1. I was standing on the jet-way, waiting for my carry-on bag, which did not fit on the small AA-operated short-hop plane from ABQ to Dallas. I was first in line, so I could see everyone deplaning. I noticed a thin woman with short grey hair and a pointed nose: she seemed the quintessential single retired traveler. Sensibly dressed, wearing good walking shoes and a backpack, she seemed like B's Tante Helga, grey, spare, wiry, intelligent, and focused. I met her a few moments later on the shuttle to Terminal D, the place for international flights. We got into conversation because there were issues with the shuttle: a large and genial airport employee had us all evacuate and the shuttle was sent on its way empty. We waited, talking of our upcoming journeys, as two more empty shuttles zipped by. She was en route to a coach tour, via Berlin, with a final destination in Budapest, where she planned to see a 50-year retrospective of photographer Peter Korniss. In between my various trips to the agent counter, getting my ticket problem resolved, we spent the 3-hour wait looking at his black and white photographs of a changing peoples. She actually had met the artist, because her Tesuque Gallery had run an exhibit of his work, many years back, and she owned a few of his photographs. It's always interesting to meet like-minded individuals so serendipitously. It appears I'm not the only person who travels to see art. It reminded me of the time in 1999 when I traveled the Lake District and Yorkshire, tracking down Andy Goldsworthy Millennial project works and locations. A little obsession helps to focus a trip, and you meet some unexpected people. My current trip doesn't have that sort of focus, but it does have the flexibility of being open to the unexpected. I think that I'm noticing people as well as art, light, patterns, smells and sounds. After years of figuring out how I can help people to information or services, I'm now looking for the interaction, the new ideas I can learn.
2. The GWR train from Paddington to Plymouth goes through green hills and along the southern coast. I was so jet-lagged, it was difficult to keep my eyes open. I sat backwards at a table, next to a young man wearing earbuds. He paid no attention to me or the scenery. The elderly couple that boarded at the first stop were more attentive. They were on holiday to visit friends and had packed food for the journey. They read the paper and watched the view and talked quietly between themselves and sipped at bottles of tea. When we passed three canal boats, they explained that they were usually vacation sites. The train filled up with a mix of chatty teens, middle-aged vacationers, and couples. I couldn't suss out what the purpose of travel was for the teens and 20-somethings, but they made up the majority. I saw the white horse and heard one of the teen girls say in a strong accent "look, a horse!" Halfway along, I moved over to a vacated window seat facing forward. Eventually that meant I was watching the coastline. The train followed a cement path along the coast, and the sands and path were full of walkers. I noted lines of short stone or wooden spikes and learned later that they had been placed to prevent silting up. The sun came and went, and I was joined by a young man and woman. They seemed to be mates, not a couple. He sat facing backwards, and she sat next to me. They shared sandwiches and she worked a crossword while he listened to something on his mobile. She shared a clue with the boy, and I smiled, thinking of G and P and their habit of working crosswords together. Eventually I offered a solution, and then I was involved to the end. My big contribution was the word "fatigues" for "military garb." She'd never heard of such a thing.
3. Tavistock market town is one of the few places in England to boast a subscription library, aka, independent library. It's housed to the side of Bedford Square and the Pannier Market, next to the Museum which now takes over the space that used to be the library, above the old gate way. The library is now totally housed in the old reading room on the ground floor. There is nothing imposing about the architecture, furniture, or books. It's a small room. The center is filled by a wooden table, covered in magazines and newspapers, surrounded by wooden chairs. Glass-fronted bookcases line one wall. On the opposite wall are pictures and a fireplace. The wall facing the doorway is a tall window facing the Abbey-turned-Town Hall and the open entry to the Pannier Market. When I visited, a busker was sitting under the window playing a harp and singing folk songs: I recorded her singing The Raggle-Taggle Gypsy and could hear her from inside the library. Three elderly subscribers sat to the right of the door, and a portly gentleman with handlebar mustache, glasses, and a beaming smile greeted me as I entered. It took awhile to learn who he was (the Chairman of the Committee), but he was voluble and welcoming and gave me the history of the library and its collection most happily. It's an archive, but the books are not particularly valuable, being previous library books and not much older than the 1800s. So, there is no climate control, although the glassed in area creates a small microclimate. According to the Chairman, mold is created by a combination of moisture and people germs, so the books are fairly well preserved.
I met Graham, a short octogenarian with a shock of grey-white hair. He held a book up for me so I could photograph the inside cover, where the lending information was stored. It was a memoir of Joshua Reynolds. The books in the Tavistock Subscription Library have been winnowed down to only covered local information, so Reynolds' Devon birth is what put him in the collection. Graham is the Old Man of the Library and still shows up to do some work. He smelled of urine, but was outwardly clean, if rumpled, and he smiled at me with watery blue eyes saying, "no don't take my picture, it'll crack your lens."
The Subscription Library is open to non-subscribers on Saturdays, which is when I visited. I stopped first at the bi-weekly Farmer's Market and picked up Bread of Devon for my host and beetroot, a pasty, and honey for myself. The purchases were dropped on the floor, along with umbrella and walking stick, as I wandered around the table. On display by the door I found a new book by a local author: it was all about the 3-hare motif. Apparently the Tavistock church is one of many Devon locations for the motif, so I took a picture of the map in the book and plan to roam the moors, looking for rabbits. This assumes I get over my nervousness about driving a stick shift through English country lanes.
Towards the end of my hour-long visit, a woman newly-moved to Mary Tavy came in to research her home. As I left, she was filling out the membership application and receiving the code to the door (a punch button affair.) If I'd wanted, I could have wangled the code out of the Chairman, but I decided to not take advantage of his good nature.
4. My first sight of Brangwyn Cottage came through the arch of a viaduct. It's concrete/stone house, buried in greenery, surrounded by crenelated stone walls. Plants line the walls and the house, and a green lawn fills in the bowl. There's a messy orchard with long grass and leaning apple trees next to the kitchen and a walled garden below that. You walk through an arch in the wall, down some slippery stone stairs to a door at the far end and further down a grassy bramble tunnel to reach the old Abbey area and market. Walking up the hill takes you to the entrance of the viaduct trail. The viaduct used to be a railway bridge, and now it's a cycling/running/dogwalking haven. The viaduct has high stone walls over which I can view the town. After that, the paved trail is like a green roofless tunnel, with water running to one side and granite cliffs filled with mosses and other wet area plants. Occasionally one passes beneath a high road through a short tunnel: I usually sing a high note to hear the echo. It feels like hiking in the Gorge, without the hills. Sadly, the dogs don't seem to want to go all the way down the trail. Perhaps it's the rain.
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