The Pilgrim's Way.

Lindisfarne is known as the Holy Island. It turns out that this place, back in the 7th c., was full of learning and industry and, relatively speaking, wealth. It's where the Lindisfarne Gospels were produced. And the Vikings, those axe-wielding, longboat riding Vikings, busted it all up. It's fairly riveting as medieval religious stories go, since in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, it's reported that in 793 when the Vikings struck,

'In this year dire portents appeared over Northumbria and sorely frightened the people. They consisted of immense whirlwinds and flashes of lightening, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the air. A great famine immediately followed those signs and a little after that in the same year, on 8 June, the ravages of heathen men miserably destroyed God’s church on Lindisfarne, with plunder and slaughter.'

[Side note: among my excellent company today, which included a son-in-law educated in Scotland, a daughter who was an English major, and three Scottish schoolchildren--and the historian!--I was the only one who ever heard of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Frankly, I could not believe this, the people. On the other hand, my granddaughter said under her breath, 'dragons are real.' Thank you, Anglo-Saxon Chronicler!]
Anyway: as my daughter pointed out today, in the past two days, I've had the chance to do two things I have long wanted to do--visit Jupiter Artland, and walk from the mainland across the causeway at low tide to Lindisfarne. And visit the ruined priory, etc.
Yesterday, I was trying to size up the actual length and walking conditions of the walk. I thought I had read that it was about a mile. Piece of cake. But then I read somewhere a length of five miles, which isn't a big deal except that you have to get on and off the island during the hours of low tide, or you're stuck, and while I wanted to have a tiny inkling of that walking the pilgrim's way thing*, I didn't want to do it at the expense of seeing it with my daughter, the historian, my grandchildren. Also, the description of the five miles mentioned mud. And I only brought one pair of shoes on this road trip. (NOTE TO SELF: one pair of shoes is NEVER A GOOD IDEA.)
Last night at dinner, I said to my son-in-law, 'The good news is, I've made up my mind not to worry about the walking. I mean, I would like to do the walk, but I don't want to make a fetish of it, and the more important thing is going to the island.'
Sensibly, he pointed out that we could just check it out when we got there this morning. Of course. Just wait and see. And when we arrived this morning, the weather was beautiful, the length of the walk was clearly just under a mile, and they agreed they'd be glad to drive to the other side while the historian and I walked. Perfect.
So my one pair of shoes and the historian and I walked across the causeway:

and it was glorious.
***
When we got there, we saw this

and also this:

and also this:

Let it be noted in the Chronicles: this was a great day.

(and also: dragons are real.)

*It should be noted: the actual Pilgrim's Way is not the causeway--you have to follow markers, and it's longer, and--it must be said--muddier. Full disclosure: I took the easy way. The one pair of shoes way. Definitely, I did.

More river.

Today, we did another piece of the Jordan River walk, between 4800 South and 3900 South and back. Because the historian rides along the river all the time, he knows what are the charms of each segment, and he did not recommend this bit highly. "It's right up against some apartments on one side," he said, "and on the other side there's some industrial stuff."

But in this project, I am a little bit literal minded. I want to walk all the parts, pretty or no. I want to see the whole thing, preferably in order. So off we went.

It reminded me a little bit of the L.A. River, the part we walked when we were there last May, by the Glendale Narrows. Industrial/railroad on one side, residential on the other, big deep culvert with hardly any water for a lot of it, but the parts with water, deep down in the culvert, were so beautiful, and the more beautiful for where they were situated. The river today was high, so there were no dry parts as in L.A. It rushed and poured in between the apartments and the warehouses, and there were some gorgeous meanders and plant life, and a few birds.

The historian is right about this segment, but it also seemed to have its beauties.

 

Signifying dog.

Tonight, for a variety of reasons, we couldn't take Bruiser for his evening constitutional. One of those reasons was not the fact that I am watching Lost like it's my job. I'm still in the first season, and I am currently experiencing thoughts that most of America had six years ago, such as, "Matthew Fox . . . dreamy."

HOWEVER. I had just finished with one episode and was about to start the next one, when the historian spoke from the other room. I paused, said, "What?" and he said, "I thought you were done with that episode," and I said, "I was, but I was starting a new one--but do you need to talk?" and at that word--the word that rhymes with "w-a-l-k" (I spelled it, although the B can also spell)--my intelligent canine roused himself from his torpor, and said, effectively, "I know that word: rhymes with walk."

Other signs and portents the B can interpret:

• the putting on of sneakers
• when I say, "so shall we do this?"
• or when I say, "so, what do you think?"
• or when I say, "Okay!"

All these things mean "walk." Walk WALK walk walk walk. The only word that's as important as walk in the Bruiser lexicon is "food," but he prefers that, rather than using the alphabet, we spell this word with actual cheese.

And now, resuming my Lost viewing.

On the town and around the farm.

Friday afternoon, as I was mentally dusting my hands off from the hard work I'd done (textbook review), I dashed out of the house, took the A-train (okay, just the TRAX) and met the historian to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona. It was the kind of film--by which I mean, set in Spain and filled with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz--that made one want to live life to the fullest; this meant that we had a resplendent dinner at one of our old haunts, and a stirring, soulful conversation that lasted for hours.

The next morning we got up and went to the farmer's market. All sorts of doings downtown--Fiesta Days at Washington Square, the Italian Cultural Fair near the Rio Grande Depot, which contraverted our usual parking situation, but never mind. We got peaches, apricots, plums, tomatoes, basil, mint, potatoes, onions, carrots, squash, green and yellow beans, and a watermelon. Cucumbers. We came home, and the historian took Bruiser off for a morning visit to the dog park, while I got on my bike ("The Danger") and took a test ride out near the Bingham Creek Library, taking in less-traveled West Jordan.

After I got back, we got a phone call from the historian's daughter, saying they were going to take a little trip out to Kennecott ("World's Largest Open-Pit Copper Mine"). This seemed like a splendid idea--I had never been, and the historian hadn't been in so long he couldn't remember what it was like. Of course, I forgot my camera which means, on the one hand, that I didn't document any of this; on the other hand, I had a perfectly swell time, less mediated by technology than it would otherwise have been. It was great, and very exciting, because we were told to clear out for a blast at 3:15. On the one hand, we might have had the chance to observe tons of rock that contained about 1% copper, had we just gone to the far end of the parking lot for the duration of the blasting, as we were advised; on the other hand, going for ice cream seemed preferable, so we skedaddled on out of there and had ice cream at Arctic Circle. The boys played on the indoor playground in an entirely delightful way, including the baby clambering up the little slide and sliding back down, backwards and on his belly. And there were huckleberry sundaes to be had. And fries.

After that, the historian and I went home, showered, and set out again, downtown again to a little dinner and a movie. I had what I have come to think of as one of the perfect pizzas at Sicilia pizzeria, just down the street from the Broadway--whole wheat crust, artichokes and spinach and tomatoes and just a little cheese. The historian had spaghetti. The movie was The Edge of Heaven, a German film made by a German-Turkish filmmaker Fatih Akin. This film was truly marvelous. It had virtually no movie stars, with the exception being Hanna Schygulla, now in her 60s and looking it, giving an absolutely revelatory and very moving performance (the link takes you to a "then-and-now" pair of photos). She was a fixture of Fassbinder's films, and it was wonderful to see her again in such an excellent film.

Last night, I thought about writing about all of this, but I kind of didn't want to try to put it into words. I just wanted to enjoy it. And today? I spoke to the Scotlands, made pancakes for breakfast, took Bruiser for a walk, took a spin on my bike--and it's not even noon. Life is good.