a fair amount of controversy in the days leading up to the match, the official announcement was made at the Formal Dinner the night before: the teams would be mixed. (This was met with about 5 seconds of stunned silence, and then a solitary pair of hands rang out in applause: mine. I was on my own for another agonizing few seconds, and then others trickled in and gradually the room filled with clapping.) And everyone had to admit, it was a truly exciting match! All four teams (each with 11 players and a variety of nationalities) were fantastically equally matched, and every game was won by only one point (with the exception of the first, which was a draw).

(...I am tempted to order four more rounds of my apple, carrot, beetroot and ginger juice, but at €4.50 a pop, I should probably refrain...)

That afternoon was another thoroughly speculated about event (those Kesslers like to end with a bang), the “SURPRISE” activity. Right away the coach driver got fairly lost and drove us all out of the way for which he apologized profusely, but we assured him this only added to our sense of suspense! Finally we pulled into the narrow, tree-lined gravel drive of a private estate.

And there, set up picturesquely in the middle of a green field, was our very own circus.

Giffords Circus

(Actually it was Giffords Circus, an English company renowned for their vintage themes and theatrical storytelling, as well as serving high quality food with fresh local ingredients.) Friendly people in period dress greeted us with trays of champagne and appetizers, and for the little ones there was a cotton candy booth and essentially a carousel ride, but with swings. Shortly atmospheric music by the phenomenal band lured us all into the big tent, where tables had been set up in a semi-circle around a circus ring with a superb stage set. Every detail- from the vases of marjoram on the tables to the hand-painted dishware to the artful banners and murals- was exquisite, and enveloped us wholly in their world (perhaps another place in time, perhaps another dimension). Best of all, naturally, was the show: an imaginative circus-style telling of Tolstoy’s classic “War and Peace,” replete with a clown, fire jugglers, an aerial silks performer, a knife thrower, a death-defying gymnast and live horses! And in the middle of it all they served us a wholesome meal, followed afterwards by ice cream from a local Cotswolds creamery (where, I should mention, the cows spend their days happily grazing in idyllic Cotswolds pastures).

 

It was the perfect culmination of a perfect four days, but it was bittersweet as we all understood that the unique magic that brought so many individuals together from different parts of the globe was coming to an end. The activities and events had been extraordinary and I had actually been brought to tears on more than a few occasions by the humbling privilege of the experiences- however I have to say that above all what made the Reunion such an honor to attend, was the people. Every single one of them friendly, warm, witty and interesting to talk to, and gracious yet refreshingly non-chalant about all of the fanfare and luxury that was part of the Kessler experience (at least as often as every three years).

Now Marlon and I were off to start our romantic duet portion of this European symphony, which we were looking forward to but which nonetheless felt strange after being part of a grand orchestra for so many days. How odd that from now on the other guests in our hotels, the other diners at our meals, the other passengers on our coaches, would be strangers (at least to begin with)!

I will leave you there. Next up: The Southern England Mystery Tour!

With lots of love, Arielle & Marlon

“Tempesteuros, Vol. II,” E-Log #1: The Kesslers and the Cotswolds (Part 1)

Broadway, England

The Crown (Glastonbury Backpackers)
Glastonbury, Somerset - England

Once upon a time (in 2005), two new young lovers embarked on a journey. It was a journey so epic, so ambitious, so entirely without hotel reservations, that few couples come out the other side without having invoked the dreaded Silent Treatment (or worse): they backpacked across Europe for two months with only one another for company. It was a journey with only one stipulation: get from Athens to Amsterdam in 8 weeks, though as those of you who read the Logs know, it was soon to become an epic beach safari, the Quest for Laundry, the Quest for the Perfect Salad, an ode to gelato, and many other things, most of them involving tomatoes and nearly all of them being in the same elbow space as Everybody Else and their mother, cousin, sister, and aunt.

Now, six years later, it is time once again for one of the renowned, if notorious, Kessler Family Reunions, this time to be held in Broadway, England, and which this time- after much successive hoop-jumping and a urine test (kidding…about the urine part)- the heroine will also be permitted to attend. Thus, our young lovers find themselves back in Europe, older and, surely, infinitely wiser…


I’ve had “Werewolves of London” in my head for six days. Is that really the only song I know about Britain?

In contrast to our last two international trips, I am pleased to report that the journey here went incredibly smoothly. The only bit of trouble we had was when we arrived in Hounslow and spent a ridiculous fifteen minutes wheeling our luggage back and forth through the puddles, trying to locate the hotel where we were to meet Devon (Marlon’s mom) and Terry… Silly us, we actually thought the street numbers would be sequential!

After a quintessentially English cup of tea during which Devon and Terry regaled us with tales and tips from their last ten days in Ireland, we caught the “tube” (subway) into the West End of London. Getting off at Piccadilly Circus (I was expecting clowns and elephants but apparently it’s not that kind of circus), we strolled Trafalgar Square, admired the iconic silhouette of “Big Ben” in the distance, and got directions from a “bobby” (police officer) for where we could find really good Indian food (and it was… There is a surprisingly- to me- large Indian population here, especially in Hounslow, where our hotel was run by a very nice Indian family and where the unexpected sight of a Bollywood movie poster on the side of a bus queue nearly got me left behind by the group and run over.)

The next morning we hopped the tube back to Heathrow International to meet the private Family-hired “coach” (bus) that was to take us to the Reunion, along with Marlon's uncle, aunt and a smattering of cousins that had just flown in from California and southern France, respectively. We then proceeded to spend the entire hour and a half ride in fits of laughter as they all reminisced about some of the more outrageous antics at previous Reunions (stolen bikes in Switzerland, too much tequila in Costa Rica, sex shows in Amsterdam, and face-plants in Vancouver, to name a few).

Lygon Arms Hotel

The village of Broadway in the heart of the Cotswolds charmed one immediately: all stone walls and gabled roofs and pristine lawns and distinguished couples strolling High Street with their ice cream cones. The Family had booked us all at the Lygon Arms (literally all 106 guests were part of the Reunion and it was closed to the public), one of the oldest hotels in England with records dating back to 1532 and ties to several distinguished military members throughout history. Initially I was disappointed that our room was in the newer part of the hotel and not the original building, but considering the strong level of paranormal energy evident in the main house, in the end I figure I slept much better being removed from it all!

Day 1 of the Reunion started with a group of us (namely those with kids and those who act like kids) heading off to the Cotswold Falconry Center, where we had the privilege of seeing several enchanting birds of prey, including Eagles, Falcons, Hawks, Vultures and Owls, as well as an impressive flying demonstration where the handler’s accent was nearly as engaging as the show itself.

That afternoon it was off to “Sphering,” which none of us had heard of before but essentially involves careening down a hill in something that resembles a huge hamster ball. (Let’s be honest, I was never going as anything but a spectator.) There are two different types of Sphering, both of which were available: Harness or Eclipse Sphering, where two people are harnessed to the inside of the ball and sent careening down a hill, and Aqua Sphering, where up to three individuals lie down in the base of the ball in a pool of water, which theoretically keeps them in place as the ball spins around them while careening down a hill. (It could be described as an extreme sport under any circumstances, even without the chilly rain that started immediately after we arrived and continued intermittently all afternoon!) In order to get inside the ball, one literally had to run and dive through a hole in the side, which was especially entertaining in the case of the Aqua Spherers, as they all screamed when entering the freezing water. (“Eh, they’re just puttin’ it on!” scoffed our facilitator with an ironic smile, having assured us beforehand that the water was heated.) Perhaps the most collectively enjoyable aspect of the event was that we were invited- nay, encouraged- to help shove our family members down the hill when it was their turn in the sphere!

"SphereMania"

It should be mentioned that this spectacle was occurring in the middle of the English countryside, literally with three cows watching from the bottom of the hill (apparently they had escaped from a neighboring farm and simply refused to be rounded up- and why should they, with such ready entertainment available to them?). The reactions of those emerging after the Harness Sphering ranged from deathly pale and sickly to ecstatic and grinning (Marlon being one of the few of the latter), but the Aqua Sphering seemed universally enjoyed, despite everyone being blue with cold!

That night was “Quiz Night” in the Great Hall, where we were all assigned to a table for dinner that was to be our “team.” A few of us were nervous we’d have to answer family trivia questions- or worse, be asked to recite everyone’s name- but topics were general pop culture stuff in three rounds: “People,” “World,” and “Random.” Our team was unequivocally the Rowdy Table, which was partly due to the fact that we had a Bingley brother and partly because we were next to the Kids’ Table and kept trying to call each other out for using mobile technology to cheat!

Berkeley Castle

Day 2 was Marlon’s 30th birthday and we were off to see a castle! In usual Kessler style, we had the place entirely to ourselves, and after tea and biscuits in the Tea Room, the private guided tour began. Berkeley Castle is perhaps most renowned for being the site of King Edward II’s imprisonment and murder by his wife Queen Isabella (actually a refreshing change from the usual King-with-ten-mistresses beheads wife for making eye contact with another man), but there are two other facts that make it unique and, in my opinion, more interesting: the same family has lived there for nearly 900 years and its descendants still reside in a wing of the castle; and Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” (indisputably my favorite by the Bard) had its first performance there in the Great Hall!

Almost immediately after I entered the castle, I was aware of the spirit of a woman, who linked arms with me and whispered conspiratorially like a long lost girlfriend. I was trying to make an impression of some semblance of sanity on Marlon’s family so I felt that I needed to stay grounded in the present and couldn’t tune in with her as I desired, but she was simply delightful and so was the home for which she obviously had a great love, which felt considerably more warm and cozy than your average castle. (Later our guide revealed that the current Mrs. Berkeley, mistress of the castle, has spoken with conviction of having a friendly ghost that follows her around.) The Keep on the opposite side of the courtyard where the dungeon and King Edward II’s cell was located had an entirely different energy however, cold and crawly and not really worth detailing.

Next up was pre-dinner cocktails at Broadway Tower. Everyone enjoyed the stunning view from the top, which is said to encompass thirteen counties, however only the Europeans enjoyed the “pims,” some sort of gin concoctions with fruit. (I had my own little adventure getting there, as I had wanted to join the group that was walking from the hotel however they had already left so I ended up wandering through a maze of sheep, pastures and gates trying to find the correct footpath. Fortunately I soon ran into Marlon’s second cousin and his girlfriend who were also attempting the walk and we sorted it out.)

Dinner was at the pristine home of the remarkable hostess and planner of this particular Reunion. It was only a few blocks walk from the hotel, along a pretty little lane bordered by stone walls and attractive homes that straddled a line somewhere between cottage and estate (I can only imagine what the neighbors thought, seeing our 100-strong throng shuffle by). When we arrived we were directed around to the back, where a large dining tent, live band, clown, juggler and three different carnival booths were set up there on the lawn behind the flower beds! The BBQ buffet was followed by Marlon's Birthday Cake, which was followed by many valiant and humorous efforts in The Strong Man Game, or "High Striker", where one attempts to ring the bell at the top by striking the appropriate spot with a mallet (it turns out more a game of precision than strength). Pretty surreal to play such classic carnival games for indefinite periods of time without ever having to fork over money or tickets!

Because the battery is almost dead and this is reaching novel proportions, TO BE CONTINUED in Part 2...

Infinite love to all of you,
Arielle & Marlon