Old Old and Really Old

The old and the new: Lynne, the Tower of London and the new London

I was standing in the immense St. John Catholic Church, in Bath, England, swallowed up by its towering dimensions. I was looking skyward at the ornate floral ceiling. The church had been bombed during WWII. I was right by the regally red and gold altar where one of the two curates had died in the bombing. I  reflected on the reconstruction of the magnificent windows. I had a “Wow!” feeling. Amazement that I was there where the bombing had taken place, bringing me closer to yet another moment of the WWII story, a story that speaks to my soul. That was Sunday, October 1, 2017.

The display depicting Churchill
in his War Room office

I found pieces of the WWII story all over England, especially in London. We had descended from street level to tour the underground maze of Churchill’s War Rooms, the underground offices and living quarters from which crusty Winston Churchill directed England’s military response to Germany’s aggression.


We attended Evensong at the landmark St. Paul’s Cathedral, also bombed earlier in WWII, now fully restored as well.

But in the timeline of English history, WWII is “just yesterday.” My perspective on "old" stretched considerably. The Tower of London, where Lynne and I spent several hours, was built after William conquered England in 1066. The Tower had various uses, including as a royal residence, but its infamy comes from having been a state prison from 1066 until 1956. I came home with many photos from the seemingly endless display of shiny, bestudded military armor worn by British soldiers and horses, dating back to 1535. Outside on the green, the Yeoman Warder pointed out the probable spot where Henry VIII had Ann Boleyn beheaded in 1536.

Just one of many examples of armor at the Tower of London 




Recognize this from Harry Potter?
 It is the actual dining hall at Christ Church College in Oxford

Speaking of Henry VIII, we also spent a day in Oxford, visiting Christ Church College, founded by Henry VIII’s alter rex (other king), Thomas Wolsey, in 1525. Walking through the dining room with walls crowded with oil portraits of former headmasters, our guide pointed out the image of red-hatted Cardinal Wolsey. Cardinal Wolsey was the first headmaster. Reportedly, he required his boys to speak Latin during meals.



Yet we were still in modern times, compared to the Roman Baths, in Bath, constructed during the Roman occupation of Britain beginning in 60 AD. Lynne and I walked on the worn stone pathways, around the green-yellow pools of hot mineral water, still bubbling up after thousands of years. We saw the plumbing and drainage system on the lower level, following the stream from its intake to the soaking pools to its final exit. Remnants of the temple of the goddess Sulis-Minerva were on display. The display cases included curse tablets, small pieces of lead inscribed with messages imploring the goddess to curse those who had wronged the author. We also had an upclose view of Roman artifacts a few days earlier in Cirencester. built over the Roman town of Corinium. Extensive and elaborate mosaics have been recovered and put on display in their excellent museum. Ironically, a local regimen of British soldiers marched through the streets of Cirencester as part of the town’s 900th birthday celebration on the day we visited the town.

But none of that is really old. OK, now go back another 2000 years, to 2000 BC. We went to the Blue Hills Tin Streams in Cornwall, where tin had been mined for 4000 years. Yes, think Poldark. We hiked down (and later back up!) a long steep hill to stand next to the stream which flows through the last remaining tin operation. The owner no longer employs female manual laborers (“Bal Maidens”) to” bust” rocks, but the midden of discarded rocks that rose from the hillside beside us gave witness to their work. He no longer mined the seam underground, but I could see the smudged and begrudging faces of the miners who did in a display of old photographs.

Abandoned buildings at tin mine in Cornwall 

And then I thought about Stonehenge, whose construction started in 3100 BC.

The human English history that I witnessed spans 5000 years, a greater defnition of the word "old" than I, living in North America, am used to seeing.  England, a country the same size as Oregon, bears witness to its history at every turn, and I had only taken a few of those turns.

I'm still not done with "How old is old?" Lynne and I are younger than Stonehenge but feel OLD (69 and 66 years in these bodies).

Before our trip, we had consoled ourselves that the other hikers on our Road Scholar trip would not put us to shame, since they would likely be our age or or even older. We were correct in that we were among the youngest members on the trip. As far as we could tell, the oldest was in his eighties.

But these oldsters were consistently passing us on the trails in the Cotswolds and Cornwall. I would hear a polite “On your left!” or I would sense someone breathing down my neck as I cautiously slowed to a crawl on a slippery down hill.

I would never have picked out my fellow Road Scholars as athletes. They looked like a typical group of well nourished, underfashioned American tourists, with their REI daypacks, nature colored rainsuits and collapsible hiking poles. They were not wearing spandex nor did they have Olympic medals around their necks, yet they inspired us to greater adventures.

This sculpture representing the legendary King Arthur sits high on the Cornish bluffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean at Tintagel. I like the juxtaposition of the stone bluff, the Atlantic Ocean, and the semi-substantial figure of King Arthur.

Mud and a Folly

I was standing at our utility sink, washing the mud off my waterproof hiking boots. I had finally extracted them from the bottom of my suitcase. I was home again in the US and picking up where I left off after our three week trip to England.

The stream of brown water trickling down the drain transported me back to our first day of hiking in the Cotswolds of England. At the end of that day, there we stood, outside the entrance of our hotel in stocking feet, using sticks and stones to try to clean off the mud and sheep dung from our shoes before dinner.

The day had started off in the quaint market town of Chipping Camden with a tour led by a National Trust volunteer. Chipping Camden is a typical Cotswold village, where every building lining the narrow streets is constructed with honey-colored limestone. The narrow roads hardly seem wide enough for two way traffic, especially when the bus we are riding in takes up most of the road. I guess that explains why all the cars are small. 

The stone buildings are all attached to each other, giving a visual impression that we were in the 18th century, a feeling that was also underscored by the the lack of any traffic lights or electric signs or strip malls or high rises or urban noise. No sirens, helicopters or airplanes overhead interrupted the quiet that we had stepped into. I had not expected the English countryside to feel so different from the US, but this area of south central England, in particular, felt remarkably removed from the ugliness of the 21st century. The biggest danger I perceived was looking the wrong way for oncoming cars when I stepped off the curb. That was a real and present hazard throughout the trip!

Our group of 23 highly functional North American tourists, most of them older than we are, began our first "walk" together. Our agenda was to follow a seven mile trail up to the Cotswold Escarpment and on to the Broadway Tower, and then down to the town of Broadway. “Escarpment” describes the steep slope that divides this region. We walked on Public Footpaths, some hundreds of years old. A Public Footpath gives the public right of way to walk from town to town, across royal land, pastures, fields, along streams and down alley ways. The Cotswold Way, 102 miles long, goes from Bath to Chipping Camden, and our trip took us on different segments of it each day.

One of our English guides, Alan Gent was a fit, silver haired outdoors-man who skis the Alps in the winter. Everything that he said was particularly charming to my ear because of his English accent. We each wore listening devices which allowed him to narrate our experience with his microphone and be heard without having to shout. The first day that we all showed up on time to board the bus in the morning, his voice in my ear said quietly, “Brilliant! Americans are always on time.” Throughout our two weeks together, he and Pam, the co-leader, used “Brilliant” to describe lots of positive things, along with “Lovely!” and “Well done!” His strong commitment to conservation and a deep understanding of the region became clear as the days progressed.

Alan led us now up a lane that took us out of the valley, leaving behind the village’s narrow streets and clustered houses. As we walked, he reminded us to shut the gates behind us and explained the gently undulating geology of the region. We emerged at a quiet vantage point above town, looking down on the stone tiled roofs and the fields of peacefully grazing sheep that edged the village. Ahead we had more altitude to gain before we reached the top of the Cotswold Escarpment.

Chipping Camden from above

My throat swelled. I have a strong sentimental streak, which manifests at funny times like when seeing a marching band. “I can’t believe I’m here,” was going through my mind, but I was afraid if I whispered it to Lynne, I would start crying. I hadn’t expected England to feel so moving, but at that moment I felt awe and gratitude. (Lynne regularly asks me “Are you crying?” when she can’t tell if my nose is dripping from the cold or if I am feeling sentimental.)

Lynne and I had been planning this trip for six months, a special vacation to commemorate our amazing 40th anniversary. Our preparations included big projects like my hip replacement surgery, important details like finding a house sitter for our pets, and just a lot of other decisions like air travel and shuttle service. With all that accomplished, we boarded our Virgin Atlantic 787 to head to England. Between the many meals, the excitement of watching our flight path and the discomfort of sitting upright, neither of us had slept on the all night eight hour flight across the north Atlantic. When we arrived it was mid-morning in England. Once we disembarked and navigated Immigration and Heathrow Airport, we found our transport driver and chatted with the him through an 80 mile ride on increasingly narrow, twisting roads to our first hotel. It took so much energy just to get to Day One, that I fell asleep that evening during the first educational talk about the Cotswolds.

That day of our first long hike had a happy ending. Our leader led us up to the Saxon era Broadway Tower, a “folly” built in 1799 which stood on Fish Hill, a grassy high point between Chipping Camden and Broadway. Along the way, I was occupied with the usual business of hiking. The skies threatened rain (I put my rain pants on), then cleared and warmed up (I took my rain pants off). I stopped to take pictures even as Alan kept us steadily moving. The group was fast disappearing through a gate ahead of me. I scampered to catch up.

At the back of the line, I had the chance to get to know Pam, the other leader, whose role was “sweep.” She kept an eye on us, chatting and being friendly, and attending to the various woes that impeded the progress of the stragglers. Her friendly, encouraging and funny manner put me at ease. 

I did have one remaining worry: Would I be able to do this seven mile hike? The brochure had promised walks up to six miles. Seven miles would be my longest hike since my surgery 3 ½ months earlier. My new hip was feeling strong but this was its maiden voyage. I was on uncharted waters.

I spent a lot of time ogling the pastoral scenery and then navigating the hazardous road crossings as we got closer to Broadway Tower. Pedestrians do not have the right of way in England, and I had a primal impression that English drivers were trying to kill us. I headed up the Tower (not to be outdone by everyone else) as I tackled three flights of narrow spiral steps, took in the exhibits inside and made it to the viewpoint at the very top. As I took in the spread of pastures and rolling hills around me, I suddenly noticed that the front half of our group was already heading downhill on the steep side of the escarpment for the second half of the hike. I made a quick descent and caught up with the group. Traversing sheep pasture, I unsuccessfully tried to avoid stepping in sheep dung, while carefully choosing the least hazardous way on the rocky downhill path. Behind me, one of our group slipped on the slope, with no lasting injury.

I was tired but happy by late afternoon when we appeared on the small lanes leading into Broadway village, built on a site that had been occupied for over 5,000 years. Broadway had benefited from the wealth of the wool and cloth trade starting in the 1600s, and later as the home of the Arts and Crafts movement.

Our group straggled along and gathered loosely on a sidewalk like a pack of tired dogs with our tongues hanging out, waiting to be fed.

On this, our first day out, I was relieved to find our bus pulling up to take us back to the hotel. Using this day as a measure, I was going to not only survive this trip, but thrive in this peaceful hike through charming countryside.

Wind Turbines

Woosh.

First blade chasing second, third

The fox chasing its tail.

Etching an invisible circle.

High above the horizon.

The pedestal tethers it.

Impassive, the blades absorb the wind’s whims.

Ferociously twirling

Or falling to a snail’s pace.

Wind turbines.

Turning wind into electricity.

“Industrial looking,” I think as I peer through the windshield. We are driving east, leaving behind the charmed greenery of the forested Cascade mountains and encountering the dry vistas of eastern Washington, officially called shrub-steppe habitat.

I am surprised by their numbers. After I see one wind turbine, a lone metal structure on the ridge ahead, I notice ten, then many, each lone soldier joining an army of wind turbines, now humbling the desert with their looming presence.

My mind protests their interruption of the sweeping vista, their dominance over the scrubby hills. The wind turbines contradict my experience of the emptiness of this region, most commonly used as open range for livestock.

Lynne and I are driving through barren land. Few signs of human habitation rise from the arid soil, spotted with parched green sagebrush, native grasses and occasional yellow wild flowers bobbing on the end of long stems. The land is punctuated by random rocks.

We turn off  Highway 90 and twist up a series of hills to reach the ridge tops of Whiskey Dick Mountain. This is the location of the Puget Sound Energy’s Wild Horse Wind Farm and Solar Facility (https://pse.com/aboutpse/Facilities/Pages/Wild-Horse.aspx). We’re hoping to be in time for the Sunday afternoon 2 o’clock tour.  When we finally arrive, and I eagerly step out of the car, the wind whips my hair and flaps my sweater. I hurry up to the shelter of the Visitor’s Center. We sign up for the tour and pick up our required protective helmets and glasses.

Our young guide, Bilal, is slightly bearded with a friendly face, framed by the hard hat that he wore at a jaunty angle. His uniform jacket is buttoned casually to show off the kerchief around his neck. I tag him as a Millennial, following the rules but interpreting them with a fashionable flare. He wears steel toe boots that add seriousness to his casual stance. I like listening to all the facts he tells us, absorbing some and letting some pass me by. Bilal is willing and able to answer the many technical questions brought up by the group of twenty earnest tourists, who, amazingly, have chosen to come to the Wind Farm on Mother’s Day.

We are touring a wind farm strategically placed to take advantage of the weather conditions at this location on the east side of the Cascade mountains.  The wind blows hard here when the sun warms the land and the air hot air rises. Cool air rushing over through Stampede Pass from the west side of the mountains contributes a steady supply of wind in the spring and summer months.

As our guide speaks, I recognize the necessary ingredients that are here: an area with sparse human population, unproductive land, lots of predictable wind, and demand for electricity within a viable distance, in this case, Ellensburg. He shares the technical details of the 10,800 acre wind farm, using terms like turbine (converts wind energy to rotary motion), “nacelle” (the part that the blades attach to), and “yaw” (the blades turn to face the wind at the best angle).

“How long does each wind turbine last?” a middle aged man asks, his wife attentive to the answer.

“Twenty to thirty years,” Bilal says. “They take about ten to eleven years to pay themselves off.”

One blade is on display on the ground outside the Visitor Center. The opening at the biggest end is more than twice as high as I am. The blade twists and tapers down to less than 2 feet across 129 feet later. It weighs seven tons.

Each blade is carefully matched to the two other blades for the turbine, he explains.

“When one blade is compromised they must set aside the other two and wait for a replacement  to be made that matches the others. They must all be within 8 pounds of each other.”

Each turbine costs close to three million dollars. The entire project at Wild Horse Wind Farm costs $478 million. It produces energy to supply electricity for up to 70,000 homes per year.

He leads us down the path towards the base of one of the 149 wind turbines manufactured by Vestas. From the highway, they seemed quiet, but up close, away from the obscuring sound of cars on pavement, I can hear the blades passing by in a regular rhythm, close to where I stand.

I don’t mind the sound—it is more pleasing than other sounds in my urban life: the sound of our neighbors’ air conditioning, vehicle traffic on I-5, train whistles in the middle of the night, or border patrol helicopters flying over my house. Each passing blade evokes an awareness of the energy flying by in the wind. Still, the guide tells us that people don’t like to live closer than 1000 feet to a wind turbine because of the constant noise. The flickering shadow cast by the turning blades are also incompatible with human comfort. They might drive you crazy.

The group follows our guide down a gravel path through carefully transplanted native plants, including hedgehog cactus and balsamroot, to the door at the base of one of the wind turbines.  Bilal unlocks it and invites us inside, where all twenty of us stand in a circle, dwarfed by the open space that disappears 220 feet up at the top of the pedestal. He points out the electrical properties of the smooth inside walls, and we peer down at the base anchored 30 feet into the soil.

The adaptability of each turbine, he explains, comes from a computer that measures the wind direction and swivels the blades to face the direction of the wind. It also twists the blades to increase or mollify the power of the wind. Under some conditions, the blades must be held back from turning.  They consume energy when they are not turning.

When we are done inside, we step out to stand amidst the field of turbines.

I bring up the subject of bird deaths. Bilal deftly defends wind turbines. “Wind turbines kill 2.5 birds per year. Newer turbines have been re-engineered to make them more obvious and avoidable to birds,” he says.

He quotes us these statistics:

Number one killer of birds in the United States is buildings.

Number two killer of birds in the United States is domestic cats.

A distant third: Wind turbines.

Hmmm. Lynne and I find two or three dead birds on our patio each year. The glass panels on our patio plus our picture windows kill about the same number of birds each year as one wind turbine.

I steal a moment alone, lingering on the return path, letting everyone else pass me, hoping to record the sound of a wind turbine alone, up close. I am near one tower, resting my eyes on the spread of wind turbines on this ridge.

They seem different now. I feel a fondness for this tribe of tireless towering giants, the beauty of the sweeping blades, the changing pattern made by the different speeds of  turning blades and each one’s fastidious orientation. I feel respect for the investment of engineering talent and hard work that brought this wind farm to production.  I see the challenges of this design, a response to human’s demand for energy, yet I also feel its beauty.

Thanks for Bilal M. Abubakar at PSE’s Wild Horse Wind and Solar Facility for providing expertise for this article.