Perhaps you can sympathize with this dog, frustrated with winter because it means all the sticks are buried in snow:

He’ll have to wait a little while yet. Although on the retreat, the snow and ice at Britannia Bay still have some fight left in them. They’re currently in that unpredictable state where one footstep might rest on the surface while the next sinks to the knee. This plucky dog who joined me for a while didn’t seem to mind the drifts, or the water in the small creek:

He had no trouble paddling across, but his young master ran afoul of a “sinkhole” deeper than his gumboots were high. This little creek is the same one that provided some interesting ice formations in previous winters, but no such luck this year.

The best sight of the day was likely the Cardinal here (same as above). He She (thanks, f.) made for a cooperative subject, and kindly tolerated my snooping for a few minutes :

Looks like I interrupted at lunchtime, too. The joy of getting close to birds is in the listening — and not necessarily to the song, but to the quieter vocalizations, the scrabbling of feet on bark, and at last the surprisingly heavy thwip-thwip-twhip of the wingbeats at take-off.

…and for my hundredth post on NwP: Last weekend we rounded up F&A and another friend, rented a couple canoes, and headed over to Gatineau Park. After only a few wrong turns en route we ended up at Lac la Peche.

(For the boat geeks out there: that’s a Mistral 17.5. The other one was a Quetico 17). As you might guess from the photo, it wasn’t a bad day for a paddle — despite downright atrocious weather just the day before. Sometimes it pays to trust the weatherman (never hurts though to pack rain gear). There was a chill to the air, sure, but that’s to be expected at this time of year. And I’d say that the fall colours make up for it:

There weren’t many other boaters sharing water that day; one left just as we arrived (this making for a tight squeeze on the narrow “road” in), and one arrived just as we left. You’d think we had it all planned out! But both had fishing tackle on board — I guess the Lac lives up to its name.

We noticed some nice stonework on the promontory where we stopped for lunch (lamb stew, tea from the hobo-rific Kelly Kettle):

Definitely a place to come back to, and one for the repertoire of go-to paddling spots for those occasional days off. Not that there have been ever so many of those lately; this one excursion has proved the season’s first and last for us. But such are the sad casualties of our respective toiling nowadays.

And what else is there to do but enjoy what you can, and look forward to bright days ahead? I guess you can always take certain precautions; note the use of PFD — safety first!

That’s what they ask you when you ask them if you may climb up the most excellent tower at Durham Cathedral. If you answer yes, then they ask you if you have five pounds. Surely you see where this is going.

Here’s the tower as contemplated from the cloister below:

And — cutting right to the chase — here’s the opposite view, from the top, looking down at the cloister:

Another view, this one of the cemetery:

Elsewhere in the cathedral are the remains of two well-known monks: the hermit Cuthbert and the historian Bede (mentioned here not that long ago). I did overhear a comment that the bones of these two men might not be resting where they’re advertised to be, but that one or the other may in fact be buried in the cemetery in an unmarked grave! I really don’t know just what to make of that sort of talk.

The tower also affords a fine view of the palace green and the castle beyond:

It was a certain academic function at the castle that brought me to Durham to begin with, one that signaled the winding down of my English sojourn, and that proved very much a “night” to the “day” of my usual and admittedly somewhat monkish activity in the archives. I was glad, though, to catch a glimpse of these scholars in full flight, and for their stories of manuscript heists and Parisian antiquities dealers. Also appreciated was their cautious optimism regarding future prospects for the determined and more-or-less young academic!

This afternoon I set out for a walk along the Thames Path, which — as you might guess – goes along the Thames River. The trail that leads there passes through a rather nice meadow (“Port Meadow”) just north of the Oxford train station:

You’ll have to pardon this photographer for favouring that distant horizon. It certainly does make a nice alternative to the usual view of late:

Anyhow, I picked up the trail just downstream of Bossoms Boatyard and the Medley Sailing Club. Not much activity there today, though I did notice some stirrings in the odd houseboat moored at the bank. There are many such boats along the river, and they seem to fall into two categories: you’ll see retirees quietly motoring down the river in their polished up vessels with cheerful (and forgettable) names, and you’ll see nondescript boats, more tarp than chrome, hunkered down along the bank.

The latter class may sport some flowerpots on the roof, and maybe a little pile of firewood (gathered from the nearby woods) stacked conveniently nearby. Or even a cow grazing in the field adjacent (see above, look closely). I guess the climate and facilities are such here that you could make a good go of living aboard year-round. Such an endeavour might be a little more difficult at home in Ottawa.

Pretty idyllic, I’d say! Further along I noticed this fellow (Grey Heron), just downstream of the Botley Road Bridge:

He caught up with me downstream, past the Osney Lock, on his way to a grassier hunting ground. I ended up leapfrogging with the green boat shown in the photo above (from the bridge) as well — I passed them as they were lock-bound, but they zipped by again just as I was heading north, into town again, and then on to home.

The phrase as offered here (on a nearby community building) seems adapted from one of historical significance, namely that given by Admiral Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar: “England expects that every man will do his duty.” There is, of course, a story behind the phrase. Originally, Nelson intended to signal ”England confides that every man will do his duty,” but his signal officer, Lieutenant John Pasco, suggested “expects” instead on account of it taking fewer signals to transmit. Nelson approved the change, and so issued “the most famous naval signal ever transmitted” (link).

(see http://www.aboutnelson.co.uk/england%20expcts.htm)

In the case of Trafalgar, it seems that the duty at hand was simple enough (although by no means easy): defeat the French and Spanish navies. How nice it is, then, when duty lies before us singular! But you and I both know that it is seldom so. Lately, at least, this notion of “duty” has certainly seemed a little more complicated. On one front, however, it proves clear enough, as the common cry among the folks at home is to “get out” and “take some pictures.”

That’s a view of the Old Bodleian Library, with the Radcliffe Camera (another library) behind me. And (believe it or not!) I did manage to depart from that comfortably well-worn bath between the two libraries. At the invitation of a friend (one with a student card — this permitting access), I spent today touring a few of Oxford’s many colleges.

The most wonderful place visited today is right here: the cloister at New College. The tree pictured above is said to be roughly 250 years old, and bears some signs of age — it’s shedding leaves at an alarming rate, and the gardener suspects “it might have something.” Still in the cloister, looking in another direction:

Look closely and you can see the gargoyles:

Open arcades surround the cloister. Sadly, there were no monks strolling through them today.

From New College we walked over to Magdalen College.

And no, I was not standing on the lawn while taking this picture. Now — and this is going back a few years — my very first job was as a grounds-keeper, and I wonder that if it had been in keeping these particular grounds, that job wouldn’t have been my very last one too!

I’ve written before about living in a bus, but why not try living in a caboose? This treasure came up on the local craigslist page the other day. Here’s a link to the ad, and I’ve included the picture — those postings tend to die off after a while and this one is too good to leave behind:

Looks like quite the place. A little spiffier than the last caboose I set foot in, that’s for sure. Here’s what they say about it:

Great for guest house or cottage.Caboose is currently located in North Bay Ontario, Originally ordered by the Temiskimang & Northern Ontario Railroad in 1939 now Ontario Northland. Built by the Hamilton Steel Car Co. It was ordered as a passenger car to go North from North Bay as there was no passenger trains going north back then, all passengers had to ride in the caboose of the freight trains. Inside is restored to its original state including colors, Floor replaced and insulated with 2 layers of styrofoam SM, Benches, bunks and conductors desk were stripped and redone. Comfortabally sleeps 6 all year long, even in -40 weather. Well insulated when built, warms up fast. All lights work, lots of recipiticals, cable TV and telephone. I have not finished the bathroom and shower, but there is room and easily done.(50,000lb) Van body lifts off wheels, moved it there with a low boy Transport and a crane lift at each location (same crane two lifts). Wheels, (14,000lbs each of 2) tracks, ties and crossing lights moved with a boom truck so all in all no big deal but that all depends on how far, and where it is going. My cost to move it was $1300.00 but that was years ago.

After a brief stopover in Lilleshall (Shropshire, see above), I’ve arrived at last in Oxford. And it does seem fair to write “at last” because between paperwork, research, and other assorted arrangements, this trip has been in the making for about a year now. It’s good to be here, and to get down to the serious business of being what Milton termed — and this somewhat disparagingly — a “Ferret and Mousehunt of an Index.” But of course the libraries must close sometime (even in Oxford). They did so today at a particularly early hour, and so left me to wander about the town for a bit.

I’ve only been here for about a week but it seems already that Oxford is very much as it ought to be: full of bright young people and wise old ones. And tourists, too. Sightseeing buses (double decked, of course) circle regularly, and guided tours filter through the academic buildings. Well, at least through certain areas of them — this is the balance observed here, between access and privilege. For each sign promoting an attraction or tour there’s another reading CLOSED TO VISITORS or STRICTLY PRIVATE.

Despite Oxford’s reputation as “the city of dreaming spires,” I’ve found its character well-expressed by what’s underfoot: flawless grounds in the college quads, creaking floors in the Bodleian Library, and walkways of centuries-worn stone.

Anyhow, there’s much to look forward to here, yet as always it’s impossible to tell just what will come. On that note, I’ll leave you with a bit of verse (ca. 1640) that seemed a propos somehow:

To the House of Commons

My Masters, you that undertake the game,
looke to the Countries safety, and her fame,
are now at stake, be carefull howe you cutt,
and deale as nowe occasions put you t’ot.
The cards are strangely shuffled, for your parts,
’tis odds you never gett the ace of harts…

[Bodl. MS Douce 357]

Being Earth Day, it seems like a good idea to pass along this brief video describing Fred & Aleta’s latest adventure in citizen science:

Looks to me like a perfect mix of art and science, and just the sort of thing I’d like to tag along with if my summer wasn’t already spoken for. Anyhow, you can read more about the goals and scope of the expedition here.

One Michael Woodhead was shot upon his tin-buttons, and his doublet burst near his heart, and the bruised bullet fell downe into his breeches and no more hurt…

real gem among the civil-war-era tracts I’ve looked over so far, the short pamphlet The Rider of the White Horse (1643) provides a lively account of “that wonderfull victory at Bradford” and “the taking of Leeds and Wakefield by the same men.” Both battles take place in the north, within a sort of game at chess that unfolded between the competing Lords Fairfax (a Parliamentarian) and Newcastle (a Royalist). The stories recorded here — although slightly propagandistic — are wonderful things, and I’ll cover a few of the finer details for you here.

First up: Bradford. In this battle, armed townsfolk sought to defend themselves against advancing Royalists. Bradford had proven itself to be a support for the Parliamentarian army, and thus its residents had cause to expect some measure of retribution from troops loyal to the King. Their advance came on Monday, December 18, and with such superiority of numbers that they “expected a surrender, rather than resistance.”

The pamphlet’s author laments Bradford’s lack of trained soldiers, due to the fact that the “poore Parish” could not “pay a Garrison any long time, and none would tarry one day without pay.” Beyond this, he writes, “we had never a Gentleman in the perish to command us, nor would any stranger be perswaded to undertake the charge.” They relied instead on sound tactics (stationing snipers in the church tower), the element of surprise, and some early-modern grit:

a hearty Round-head left by his comrades, environed with the Enemies Horse, discharged his Musket upon one, strooke downe anothers Horse with the thick end of it, broke a thirds Sword, beating it back into his throat, and put them all to flight; which (though as the rest wonderfull) I dare pawne my credit to be true…

With deeds such as these “the Popish army” was driven away. The victory provided Bradford with muskets, horses, and gunpowder — “and thus God supplied our wants out of their store.”

At Leeds the parliamentarians find themselves on the offence, under the direction of Thomas Fairfax (the eponymous Rider). Once again the author focuses on moments of real character. He notes the bravery of Searjeant Major Forbes when “leading on his companies in the plain fields before the great Trenches,” and — my favourite — the zeal of “M. Jonathan Scholefield (the Minister at Crofton chappell in Halifax Parish neare Tolmerdeu),” who, charging the works, “sung the I verse of the 68 Psalm, Let God arise, and then his enemies shall be scattered, and those that hate him flee before him…” The battle ended in victory for Fairfax, though not all were as lucky as the aforementioned Mr Woodhead (of “tin-button” luck); some 20 men were slain in the taking of the city.

Fairfax asserted himself as a capable military commander, and ultimately attained the rank of general. Indeed, some depictions of the regicide portray Fairfax as the king’s headman — never mind that he in fact opposed Charles’s execution, and would go on to play a role in restoring Charles II to the throne. But just as interesting (to this devotee) is Fairfax’s modest literary career; in his retirement the general turned poet, producing numerous poems, and even a verse translation of the book of Psalms. He renders those lines of the 68^th that served Scholefield so well at Leeds in his own way, and I’ll leave you with them for now:

Let all that hate thee Lord, ‘fore thee retire
Thou’art cloth’d w^th power; them farr from thee dysperse
As smoake in aire desolves, or wax with Fire;
Destroy those (from thy Presence) soe perverse…

Although the sky was grey, I decided to head down to the waterline today. The goal of the trip was to see if anything interesting had washed up during the spring thaw, and I’m glad to report that beyond the usual riparian fare there were a few novelties to delight this beachcomber. The most interesting find happened to be the most colourful; what started off as a bit red cloth (buried in drift) turned out to be a flag:

Depending on which way you fly it, the flag could be either the Russian Tricolour or the Serbian National Flag. I’ll admit, though, that at first glance I wondered if it might be a French Tricolore, being just across the water from la belle province and all. Now, I just left the drapeau where I found it, even though the more considerate course of action likely would have been to rescue the sorry flag, tidy it up, and fold it. It seems slighted somehow, just lying there. But Britannia Bay is a haven for seafarers, and so a lot of the flotsam and jetsam along the shore is nautical in nature. Perhaps a wandering Russian or Serb will find it and take it home.

I also came across some more “organic” remains: a thoroughly dead seagull (sorry, no picture!), as well as a collection of shells (presumably left by a muskrat or some such creature),

…and a strip of animal fur.

One last image, a discarded baby soother:

Aside from the flag, the colour palette of today’s pictures is universally bland — with any luck things will brighten up a bit over the next few weeks.