There are moments in life when you feel deeply grateful for the family you were born into. I’m blessed to have had many such moments, but I’m feeling it with particular poignancy of late. Throughout most of my childhood and teens my father was busy writing the book Cosmos and Psyche: Intimations of a New World View. In my family it was known simply as “the Book.” While I knew my dad was an astrologer and cultural historian, it wasn’t until after I finished my undergraduate degree that I came to find my own scholarly path aligned so closely with his, drawing me into the world of archetypal cosmology, depth psychology, and philosophy.
As a child I was able to see the years of work and research that went into creating Cosmos and Psyche, and the moment of familial pride and gratitude I am now feeling arises from the fact that that book is being adapted into a film: Changing of the Gods. I could not imagine the project being in better hands: the producer Kenny Ausubel, one of the co-founders of Bioneers—the great annual conference that addresses issues of ecological justice—and the director Louie Schwartzberg, whose exquisite visionary films show the depth and breadth of the interconnected wisdom of the cosmos. Finally, John Cleese will be the on-screen host, leading the audience through the journey of discovering an archetypal world view.
For me personally there is another profound synchronicity connected to those who are creating this film: the director Louie Schwartzberg’s birthday is February 21, 1950—the exact same day and year as my dad’s birthday—giving them the same birth chart. Furthermore, the producer Kenny Ausubel, whose initial vision it was to bring Cosmos and Psyche to the screen, was born on April 20, 1949, the exact same day and year as my mother’s birthday. So in many ways I feel as though this film is a sibling to me.
The Changing of the Gods Kickstarter campaign is now in its final days of fundraising to bring together the community support for this film project. I want to encourage each of you from the depths of my heart to contribute if you so feel called. To see this story on the screen and make it accessible to a world audience through image and music would be a dream come true.
This final installment of my journey through England I’m writing on the early morning train from Plymouth to London. Out the window to my right I can see the thin crescent of a Moon approaching its new cycle, in an elegant line on the ecliptic with Venus, Mars, and Jupiter. The edges of the planetary bodies are crisp and clear in the cool morning air. The sky is slowly lightening, and I will see the sunrise while aboard this train.
The pace of going from Canterbury to London, to Cambridge and Oxford, was beginning to wear me out, and I was grateful the latter half of my travels would be spent in more relaxed environs. From out of Oxford I caught the train to Stroud. The last section of the train journey was especially beautiful, as we raced past a steep, green valley whose hillsides were embedded with old stone houses and churches, flower and vegetable gardens terraced directly into the slopes. The images flashed past before I could fully take them in, a brief glimpse into a world I could only imagine what it must be like to be a part of.
The Grange – Photo by Becca TarnasI was met at the train station by a dear family friend, who brought me to a local pub where we met up with his son, another friend of mine. The Woolspack is no ordinary pub. Like the village I had seen on my train journey, this pub is part of a small hillside community, the buildings constructed of old grey stone, gardens overflowing with flowers in every direction one might look. The pub itself looks over a deep green valley, with nothing but pastures and trees covering the facing hillside. We sat out on the stone patio amongst the trailing vines and blossoms. First to arrive at lunchtime it was perfectly quiet. No breeze stirred the air, and one could almost feel the movement of the warm lemon sunbeams in the stillness.
As our meal progressed—pints and jerusalem artichoke, cheese and hazelnuts, followed by a tray of coffees and an assortment of puddings—other families and couples and groups of friends settled in around us. But all maintained the reverent quiet of the still air and the warm October sunshine. Our conversation, seemingly inevitable in this setting, turned to fairies. This is the part of England where everyone knows there are fairies present. What if one were to write not a fairy-tale told by humans, but a human-tale told by fairies? What would they think of us? As we spoke I realized that the little girl at the table next to us was holding a conversation not dissimilar to ours: ‘But it was a real fairy! Why doesn’t she understand that I saw one?” the young lady asked.
Grapevine Study – Photo by Becca TarnasOur meal concluded, we went on to The Grange, their family home in Sheepscombe. The village of Sheepscombe is also nestled in one of these wooded valleys, a collection of old stone houses, a single church still well attended on Sundays, a little post office and nearby pub, and many trails through the woods and hills in every direction. The Grange itself is an old house, once two separate buildings several centuries old, joined together by a third that was constructed in the 19th century. Lawns and gardens spread around it, a multitude of flowers and fruit trees thriving in the moist climate. There was quince and apple, and the vegetable gardens had the last of the raspberries and sweet peas. A towering beech stands majestically over the yard, its roots clothed in a spray of cyclamen, the enchanted little flower I keep encountering again and again during these travels. Perhaps my favorite part of the whole place was the study. At the front of the house is a glass sunroom, with desk and chairs and a wicker chaise. Growing inside the glass walls is a massive grape vine, trailing and twisting about the room, heavy with deep purple fruit. One can sit at the desk working with a cluster of grapes of mythic proportion dangling within reach, just inches from the little desk lamp.
Ridge Above Sheepscombe – Photo by Becca TarnasWe went for a short walk not long before sunset, under the wide leaves of the deciduous forest near the house, and up onto a ridge above the village. As the Sun and horizon neared one another a misty golden glow washed over everything. In the distance a narrow steeple stood up against the light, the church from a neighboring village.
Our evening in was wonderfully relaxing, dinner and conversation, and later reading by a warm sitting room fire.
Morning Mist at the Grange – Photo by Becca TarnasLooking out the many-paned window from my upstairs bedroom, I could see that the mist had rolled in by morning, and I felt the turn away from summer into the cool of autumn. After a simple breakfast laid out on beautiful china in the kitchen—coffee, orange juice, fresh raspberries and blueberries, toast with honey, butter, and jam—we put on our coats and settled into the car for a drive across the Severn Firth, and into Wales. Near the border and in a wide and peaceful valley are the ruins of Tintern Abbey, the Cistercian cloister that inspired Wordsworth’s famous lines:
And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, —both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Tintern Abbey – Photo by Becca TarnasBuilt in 1131 by monks of the Cistercian order, Tintern Abbey’s location was chosen for its seclusion. The monks were largely self-sufficient, living off the land growing food and raising pasture animals. When King Henry VIII defied Rome and founded the Anglican Church, he abolished the many abbeys across Britain and took their wealth for his own. Now all that remains of this majestic place of worship are arched stone walls, ornately shaped where windows once spanned, and in some places nothing more than a pile of reddish stone and the outlines of foundations. Flocks of crows now make their home among the stones, creating a constant call and response as they wheel through the empty windows. Looking up I saw a lone white dove wing from an empty rose window to an open mossy ledge. The floor is now carpeted in soft green grass. There is no shelter from the wind.
Tintern Abbey – Photo by Becca TarnasFollowing a warming bowl of sweet potato and cauliflower soup along with a half pint, we left Tintern behind us and wended through the hedge lanes a little deeper into Wales. Although much like England, there is still a tangible difference to the feeling of Wales. Green pastures and hills, forests and meanderings streams they have in common, but there is a quality in the air that is different. It feels quieter, less inhabited, suffused with a more ancient presence. Story feels like it is living in the land here. The names on the map roll off the tongue and change the quality of one’s consciousness in the speaking. Our route led us to Llanthony Priory, another ruin decimated by Henry VIII. Much less of it remains than at Tintern, and the priory seemed likely to have been more modest to begin with as well. Yet I actually found this place more compelling. Its arches and remaining walls, some of which were leaning over, were covered in moss and twisting vines. A long field extended up the hill behind it, dotted with sheep, and met the base of a red cliff descending down from the hilltop. The Welsh rocks are red, as can be seen on the cliff faces and in the stones in the ruins. Mist poured down over the slopes. A group of walkers had stopped by for hot coffee at the little hotel set up inside what remained standing of the priory. I imagined coming back here at some future time for a walking tour, spending the days outside tramping across the hills and fields, spending the nights in the pubs and inns that still dot the countryside.
Another cozy fire and supper back in Sheepscombe, and a brief stop over at the neighbors’ to see England’s rugby team knocked out of the World Cup by Australia, and my stay in this corner of England had come and gone.
Llanthony Priory – Photo by Becca TarnasMorning saw me at the train station in Stroud again, speeding past that same stone village built into the steep hillside. Now my train, the longest journey yet, led south and further south after that. Much of the way I had my nose in a book, glancing up now and then to see the changing scenery, although it was still consistently pastures and hedges for much of the ride. But toward the end of the last leg of the trip came a dramatic change. The fields gave way to coastline, first to narrow firths filled with sailboats, little towns visible across the way built right down to the docks at the water’s edge. It was a cold and grey day, the steely sky reflected in the choppy water. Once or twice the train passed a boat that had long ago sprung a leak and was now but a rotting skeleton, the ribs of the hull black against the lapping waves. Turning a corner the view opened out to a vast stretch of ocean, waves crashing against the rocky shore, white gulls wheeling in the spray. The train went into cliff tunnels and back out again, each new view more striking than the last.
Dartington Hall – Photo by Becca TarnasSoon enough the slowing train pulled into the Totnes station. There on the platform waiting for me were my aunt and uncle, who I haven’t seen since they moved to England nearly five years ago. It was a reunion that has been long overdue. We came back to their home, set among the lovely pastures of a farm just outside of Ivybridge. Inside were so many memorable objects, art and furniture, dishes and decorations, that were so familiar to me from their home in Big Sur, a place that always will be intimately close to my heart. It was strange yet comforting to see them all the way over here in England.
Cottage in Dartington Gardens – Photo by Becca TarnasWe spent our time together walking outside and painting inside, quilling little coils of colored paper into art projects, reading with morning tea and watching movies while cuddling the cat, and simply catching up and sharing meals in each other’s company. On my last full day we went over to Schumacher College, which I’d always wanted to visit, and walked around the exquisite gardens of Dartington Hall, a magnificent building constructed on the estate initially in the 14th century. All about the hall are huge tended gardens, ancient trees with lawns running the slopes in between, with fountains and statues and flowers lining the paths and stairways. After a thorough wander through the gardens the three of us went down to Plymouth, for a late afternoon walk on Plymouth Hoe overlooking the sea and what was once the primary harbor of the famed British navy. Down at the docks are massive stone buildings that once held supplies for outfitting the ships—ropes and rigging, wood and sails, all fortified against any incoming attack from the sea. Now these buildings largely stand empty, except several on the ground level that have been repurposed into restaurants and cafés. We enjoyed a quiet dinner in one of these restaurants followed by a stroll along the water’s edge. Before long we returned to the quiet of home for a final night together before my departure from England.
Croquet Lawn in Dartington Gardens – Photo by Becca TarnasAs I’ve been writing this on the train, mist has been rising from the fields between dark trees and hedgerows. Only the Moon and Venus now remain visible in the periwinkle sky. As more time passes just a thinning crescent can be seen in the rising morning mists. A rich magenta glow now lights the horizon, the dark tops of clouds a heavy violet pushing back against the oncoming sunlight.
Sunrise over the calm morning water, first on the straights between the peninsulas, the dark patches visible at low tide contrasting with the colored mirror of the water, and then opening out to the sea itself, a clear pathway of warm sunlight illuminated from the horizon to the shore, where low waves roll against the sand. The train runs along the coast, passing into tunnels cut in the dark rock, then back out again into view of the spectacular scene. No matter how many times I witness the dawn, I will never cease to be in awe.
There is nothing quite like riding the train at magic hour, into the City of Dreaming Spires. I spent much of the day in London, including several important hours catching up with an old friend, having a fantastic brunch at The Breakfast Club in Soho, and walking through Hyde Park during the sunny, warm afternoon. As the day dwindled toward evening I walked from Warwick Avenue to Paddington Station, past canal boats floating low in the water covered in bright, chipping paint and overgrown planter boxes of flowers.
The departing sun set the sky alight in lavender, periwinkle, rose and indigo while the train sped toward Oxford. I chose to walk the mile and a half from the station to my lodgings in a friend’s college rooms so I could take in the city along the way. Sure enough I passed beneath the lit steeple of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin, and not long after the tower at Magdalen College, where C.S. Lewis spent much of his teaching career. Crossing the bridge over the River Cherwell I could look back and see clearly why Oxford has been called the City of Dreaming Spires: the old college buildings send up spire after stone spire into the starry night air.
I arrived into my rooms which were warm and welcoming, filled with familiar books, including a shrine with Jung’s Red Book upon it. I found it somewhat amazing (although not surprising once I reflected on whose room I was occupying and our similar academic interests) that I had come halfway around the planet to study Tolkien’s visionary artwork, the contents of his Red Book, in the Bodleian Library, and right in my bedroom would be an accessible copy of the other Red Book to which I am comparing the results. It felt like an affirmation I was in the right place.
The Bodleian Library – Photo by Becca Tarnas
Early the following morning I awoke, soon to realize I was shaking—with anticipation, nerves, excitement, I wasn’t entirely sure. I planned to arrive at Admissions in the Bodleian at 9:00 am as they opened, and hopefully if all went well in getting my reader’s card I’d be meeting with the head archivist of the Tolkien special collection by 9:30. Walking through the streets of Oxford, down Queen’s Lane and under Oxford’s own Bridge of Sighs toward the library, I felt a deep sense of connection to this place. Ten years ago I once had the dream of attending this university, and now again that desire was reawakened. I could feel the past presence of those literary figures who had shaped me in such a formative way. Something in the heart of Oxford was calling to me once more.
I entered first the oldest building of the Bodleian, which had many doors branching off the courtyard with signs over their doors reading Schola Naturalis Philosophae and Schola Moralis Philosophae, among several others. Soon I was redirected toward the Weston Library, a newer building although still seemingly old to my eyes. I entered Admissions, handed in the various forms explaining my research purposes along with three (three!) forms of identification. To my relief I was approved without much delay but, before handing me my reader’s card, I was to swear an oath aloud that ran four lines long:
Then to the lockers where I left all my belongings except a pencil and blank sheets of paper, through the secure entryway, up the stairs and into the reading room. There I was met by the Tolkien archivist, a wonderful woman who has what I felt to be one of the most admirable and enviable positions in the library. We spoke for a little while about my research goals and then she set me up at a table with the first of four boxes of Tolkien’s artwork that I would be studying over this morning and the following.
The Reference Library in the Weston – Photo by Becca Tarnas
My hands shook a little as I opened the first box, but I soon relaxed into the process, turning from one drawing to the next. What did I find there? Well, I’ve signed too many forms to risk revealing much here without the permission of the Tolkien Trust. But I’ll just simply say that I believe I found what I came for, that my thinking in these areas has been affirmed, and perhaps someday I will be able to express the fullness of what I saw in my dissertation. Much of Tolkien’s great art has been published already, for which I am immensely grateful. But a few pieces remain hidden which would be wonderful if they could be seen by the wider world. And the sequence itself of the artwork has its own story to tell.
After several hours and even more pages of notes I decided it was time for a change of scene, so I packed up and departed the library. I made a brief stop in Blackwell’s Bookshop, my favorite book store in the world that I hadn’t been inside of for about five years. Of course they had a whole Inklings section right up at the front, and I was able to get a copy of Verlyn Flieger’s edited edition of Tolkien’s fantastic essay “On Fairy-Stories,” first given in 1939 as the Andrew Lang lectures at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. They also had lovely little editions of several of Tolkien’s short stories; I limited myself to two: Smith of Wootton Major and The Adventures of Tom Bombadil and Other Verses from the Red Book, each with accompanying introductory and critical essays.
The Eagle and Child – Photo by Becca Tarnas
Lunch at the Eagle and Child pub seemed the only appropriate place to go next, so I walked up St. Giles to the legendary “Bird and Baby,” and was soon sitting in the back room with a pint and vegetable pie, gazing at oil portraits of Tolkien and Lewis and scribbling notes on my morning’s research.
That afternoon I met up with a family friend who happens to be teaching in Oxford for the next two months, so we spent the next several hours catching up and discussing ideas on an array of topics, from philosophy and religion, to literature and travel. We walked home through Oxford in the evening together, conversation still well underway.
Morning found me once again in the Sir Charles Mackerras Reading Room, pouring over more drawings. But finally the time came for me to depart and I left with reluctance. Would I have the opportunity to again be a researcher in these halls? I hope my life may take such a turn.
For the afternoon I had a special pilgrimage planned: a long walk from Oxford city center first to 20 Northmoor Road, where Tolkien and his family lived seventeen years, and then on a few more miles up to the Wolvercote Cemetery where Tolkien and his wife Edith are buried beneath one gravestone. It felt important to me to walk, to really put in the time and effort and make it to each place on foot.
20 Northmoor Road – Photo by Becca Tarnas
I noticed as I was walking down Northmoor Road I was shaking a little again. The wooden gate bears a metal number 20, and bushes and blackberry vines grow about the entrance. Someone else has made their home here now, and it looks simple and well-kept. The only distinguishing feature is a small blue plaque near the gable of the roof stating:
J.R.R. Tolkien
Author of The Lord of the Rings Lived here 1930-1947
I tried to imagine what it might have been like to live here, raising four children, preparing lectures, marking exams, and writing thousands upon thousands of pages of fantasy and Elvish lexicons during some of the spare hours in between. I peered at the smaller house next door, number 22, where the Tolkiens had lived for a shorter period before, from 1926 to 1930. Eventually I continued on my way, grateful to have glimpsed these two homes.
The walk up to Wolvercote Cemetary was actually much longer than I expected, and a few times I thought I might be lost. I started to worry I wasn’t going in the right direction, or worse yet that I was but had somehow mistaken the cemetery and was walking far out of my way for nothing. I departed the road I had been on, thinking perhaps the cemetery was further east. I began to walk down an unfamiliar road when suddenly I had a strong sense to turn around. I did, and following intuition more than anything else I realized I was now on Banbury Road, the very road the cemetery was meant to be on. Sure enough just several hundred feet further, and a little sign pointed me into a wide, grassy cemetery. A brass plaque indicated to follow the signs to Tolkien’s grave. I had made it.
The Tolkiens are buried right near the back of the cemetery, a modest plot with a granite stone at the head and a rose bush with a few blooms, their fading petals marking the end of summer. The stone reads:
Edith Mary Tolkien
Luthien
1889-1971
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
Beren
1892-1973
I cannot recount here all the emotions that arose in me at the sight of this grave. I’ll simply say it was a deeply meaningful experience, far more than I was even expecting. I spent a long time there. At one moment a strong wind picked up, shaking the trees. I was reminded of when the wind blew through the trees as Tolkien and Lewis were on Addison’s Walk by Magdalen College, the night that Lewis had his conversion experience, which Tolkien commemorated in his poem “Mythopoeia.” Finally I felt it was time to depart. As I turned away I saw a small, pure white feather on the ground. Rarely do I collect tokens of remembrance, but this time I felt the feather was for me.
The Tolkiens’ Grave – Photo by Becca Tarnas
It was a joy to rest my feet as I sat on the upper deck of the bus back toward city center, right at the front window so I could see clearly the whole return journey. I felt in a place of great peace. Arriving back into the heart of Oxford, I walked over to Exeter College, where Tolkien studied as an undergraduate, and was able to enter with my newly acquired reader’s card. (“I’m a visiting researcher, may I enter the college?”) Passing the emerald green quad I entered first the chapel, where a tapestry of the Adoration of the Magi adorned the front left-hand wall. A copper bust of Tolkien stood near the back, not too far from the door. Although small, Exeter’s chapel is exquisite. From there I somehow found myself in the Fellows’ Garden, a peaceful lawn bathed in sunlight, trees and flowers scattered throughout, a large fig climbing the stone wall by the private college library. Toward the back right of the garden is a small pond filled with water lilies, and a stone staircase ascending the outer wall of the college. Coming to the top of the stairs I found myself with a spectacular view looking out toward the round Radcliffe Camera, the tower of the University Church just beyond it. Below me a crowd of tourists happened to be walking by, but up here on the wall of Exeter College I was secluded, in the peace of an idyllic garden where generations have come to study outside.
Exeter Fellows’ Garden – Photo by Becca Tarnas
After Exeter I went on to visit two more colleges: Christ Church College, which is by far the largest and wealthiest, with vast meadows stretching beyond it, and Magdalen, where C.S. Lewis was situated. Walking down the echoing corridor beside the Magdalen quad I had an internal image of black-robed students walking down these same halls, when suddenly I turned a corner and a whole choir of schoolboys in the very black robes I had been imagining processed down the passageway before me, turning quickly (and the smallest ones in the back shoving each other) into an arched doorway to the left. My footsteps carried me further until I passed out of the wrought-iron gates and across the small bridge over the River Cherwell onto the pathway of Addison’s Walk. Turning left I walked for a ways beside the river, stopping when I came to the next bridge and seeing to my right in the meadow a large herd of deer. All of the females and fawns were standing eating grass, while the two males with antlers—one significantly larger and presumably older than the other—sat on the ground on either side of the herd. After a moment in quiet reflection beside the deer, I turned back the way I’d come. I noticed a few things I had missed on the way in: a few large stumps that had been carved into thrones rooted directly into the ground, and a small moored boat that looked like it must belong to Ratty from Wind in the Willows.
Radcliffe Camera & University Church – Photo by Becca Tarnas
By now completely exhausted from all my walking, I returned to the University Church which had a garden café at the bottom, and sat with a perfect cup of English tea and a scone, replete with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Just refreshed, I went to meet the same family friend I had joined the afternoon prior and we walked together over to Christ Church chapel to attend Evensong. It’s one thing to tiptoe into the college chapels when no one is there and take in the art and carvings on the walls, it’s another to come in when candles are lit and the air vibrates with the voices of young men and boys in the choir.
Thus, after a beautiful dinner and evening, my time in Oxford was coming to a close. The following morning I packed everything up and walked back toward the train station the same way I had walked in. An autumn mist had descended on the city, turning the morning Sun’s light into diffused rays that scattered across the yellow stones and fading trees. I felt a reluctance to leave this place. But if I am meant to return to the dreaming spires at some point in the future then I must trust that I will.
Dreaming Spires by Morning Light – Photo by Becca Tarnas
The first thing I notice about London is the speed: everything and everyone is moving about at such a pace, and in so many different directions all at once. Stepping off the train arriving from sleepy Canterbury, I was immediately swept up into a stream of life not my own. One must choose a direction and keep pace, or risk being battered about on all sides, a single leaf caught in the cross-currents of many hurried winds.
The River Cam – Photo by Becca Tarnas
The complex interactive network of the London Underground is actually surprisingly easy to handle, and puts all of our local Bay Area public transportation to deep shame (I’ve had this feeling repeatedly on this trip, with each new train journey wishing we had the same kind of sophisticated system in the States). I found my way to the Bakerloo line and was deposited before long at the quiet station of Warwick Avenue, where I emerged into the slanting golden light of a warm London evening. Walking past elegant blocks of brick and white plaster apartment buildings, with ornate iron railings outlining the front steps, I came without much trouble to the flat of a dear friend and his family, where I was welcomed with open arms.
The River Cam – Photo by Becca Tarnas
I spent a tremendously peaceful evening there, meeting for the first time my friend’s wonderful two-and-a half-year-old daughter, and getting to hear all about her life in her own excited little voice. When morning came we had an active round of monkeys jumping on the living room guest bed—the broken monkeys miraculously healing and coming back to bounce in ever-decreasing numbers once more.
Come mid-morning I set out from the flat, making my way on the tube to King’s Cross station to get my ticket up to Cambridge for the day to visit my professor Jake Sherman. Ticket in hand I quickly realized I would be leaving from Platform 10 at King’s Cross—just a quarter of a station from the legendary departure point of the Hogwarts Express. Try as I might the wall wouldn’t give. But I knew it was already September 28, a full four weeks after the entryway had closed. Besides, I had another train to catch to an equally magnificent institution of learning.
Jake met me right at the station in Cambridge, and we set off toward the heart of the town at a brisk pace. The closer to the center we came the older the buildings appeared, more ornate and closer together. Our exploration began at Emmanuel College, where Jake is currently teaching in the post of University Lecturer in Philosophy of Religion. The scale of Emmanuel, or Emma College as Jake called it, felt like it would make a good academic home. Some of the magnificent colleges I was to see later, such as Clare or King’s, were almost overwhelming in their grandeur. But there was something about Emma that felt just right.
Stepping into the college chapel, Jake showed me the many figures who adorned the stained glass, from Origen and Johannes Scotus Eriugena, to Benjamin Whichcote and John Smith the Cambridge Platonists, and John Harvard, the founder of Harvard University in the States. The gardens outside seemed a Romantic paradise, with winding paths and a pond inhabited by ducks and coy, swimming among the tall reeds and flowers.
King’s College Chapel – Photo by Becca Tarnas
From Emmanuel our tour went seemingly zigzagging in many directions, from one ancient and beautiful building to the next. We saw the oldest church in Cambridge, and not too far away another that was perfectly round, built by one of the Knights Templar in reflection of the houses of worship in Jerusalem. The Cam River, for which the town and university are named, winds its way past these ancient buildings, spanned by many beautiful bridges in the course of its meanderings. We crossed several, passing from one college to the next. Perhaps the most striking is the Bridge of Sighs, built in reflection of the same bridge in Venice.
As we walked Jake shared with me the history and traditions of the colleges we saw, or famous individuals who once studied there. Cambridge is so rich with history and genius that it is almost too much to dedicate more than a plaque to the luminary who emerged however many centuries ago from its tutelage. Almost any other town or institution would have a museum or building dedicated to its famous students, but here they are passing names, murmured in connection to one of the great colleges that has stood as a place of learning for centuries.
To come from a conference on Re-Enchanting the Academy straight into Cambridge, and to be able to see it through Jake’s eyes, someone who has participated in its traditions and lineage, I was able to recognize the enchantment of the academy that is still inherent to a place like Cambridge. The rituals and traditions run so deep and have been passed on from matriculating class to matriculating class for centuries. Often they are deeply embodied, ritualized traditions. Part of re-enchanting the academy may be awakening to the enchantment already present and acknowledging how much it plays a role in the learning that takes place within the academic walls.
King’s College – Photo by Becca Tarnas
Certainly the college that impressed me the most was King’s, especially its magnificent chapel. Entering inside I felt a state of awe descend upon me. The foundation of the chapel was laid by King Henry VI in 1441, but it took a century to complete under the subsequent patronage of Richard III and Henry VII. While the Choir design is much simpler, according to Henry VI’s wishes, the Ante-chapel where we entered is alive with ornate carvings, depicting Tudor roses, dragons and dogs, and forests of curling leaves. It would take weeks to observe all the details carved directly into the stone. The ceiling however, outshines all the rest. It is a soaring fan-vault ceiling, the largest of its kind in the world. The pillars of the chapel ascend like tree trunks into the air, their fanning branches meeting each other across the ceiling, creating an intricate web that gives one the sense of walking through a forest of living stone.
Come late afternoon we took our leave of Cambridge and, walking for a short while by the Cam, turned down a track that traversed the green fields outside the town. It was magic hour, the waning light coming forth in rose and golds, casting the rich green of the fields into a soft vermillion glow. We passed fields of cows and grouse, under arching tunnels of trees, along leafy hedgerows dividing the landscape. There was little to indicate the century I was in, and visions from Blake, Wordsworth, and Austen all came to mind. At last we entered the little village of Grantchester, and passing the six-hundred-year-old Green Man pub where we would later have dinner, arrived at Byron’s Mews, the cottage that was once Byron’s stable, next door to Byron’s Lodge where he allegedly housed his various mistresses. I’d stepped into the most idyllic English picture, entering a garden where I met two beautiful children picking apples from one of the many orchard trees.
Following dinner, drinks, pencil drawings and conversation, my time in Cambridge had all too quickly come to a close. I sat on the train back to London feeling blessed and exhausted, struggling to stay awake wrapped in my warm coat. Of course I have struggled that my dissertation advisor is all the way over in England as I complete the last few years of my degree, but now seeing where he is situated I cannot help but feel he is in the right place. Cambridge is certainly the most beautiful university I have ever seen. Yet for me personally, I also felt something missing. I had a feeling whatever it was I might find in Oxford. But that’s another journey, one to take place the following day.
Becca Tarnas 