Frankenstein Sundae, 253

My 1999 visit to Newstead Abbey, former home of Lord Byron ...

Here are the (edited) observations I made later in the day when I wrote in my journal on April 17, 1999:

I made one slight wrong turn, then proceeded down a narrow road (I saw only 2 cars the entire time) through fields & stands of trees. After about ½ mile, I came to an overpass with iron grillwork with little boys (9–10 years) peering thru the bars at me from the other side. “Help!” joked one.

“You’re in  jail!” I quipped.

“I’m not in jail,” he replied with some umbrage. So I hurried on.

Shortly after, I came to a gate—iron between 2 short stone pillars with a stone house nearby. A German shepherd gave me a barking inspection, & the gatekeeper came out & charged me £2 to look at the grounds only. He wanted to know where I was from in the States: “Oh, yes, Cleveland, Ohio,” he said with blank eyes belying his vocal confidence.

I had a mile yet to go, he told me.  So off I went; the only living thing I saw was a girl on horseback who trotted past me. “Trade you places?” I offered.

She laughed and trotted on.

Soon I came to another gate, similar to the other, and I followed the road up a slight incline & saw the Abbey to the right—a glorious sight—and what I took (incorrectly) to be LB’s house on the left.  (After I took a photo of it, I saw it had a “For Sale” sign & was a private residence—oops!)  I wandered over to the Abbey, wondering what was the source of the piercing cries I was hearing: rooks? crows?

Later—aboard the train to London.  I saw a peacock & some other LARGE birds that I at first took to be vultures.  (Closer inspection revealed them to be just various varieties of “peas.”)  They looked firmly territorial, so I yielded ground whenever necessary. The cries seemed to be “Help!”—or, perhaps, “Hell!” I circled the Abbey, photographing in heavy overcast the gorgeous grounds and structure. (LB sold this for £140,000—not a bad deal, I’d say—but a bit remote.) I headed back in order to make the 10:49 from Newstead and thus the 11:24 to London.

As I neared the entrance gate (the one with the dog), I heard 2 horseback riders behind me; it became clear that I would just beat them to the gate, and when I did (by a few feet—the dog was less interested this time), I turned around and quipped: “Beat you!”

“To the gate, anyway,” one replied in good humor.

“Where was this sun when I was up there taking photographs?” I wondered.  For, indeed, the sun had peeked out on my walk back—though the dark clouds were stubborn, yielding sky grudgingly.

“You caught a glimpse of it, then?” another said.

It took me a dull moment to figure out what she’d meant, and by then they were by me, so I surreptitiously photographed them from the rear.  Boys were playing soccer in the field near the station, and I arrived in plenty of time.

 The pictures below are from that day ... that cloudy, dour day ...