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The author and her son, Max,
outside Stratford, Shakespeare’s birthplace, where they
visited his wife, Anne Hathaway’s, cottage, shown above. As Air Canada flight 8031 taxied for takeoff on its short,
June 9th run to Toronto, the adventure had already begun for
many aboard. Of our "traveling party of 25" from McKenzie,
many had never flown on a jet. There was an uncharacteristic
quiet among some of the younger passengers. Once we were in
the air, all was well except for the fact that we were delayed
by almost an hour. At that point, Dianne Anderson, our very
capable tour leader, was already thinking two steps ahead. We
would have approximately one hour to go through customs and
security in Toronto, which requires two shuttle bus rides due
to construction. Would it be enough time to make flight 858
which would take us on to Heathrow, England?
As our destination grew closer, Dianne began serious
conversations with our flight attendant. She arranged for
flight 889 to be held for us. Our challenge was to jump
through all the proper hoops as quickly as possible and get on
board. It was a mad dash and is now all a blur except for one
memory. In a run to catch the shuttle, we passed a kindly
Eastern Indian man replete with turban. He gave us a wide grin
and a pleasant "good evening" as we sped up the escalator past
his station. I was at the end of the line. I usually stayed
there, the Mother Hen in me fearful of losing any stragglers.
We barely reached the top when informed that we should catch
the shuttle on the first floor. Once again, we rushed past the
kind gentleman in the turban, and once again received a
pleasant "Good evening." We were again informed that the
shuttle stop was on the second floor. Up the escalator we went
again, with the kindly man in the turban waving a final
goodbye... to the country mice on the treadmill.
The seven-hour, overnight flight to London was totally
uneventful. I can attest to this with complete certainty since
I never closed my eyes. It was not that I didn't need sleep.
Someone once said, "Home is where you hang your hat."
Somewhere over the Atlantic with all my hats safely stowed in
the belly of a jet, I realized that this is so untrue. Home is
where you hang your heart and mine was back in West Tennessee.
Nothing makes you appreciate home more than leaving it.
A ten-day Euroean tour was
enjoyed by McKenzie students, alumni, and chaperones,
including Lee Barham, Raymona Batchelor, Maxwell Batchelor,
Kia Bell, Timothy Craig Broadbent, Deborah Sommer Broadbent,
Hunter Downing, Holland Hames, Virginia Hames, Ladona
Herrin, Hunter Herrin, Hannah Herrin, David Hochreiter,
Whitney Hopper, Matthew McBride, Rebecca McBride, Lauren
Morris, Mary Nethaway, Caleb Owen, Brice Priestley, Brooke
Ridley, Pamela Ridley, Kimberly Taylor, and Kayla Taylor.
We arrived at Heathrow somewhat behind schedule, but with a
long layover. We found, when we went to retrieve our baggage,
that it had not been so lucky. To quote the smiling gentleman
with the Cockney accent behind the Air Canada baggage counter,
"It's not lost, Ma'am, it's just misguided." His coworker
added, "We can really lose it, if you'd like."
On the quick flight to Shannon, Ireland, I did manage to
squeeze in forty winks and have a delightful conversation with
a woman named Maggie. She lives in Budapest where she works
for Marks & Spencer (the large London department store.) She
has a coworker from Tennessee. Though exhausted, I remember
her questions about, of all things, Red Velvet cake. She was
on a quest for a good recipe which didn't require buttermilk
since it was not available in Budapest. Yes, I solved her
problem by instructing her to sour sweet milk with vinegar.
She was grateful for the hint. I awakened in time for her to
point out her family home in sight of the Shannon runway.
At the Shannon airport, we met up with our Explorica tour
director. Paola Romano was a sprite of a woman, Italian born,
and a freelance journalist by trade. We joined two other
groups to make us just over 40 and boarded a tour bus for an
hour and a half ride to Rathkeale, Ireland, a clean bed, and a
shower.
Not knowing what to expect of European accommodations, I was
pleasantly surprised by the Rathkeale House Hotel. It would be
our home for two days and comfortably so. The people were
pleasant, the food was better than we had expected, and the
hotel was much like we would find at home, minus the 200 cable
channels. Rathkeale is a small town akin in size to McKenzie.
The Irish passion for Guinness (a type of beer, stout) is
evidenced by a pub on every corner. It was on the drive to
Rathkeale that we began to notice the brightly colored front
doors on all of the residences. As the story goes, the Irish
have a tradition of painting their doors in this manner in
order to find their way home under the fog of the evening's
Guinness. This fact alone was a learning experience for our
little group that has been raised to practice temperance
and/or moderation.
Though Rathkeale proved to be similar to home, it, as well
as most places we saw in Ireland, was very different. Ladona
Herrin, always open to conversation with the local children,
was surprised to find that many leave school at 13 or 14 to
work. With some euros in their pockets, they tend to find
their way into trouble early in life. There were fun
discoveries, such as the group of young Irish boys who showed
up in the evenings at the gates of the Rathkeale House Hotel
to kick a soccer ball with the American boys in our group who
share a passion for Ireland's beloved sport.
Perhaps the fondest memory of Rathkeale is the story of the
jacket. Several of our high school young men pooled their
money to purchase an ultra suede sport coat from John, the
proprietor of Rathkeale's version of McElhiney's. The plan was
that they share the jacket on a predetermined schedule
throughout the year and they instantly coined the moniker "The
Brotherhood of the Traveling Jacket". Fortunately, their
wearing schedule did not start until next school year for the
jacket was left hanging in the wardrobe of their rooms and had
to make its way to Tennessee by Federal Express.
Venturing out from Rathkeale, we began the 120-mile journey
known as the Ring of Kerry.
The Tower of London has a
fascinating and sometimes infamous, over 900-year old
history, dating from its founding by William the Conquerer.
Our first stop was the Kerry Bog Village Museum. This original
establishment of six cottages is maintained to educate the
public about the history of the Irish Peatlands. Peat is a
soil which consists of the partially rotted remains of dead
plants on top of dead plants in waterlogged areas for
thousands of years. Ireland is one of only a few countries
which continues to cut turf for use as fuel.
The winding trail of a road carried us, via our trusty bus
driver, Sean, to some of the most breathtaking vistas
imaginable where Ireland meets the Atlantic on its western
shore. A journey down a goat path of a road took the group to
Kell's Bay to dip a hand or brave toe in the Atlantic Ocean on
a magnificently sunny 60 degree day.
We stopped for a sheepdog demonstration by one of the local
farmers, along with his border collies Bess and Maggie. We
watched with delight as the dogs retrieved the sheep from up a
mountainside on the command of their owner and his dime store
whistle. For yet another bit of social commentary, when Bess
stood from her appointed post to assist her master, he barked,
"Off, Bess!" She instantly cowered and he said with a thick
brogue, "It's a pity everyone in Ireland is not so willing to
work."
We returned to the hotel to find our belongings had finally
caught up to us as promised. After a pleasant dinner and a
walk to settle it, we retired to rest for the following day's
journey to Dublin via Blarney Castle.
 Up early, we made our way to Blarney. Some among the group
were anxious of the acrobatics necessary to kiss the Blarney
Stone high atop the castle, but with encouragement they made
the climb. The narrow tower with a thick rope for a handle and
small pie-wedged stone steps made for a rather quiet climb.
The view from the top was so magnificent that the queue to
kiss the stone was barely noticed. It seemed the actual
kissing of the stone was there and gone before one had time to
think about the deadly plunge to the Irish soil below. It is
not, however, that dangerous. An unfortunate accident several
years ago forced the keepers of the castle to place a
substitute stone on an inside wall for safety. I will say the
legend does apparently work. One of our middle school
travelers, Mary Nethaway, conspicuously quiet during the
climb, couldn't stop talking the whole way down, forever
blessed with the stone's magical "gift of gab."
In the top photo, Max
Batchelor, Mary Nethaway, and Matthew McBride climb the
narrow tower to the top of Blarney Castle (above) in Dublin,
Ireland, there to kiss the Blarney Stone and acquire the
gift of gab.
For yet another bonus, we made a side stop at the Rock of
Cashel in County Tipperary, one of the most spectacular
archaeological sites in all of Ireland. This mighty stone
fortress stood as a symbol of royal and priestly power for
more than a thousand years. Legend has it that the rock was
formed when the devil dropped a rock from the sky in shock at
seeing Patrick conducting conversions underneath.
After a rest stop in Killarney, a very touristy town where I
happened upon a great cup of coffee, we journeyed on to Dublin
to take up residence for yet another two nights. Much to our
surprise, the City West Hotel and Golf Resort proved fit for
kings. We learned at dinner that former President Bill Clinton
had been a guest there only 12 days before our arrival.
Everyone was happy to find a room with one coin operated
computer for Internet access and a thread to home. The
students met other travelers from Memphis, no less, and the
large rooms and excellent amenities afforded the chance to
stretch a bit.
The next morning, we traveled into Dublin for a visit to
Trinity College and the exhibit of the Book of Kells. The Book
of Kells, said to have been rendered by Irish monks, contains
the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Dating back
over 1500 years, it exemplifies the art and style of ancient
Ireland. It is considered the supreme standard of Celtic art
form, and one of the most important treasures of Western
Europe.
Following our Trinity College visit, we boarded the bus for a
driving tour of Dublin proper which included Parnell Street
and culminated at St. Patrick's Cathedral. After free time for
lunch and shopping, we journeyed back to the hotel for dinner.
We then boarded the bus for a 30-minute or so bus ride to Dun
Loaghire (pronounced Done Leery) for a scheduled Irish
folklore evening. After some searching and frustration, Sean
found the correct address. We disembarked from the bus,
however, to discover some miscommunication in the date for our
performance. The presumed owner of the establishment was Mr.
Billy Boylan and he invited us into the theatre where he
proceeded to teach Tennessee people the intricacies of Irish
dancing. After an hour or so of jumping and hopping and
laughing and dancing to and fro, Mr. Boylan led the group in a
round of "Happy Birthday" to my son, Max, who turned 13 that
day, and we were on our way.
The morning found us on a ferry to Holyhead, Wales. I have
been on a ferry before (the one at Cottonwood Point) and this
was not at all what I was expecting. The Ulysses was much more
like a cruise ship with restaurants, elevators, gift shops,
arcades, and so forth. We settled in for a relaxing three-hour
journey.
When we arrived in Wales, we were back on a bus headed to "the
smallest town in Wales with the longest name in the world."
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch is
not a typo, but rather a bit of marketing genius. Our bus
driver was the only person I ever heard pronounce it. It was a
tiny place to buy souvenirs and take a picture by the sign.
We rolled on quickly to Snowdonia National Park. Snowdonia had
been billed as a Welsch Yellowstone. Though I didn't see a
geyser, I did see sheer mountains which matched, if not
surpassed, the beauty we had experienced on the Irish
coastline. The park is not owned by the government, but is
private property dotted with farm houses and thousands of
sheep.
We drove on to Llangolen, Wales, for our most surprising of
accommodations. The Hand Hotel proved to be older than dirt.
Its labyrinthine hallways with oddly placed short flights of
stairs added to its eccentricity. It came steeped in legend
with a supposed resident ghost, a somewhat weak link to The
Holy Grail, and a story of a hand lopped off in battle, thus
the name. The town, picturesque and ancient, had all but
rolled up the sidewalks by the time we got out to venture. But
we enjoyed our usual leg stretching time and we gave the shop
windows and local grocery a look.
The next morning, June 15, saw us heading out in the first
rain since our journey began. On toward London past road signs
for Shropshire and Shrewsbury, names I recalled from the Harry
Potter novels, we made a stop and tour of (Shakespeare's wife)
Anne Hathaway's cottage and on to Stratford-Upon-Avon for the
tour of Shakespeare's birthplace. After lunch and a little
souvenir shopping, we headed on to London, our new home for a
couple of days.
We checked into our hotel. Simplistic and thoroughly modern
with a subway stop just across the street, London was a little
more comfortable to most of us. We wasted no time in tackling
the "tube", as it is called in London, on our way to the
famous Maxwell's for a fish and chips dinner. The tube was a
breeze once someone handed Lee Barham a map. Lee proved
himself as our invaluable "Magellan" on the favored
transportation of both London and Paris. Give him a map and a
minute and he'll get you there.
As a special treat, Dawn and David Clubb met the group for
dinner. Dawn is a former MHS teacher and David is the former
pastor of the Presbyterian Church in Huntingdon. They are very
British, having moved there following the MHS trip two years
ago. They are both teaching and are expecting their third
child this fall.
The McKenzie group was
pleased to be able to enjoy dinner with former MHS teacher,
Ms. Dawn Clubb, center, and husband David, who have made
their home in England.
The next day was gray and rainy and brought a guided bus tour
of all the traditional sights with a visit to St. Paul's
Cathedral. Many will remember it for being the place Charles
and Diana were married. Following a shortened version of the
changing of the guard, we ventured to the Hard Rock Café. The
London Hard Rock was the first one opened by former Jacksonian
Isaac Tigrett and was a highlight for the kids. Down in the
Hard Rock vault, many a picture was snapped holding Jimi
Hendrix's guitar valued at 2.5 million pounds.
Our last evening in London was worth the trip. We enjoyed a
pizza buffet, which suited the kids longing for home, and we
celebrated Kia Bell's 16th birthday. We were then off for a
performance of Willy Russell's award-winning musical Blood
Brothers. On a run since 1982, the production was riveting. It
received a spontaneous standing ovation; said to be a nightly
occurrence.
Friday morning, June 17, was the start of yet another
adventure. We were to cross the English Channel to Paris via
the Eurostar train, sometimes referred to as the "Chunnel". I
had expected to be under the ground for awhile, but had been
warned not to nap by friends who had crossed the week before.
Though the journey was much longer, we were only under the
channel 17 minutes. Many napped through it; probably just as
well. The train ride was a neat experience. Traveling from car
to car en route to the dining car, getting to use our first
bit of French, changing currency back from the British pound
to the euro all are just part of learning to travel.
We arrived in the heart of France, but quickly boarded a bus
to the outskirts, the area known as La Defense. Later, we
traveled back to the city for dinner at a bistro. Once again,
we were on the subway, the "Metro" in France and once again,
Magellan was charting the course. After dinner, we strolled
down the Seine for a look and eventually made our way to the
Eiffel Tower. At 300 feet taller than the St. Louis arch, it
was so much grander than one could imagine. Many in our party
traveled to the summit to watch the sunset. Five or six of us
were content with viewing the sweeping arches of the base and
strobe lights added for the millennium from ground level.
Exhausted, we headed back out of town via the Metro and then
our barking dogs to our home for one more day.
The last day of our visit started with a guided tour of the
high points. We drove by the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs-Elysees,
said goodbye to the Eiffel Tower. We stopped for a break at
Les Invalides, the burial place of Napoleon Bonaparte, and for
a picture at the Peace Memorial. Our tour guide left us after
a thorough explanation of the exterior architecture of Notre
Dame and we were on our own until we met up again outside the
Louvre. The Louvre visit was minimal. They say it could take
weeks to see everything. We saw all we could see in two hours.
As my friends who had been there the week prior put it, "We
smiled at the Monna Lisa and she smiled back."
Sunday found us headed home, smiles all around. We arrived
back in Nashville one hour late-was it that same hour we lost
at the beginning?-road weary, homesick, jetlagged, yet
welcomed with open arms. We had learned to travel and traveled
to learn.
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