Wales
October 28, 2023
Every so often I get the idea that I want to move far away, to Scotland, perhaps, and get a big dog and maybe a goat, and my friends know this would not suit me at all and intervene and I come to my senses but then I float the idea again every few months like it’s the first time I’ve ever thought of it.
You can move too far away, it turns out. When the world is burning and you feel as though you can’t relate to the people in it and you’ve removed yourself from the world and the people in it but the world keeps burning and you keep breathing it’s possible to wake up one day, in your self-imposed isolation, and realize you are too alone. These are the thoughts I had last week in Wales as we stood on a grassy moor overlooking the sea surrounded only by sheep. I could move here, I thought. I could live amongst these sheep, with only the sea to keep me company, and I could find peace in my solitude away from the fires of the world. It’s the same thought that I had when we moved to Amsterdam 5 years ago. The impulse to move away; it’s strong with me. But escape is not the perfect solution one might think. How far away is far enough away? How much isolation does one need before one is no longer living, merely existing? The world is still burning. “I think it’s okay to be a tortured soul,” James said to me last night as I was falling asleep, and I think it may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
We hiked up the Llandudno headland in Wales to look for the famous Kashmir goats, but we didn’t find them. The sheep and crows were our only company.
The thing that struck me most about Wales, aside from the breathtaking natural beauty and history — so many castles — is how warm people were. Even in a seaside Victorian town overrun by tourists when it’s not the offseason, the people of Wales were welcoming and friendly. Wales is known for the warmth of the people, we were told, and found it to be completely true. It would be so easy to be cynical living in a town overrun by tourists, but we felt welcomed in every setting, it was lovely and made me feel good about humanity, which is a rare feeling these days.
We went to Wales so JW could visit Bangor University, which we all loved. It’s a strong contender, but Drexel is still JW’s first choice, and the application is due next week. The reality of JW moving away to college is crashing down on me and messing me up in ways both obvious and subtle. I’m so excited for them but it’s a bittersweet and fraught time and I’m struggling with it, and with myself.
It’s the dark season in the Netherlands. The Big Grey. The sky is a grey sweater enveloping us and the forecast is rain for the next 6 months. It’s my first winter in Amsterdam without Brian, it has been 5 months since he died. It’s candles and soup and ginger tea. It’s dead flowers in the dead flower repository in the garden, decaying decadence, like a vampire’s house. Yesterday I started to rewatch Downton Abbey for the 4th (or maybe 5th?) time. “This is where you are?” James asked. “You’re falling into a hole,” he correctly assessed. It’s called winter in the Netherlands. One does what one must. Downton Abbey is my comfort show. I like living in the Crawley world of order and routine. Wake up to a tray of tea, have breakfast in bed if you are a married lady, otherwise it’s downstairs to the dining room for you. Luncheon will be soon, then tea, then a rest before the dressing gong for dinner. It’s an escape I am familiar with, and very good at falling into. But it’s not my only plan for surviving the winter. I’ve also signed up for a creative writing class at the International Writer’s Collective here in Amsterdam, which starts in January. I leave for NYC next week, where I will be meeting with many of my writing friends and filling my well of creativity and connection. The world is burning, but I keep on breathing. I suggest you do the same.
Lady Mary and Mr. Pamuk never fail to cheer me.