Last week, the Cotswolds; this week . . .

The village of Snowshill, in the Cotswolds.

Last week we explored the quintessential English countryside of the Cotswolds. Idyllic farms, rolling hills, quaint villages, creamy stone cottages, and everywhere you look: sheep.

For centuries, wool was the lifeblood of the Cotswolds.

Inside the Great Hall at Blenheim Palace.

You might think the arrival of a new baby would pause our travel itch. Heck no! When traveling with young children, the newborns and infants are much easier — much more compliant — than toddlers and preschoolers. You need to stop every so often to feed them and change diapers, but mostly they sleep all day. Easy peasy.

The lil' scribbler celebrated his first month anniversary in style at Blenheim Palace. But, of course, he dozed through nearly all of it in his baby carrier. Typical.

The 4¾ year olds . . . those are the ones to whom you have to cater. It's like they've actually become little people, with real wants and opinions. 

Fortunately, this 4¾ year old was happy to explore Blenheim Palace inside and out.

Our cottage.

We rented a lovely cottage in the even more lovely village of Lower Slaughter. Quite a name for a town, don't you think? If you're like me, your first thought was about slaughtering the ubiquitous sheep. But apparently the "slaughter" part derives from an old Anglo-Saxon term ("slough" or "slothre") for mud.

Which makes sense for the village, given its position on a low-banked river that runs through it. In truth, the "River" Eye looks more like a stream, crisscrossed by bridges skimming the surface.

Lower Slaughter cozies up to the low banks of the River Eye.

Jackson biking through the village of Stanton.

From our central location we crisscrossed the Cotswolds, trying to do more than merely skim the surface. We rambled through castles. Delved into ruins. Petted farm animals. Reconnoitered old villages. Chugged on steam trains. Investigated neolithic barrows. Strolled through gardens. Climbed up towers.

Hiked.

Biked.

Drank coffee.

A mid-morning refueling.

Charging up to see Broadway Tower.

Sometimes Jackson grew bored exploring yet another village (e.g., Bibury) and the silliness overtook him. And his grandmother.

Hidcote Manor Gardens were gorgeous even in early spring, before most of the blooming.

The Cotswold Farm Park provides plenty of hands-on experiences.

We searched for hidden gems, like this ancient Templar parish church in Temple Guiting.

Have Kate and baby Finley grown to giant size, or is this the remarkably (and painstakingly) accurate Model Village in Bourton-on-the-Water?

Our train-mad boy steaming along the vintage Gloucester Warwickshire Railway.

'Twas a full week.

For the new baby we've had Kate's mom (i.e., Grammar) staying with us since mid-February. This week we've been joined by my parents (i.e., Nana and Grampa Bill), and the explorations continue. Over the next couple of weeks we'll ramble through Bristol, head south into Somerset for awesome places like Wells, and take a quick jaunt or two across the border to Wales.

Grammar on the steam train.

But I promise, no more month-long breaks in posts around here. Check back next week for more traveling and photographic goodness!

Nana and Grampa Bill amidst the ruins of Tintern Abbey in southeastern Wales.

When road signs bemuse

Far be it for me, a mere colonist, to quibble with the way the English use English. But this road sign in Bristol distracted me so much that I nearly hit a parked car:

Are they zombies?

Somebody in the city government proposed this sign.

            Worker:     "Pardon, guv'nor, maybe we should use, 'Dead Slow Children'?"

            Boss:         "Well, Nigel, let me give it a think. What are our other options? I need to make sure we bloody hell
                              don't do a cock up."

            Worker:     "Me and my mates have been working on this for a fortnight. We're knackered. If we have to go
                              back to the drawing board it'll all go to pot. We think 'very slow' is rubbish. Doesn't pop, y'know?
                              'Extremely slow' was too bloody long. And those 'Twenty's Plenty' signs are poufy, amiright?"

            Boss:         "Cheerio! 'Dead Slow Children' is scrummy. Any punctuation we could use to make it more clear?"

            Worker:     "Blimey, what is 'punctuation'?"

In England, school starts at age 4

We moved across the border, and our preschooler has suddenly become school-aged.

No more nursery. We've kissed goodbye our freedom from school calendars. Upon crossing the border, our wee 'un in Scotland transmogrified into an English schoolboy.

Jackson in his uniform, on his very first day of school. (I've edited the photo to remove the name of the school.)

Our new schoolboy is thrilled to have become a "big kid."

I'm a little more reticent. Expat life comes with complications, and schooling is one of them.

England starts them young

Throughout almost all the rest of the world, children don't start school until at least the age of five. In many countries kids don't start until age six, which is the norm in Europe. Some European nations start schooling at age seven.

To my mind, starting school at age four is quite young. At four, kids are just leaving toddlerhood. In the U.S., they're preschoolers, not deemed ready for the rigors of a day of school.

In England, these four year olds enter into the "reception year," only partly equivalent with kindergarten in the U.S. Fortunately, much of their time is spent playing, or in play-based learning. But they're also engaged in daily lessons, usually of phonics or maths — note the plural on maths, which is what we call it here — or in a variety of other topics.

From what I've gleaned so far, reception year is closer academically to first grade in America. What typical six year olds do in the U.S., the kids here do at age four.

Technically, the compulsory school age in England is five. Parents can elect to have their kids skip reception year and send their five year olds into Year 1. Very, very few kids do so. Some parents of "summer born children" would like to have their five year olds enter reception year, which has caused a political fight that Parliament looks likely to resolve by allowing five year olds to enter reception year at their parents' discretion. We pondered trying to do so with Jackson, but it isn't the law yet and we would've had to fight the Bristol school system for permission. We opted against that.

Instead, for better or worse, our immigrant son is following the path of the vast majority of his English peers.

By contrast, if we had stayed in Scotland, Jackson would've entered school at age five. The same holds true for Northern Ireland. Wales aligns with England, starting children at four.

Do all schools require uniforms?

"Non-marking plain black shoes" are required for the uniform.

No, but most do. In fact, the overwhelming majority of primary and secondary school students wear uniforms. On any school day you see hordes of well-dressed kids in blazers and trousers or skirts. Young children typically wear jumpers (i.e., sweaters) instead of blazers.

For the youngest ages, not all schools require uniforms. It's a decision left up to individual schools, as determined by headteachers (i.e., principals) and, perhaps, governing boards of schools. Moreover, whilst most schools in England are operated by the government, a quickly increasing number of schools are now "academies," essentially private schools run by education trusts. Attendance at academies is free of charge. From just a few dozen a few years ago, academies now number in the thousands, with no sign of abatement. The academies have more discretion over decisions like school uniforms and length of days, though they still must follow the national curriculum.

How much did Jackson's uniform cost? Roughly, a couple hundred dollars. The required uniform included: a monogrammed jumper; five plain white polo shirts (a mixture of monogrammed and generic shirts); several gray trousers, which we had professionally hemmed; gray socks; plain black shoes; a P.E. outfit of monogrammed sweatshirt, shorts, and running trousers (i.e., sweatpants); a small water bottle; and a bookbag.

Where an older kid might disdain a uniform, the little kids tend to view it as a symbol of now being "big" and able to go to school. Jackson loved his uniform.

{Ed.'s note: "Loved"? Does he no longer love it?}

No, he still does love it. But how long did we make use of this uniform? Two weeks. That's right, we got a total of two weeks use of this uniform.

I explain more in the next section.

Jackson misses his uniform. Of course, now he can wear Minion shirts, and superhero socks, and blinking shoes, so he's not too distraught.

Extremely local — and frequently oversubscribed — schools

Primary schools tend to the smaller side in England. Often, there will be only one or two classrooms per age, so one or two reception years, one or two Year 1 classes, and so on. By law, class sizes are limited to thirty students, with one teacher and a couple of teaching assistants. Primary school extends to Year 6, after which kids head to secondary school.

In urban areas, these small schools are very much neighborhood schools. They are full to capacity. Many schools operate waiting lists, the priority for which is determined not by how long you've been on the list but instead by the distance you live from the school.

Unless he has an older sibling at a school, or one of a few other exceptions, a child very likely lives just a few hundred yards (actually meters, but I find it hard to shift to using the metric system) from his school. There's no public busing of students, so unless a parent provides transportation, the child almost certainly walks to school.

Given the class size limits, which are set in stone, there's no flexibility for a new kid moving into the neighborhood during the year. If there are no open spaces, your kid cannot attend. That was our problem for Jackson, because we moved to Bristol at the end of November 2015. To have secured a spot at our local primary school — which by all parent accounts, government ratings, test scores, etc., is one of the very best schools in the city — we would have had to apply by January 2015, many months before we even knew we were moving to Bristol. Impossible to have done, obviously. 

Jackson and Kate on his first day of school.

So we were left scrambling to find a space for Jackson. Fortunately, we found an excellent academy a half mile away, a new science/technology school run by an education trust that also runs several of the best primary and secondary schools in Bristol. We were very lucky to have stumbled into a space in that school, which is so brand new it has only one reception class, with no other classes or years yet.

However, we also put ourselves on the waitlist for our local primary school. From what we were told, spots come open very rarely. It might be years before a spot materialized.

And yet, somehow, a place opened up, a mere two weeks after Jackson started at the academy. Given our proximity to the local school — we're literally a stone's throw away — Jackson was at the top of the waitlist. I know we jumped ahead of at least three kids who had been on the waitlist for the entire school year, but them's the rules.

Though it would mean further disruption for Jackson, we simply couldn't pass up a spot at his outstanding local school. Both of our next door neighbors have four year olds at the school, and they're his nearest thing to buddies here. Also, with a new baby on the way, this school is incredibly convenient.

Fortunately, Jackson seems remarkably adaptable to new situations. Over the course of twelve months, he has started at nursery in Scotland; shifted to a new building for nursery (luckily, with the same teacher and some of the same kids); moved to England; started primary school; changed schools two weeks later; and, in the next six weeks, added a baby brother. That's a lot of change for me and Kate, let alone a little kid. We've thrust him into the "new kid" role several times just in the last several months, and he doesn't bat an eye.

We're not winning any parenting awards this year, that's for sure. But he goes along without a fuss. We try to frame all the newness as adventures, and Jackson has totally bought into that framework. He's already planning our next move "once we're bored with England," which should be, in his opinion, to Germany, because on the autobahn "you can drive 100." That's his sole criteria. Meanwhile, I'm now determined to give him some stability, perhaps even seeking U.K. citizenship.

How long is the school day?

In Bristol, and I think throughout England, a school day at the primary level lasts between six and seven hours. For secondary schools, you can add another hour or two, with some in the government calling for ten hour days and reduced vacation time.

Jackson's school day lasts from 8:55 until 3:30. At noon, he has an hour and 15 minutes for lunch and outdoor playtime.

School in England is year-round, though that's not as long as you might think

A debate rages in many parts of the U.S. about whether to have a "traditional" school year of September(ish) to June(ish), with a long summer break, or a "year round" school year, with more frequent breaks during the year but a substantially shorter summer. Either way, the school year lasts about 180 days.

England, like much of the rest of the world, operates its schools in a year-round format. The school year lasts 190 days. Each year has six terms, though these terms are of unequal lengths. Summer break lasts approximately six weeks.

Almost all schools and school systems follow the same calendar. Bristol's calendar is below, though individual schools can shift a few days here and there, often for "inset days" (i.e., teacher workdays):

• Term 1           Tuesday 1 September to Wednesday 21 October 2015
• Term 2           Monday 2 November to Friday 18 December 2015
• Term 3           Monday 4 January to Friday 5 February 2016
• Term 4           Monday 15 February to Thursday 24 March 2016
                         (Easter is 25 to 28 March)
• Term 5           Monday 11 April to Friday 27 May 2016
                         (closed on 2 May 2015 for the Early May Bank Holiday)
• Term 6           Monday 6 June to Friday 22 July 2016

Having almost all English schools on the same calendar is useful for planning purposes. But it's absolute hell for travel plans and costs during school break times. Everybody goes on holiday at the same time, which causes plane fares and accommodation costs to skyrocket. Available bookings become frighteningly scarce. The problem is so pronounced that the government is toying with the idea of allowing schools to set their own calendars, just to avoid the holiday crush.

Can you take your kid out of school during term time? Nope. Well, you can, but only if you have the headteacher's permission. Otherwise, you can be fined £60 per day of absence. If you are deemed too egregious, they can take you to court and even put you in jail. Putting on my attorney hat, that's fairly unlikely, but it's a power the schools increasingly are seeking to enforce.

We're new to a year-round format. I'm withholding judgment. I like having longer breaks during the school year, but allowing only six weeks for summer seems achingly short.

Regrettably, as an expat who's living overseas in part because of the opportunities to travel, I'm now tethered to the school calendar. Tethered for — and this part pains me — the next couple of decades. Noooooooo!!!!!

With our move to England, we suddenly have a school-age child. And the joys and travails which come along.

Off to school, still in uniform.

And we have moved to . . .

Our expat journey continues!

We hadn't planned on moving. At least, not yet.

{Ed.'s note: That implies you actually have a plan.}

Okay, true enough, we don't have a plan. But when we first moved overseas, back in June 2013, we assumed we'd be in Scotland for at least three years. Kate's contract with the University of Glasgow was for three years, and at the end of those three years — i.e., next June — our toddler would have turned five and been ready to begin school. We figured June 2016 would be an excellent time to take stock of our lives and see how this expat adventure was working out.

Then Kate developed a crush.

Actually, she's had the crush for a long time. Years. Since before we ever moved overseas, she had developed a crush on a small veterinary diagnostic company. (I've been assured the crush is only for the company, and not for its owner.) She loves their fantastic work and clientele. She loves that although they are a small business, they nonetheless have (inter)national leaders in the field of anatomic pathology who produce good scholarship and give talks at major conventions. She loves that they're so well respected in the field that the Royal Veterinary College in London sends its pathology residents to spend as much as a year getting training at the company. She loves that the job advertisement indicated baking skills were not required, but definitely a bonus.

She really loves that they all stop work every day and have tea, and every Friday is "cake Friday." And that she'll get her own mug with her name on it, although not until she's been there long enough to earn it.

It's the little things.

Our new home, a nineteenth century Victorian row house. (Photo by leasing agency.)

{Ed.'s note: Okay, get on with it. Where is this new job?}

I thought you'd never ask. We have moved to    .  .  .
                                                                                                            Bristol, England!

Bristol on map of Britain (link)

We left bonnie Scotland for the auld enemy, England. Some of you might think we've simply moved south within the same country (the United Kingdom). In the view of many Scots, though, we left one country and moved to another. I'm glum about leaving Glasgow and the lovely nation of Scotland. We truly loved our time there.

But a new city beckoned.

And what a city it is. According to frequent rankings and polls, Bristol grades as the U.K.'s best city to live in. It's funky. Artsy. Home of renowned street artist Banksy. Home of multiple Oscar-winning studio Aardman Animations, which created characters like Wallace and Gromit and Shaun the Sheep. Home of the illustrious Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, founded by Sir Laurence Olivier and whose alumni include Jeremy Irons, Gene Wilder, Olivia Colman, Patrick Stewart, Stephen Dillane, and the incomparable Daniel Day Lewis. Home of iconic engineering marvels, like the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Home of numerous festivals, including, because the area is so gorgeous, an international hot air balloon extravaganza.

Bristolians get roughly half the yearly rainfall as Glaswegians. And Bristol enjoys approximately 360 more hours of sunshine per year than Glasgow, which equates to a full month more of sunny days. When you're coming from damp Scotland, these aren't insignificant bonuses.

Bristol's best draw, to my mind, is its ideal placement to explore so much of England and Wales. We're on the threshold of: the Cotswolds; the wilds of southern Wales; the rolling countryside of Somerset, with its cider and Cheddar (as in, the actual birthplace town of Cheddar cheese); the moors of Devon; the beaches of Cornwall; and UNESCO world heritage sites like Bath and Avebury and Stonehenge.

With our 19th century Victorian row house, we've seriously upped our Britishness. The house comes complete with ten-foot ceilings, original stained glass, wide-plank floors, and, well, not one goddamn closet. Moreover, we now live within a stone's throw of three sporting complexes — lawn bowling, grass court tennis, and a cricket pitch. It's as though we've moved into a British cliché.

Our kitchen, as lived in by our predecessors. (Photo by leasing agency.)

Our move to Bristol has forced a painful but necessary scantiness in blog posts here. For the past few months, we've been preoccupied with the move — finding a place to live, figuring out schooling for Jackson (kids in England start at age 4, unlike in Scotland where they start at age 5), packing boxes and arranging movers, and on and on. Plus, ever since we saw our move on the horizon, we spent every available day in Scotland traveling and sightseeing and absorbing as much as we could. I wanted to devote time to experiencing Scotland instead of writing about it.

{Ed.'s note: Now that you've left, will you no longer blog about Scotland?}

Heck, no! I have oodles and tons and reams and gobs of fascinating stuff in Scotland still to write about. Truly, years worth. Especially at my current snail's pace. Indeed, Scotland will still feature very prominently here. I loved it and have much more to share. England and Wales, however, will now become major players here, as well.

Kate at 5.5 months pregnant with the new lil' scribbler.

Our carpe negotium (i.e., seize the job) move to England has once again stretched our boundaries and expanded our expat lives. While our first move, to Glasgow, always had a possible deadline of three years, this second move, to Bristol, feels like a long-term stay. We're only three to four years from getting our U.K. citizenship, which is a huge goal we're eyeing. That'll give us a multitude of options and advantages for our futures, particularly for Jackson and the new baby on the way. A passport from the U.K. provides European Union citizenship (assuming the U.K. doesn't boneheadedly vote to leave in an upcoming referendum), as well as the many perks of being members of the Commonwealth.

After two and a half years, expat life is still relatively new to us. Living outside the U.S. for a few years seemed adventurous; we were ready to color outside the lines. Now that we're earnestly contemplating getting foreign citizenship? Well, we've gone from scribbling on the page to drafting an entirely new picture.


UPDATE: I've gotten a few inquiries about whether we'd give up our U.S. citizenship. Getting U.K. citizenship doesn't require giving up U.S. citizenship. We have no intention of relinquishing our U.S. passports.

New scribbler joining our team

Recently, posting has been kinda . . . sparse . . . here at Coloring Without Borders.

{Ed.'s note: That's a bit of an understatement, huh?}

Partly, that's due to our fanatical traveling. We haven't been out of the country, as was our original plan. But we have ventured all over Scotland these past couple of months, squeezing eking milking our late summer and early fall for every drop of Scottish wonder we haven't yet experienced. And, for good measure, we threw in a long jaunt to southern England.

Nearly every weekend has been a day trip, overnight trip, or three-day weekend. And that's not counting a horde of midweek trips while the kid is in nursery. Ye olde family car has seen several thousand miles of the U.K. in just the last couple of months. And with British petrol prices, oh my.

So much travel goodness to share in the months ahead!

But the travel, remarkably, has been the least of our preoccupations. Several other items on the agenda recently bellied up to the top. Not least, this one:

The new lil' scribbler.

He's scheduled to join us on 29 February 2016. A pretty rare start date, I think. Unfortunately, he gets some flexibility regarding his arrival, though not if it were up to me.

And yes, he is a he. Damn it.

Woe is me. All I wanted was to have girls.

Our news doesn't end with just the new bébé. More updates to come. Soon(ish).

Busy travel season

Tomorrow we set off for our latest adventure: the far north of Scotland. After an overnight stop in Inverness, we'll head up the eastern coast to the tippy-top of Britain; spend eight nights in the Orkney Islands; take a driving tour across the northern coast of Scotland; head down the northwestern coast with a couple of nights in Ullapool; and then (sadly) return home to Glasgow.

This trip has me so excited, I'm nearing the realm of euphoria.

We'll enjoy many boat rides among the islands of Orkney.

Trips like this keep me busy for weeks in advance. Planning, planning, planning. I'm a natural planner — or, at least, I was raised to be one — and that curse trait goes into overdrive when a trip is looming. Seriously, I spend hours upon hours upon hours researching where to go, what to do, events and festivals, housing, eating, photographing . . . and somebody slap me! or else I'll abandon all other activities.

{Ed.'s note: Like blogging, for example?}

Yup.

Besides our twelve-day excursion tomorrow, we've also been gallivanting around elsewhere. For example, we just returned last Friday from five days in Prague.

And a week before Prague, we spent a weekend in the southwestern Scottish borders.

Three weeks before that, we toured northeastern England for five days, visiting places like Durham, Bamburgh, and the holy isle of Lindisfarne. Even hiked a glorious stretch of Hadrian's Wall.

A month before that we were in Ireland, part of our three-week visit from Nana and Grampa Bill.

Next month, we'll likely fly off somewhere. Possibly more eastern Europe. Maybe somewhere warm. Perhaps even northern Africa. Must start researching, must buy guidebook(s), begin internet sear -

{Ed.'s note:

Thanks. I needed that.

Topping all the planning and traveling, we're in the midst of some professional and personal fermentation. All good stuff, but nonetheless time-consuming.

How's that for a teaser?

Hang tight, folks. I shall return soon soonish promptly eventually.

Searching for the Grail in Glastonbury

Do these idyllic abbey ruins hold a mystical power?

Best known nowadays for its annual rock music festival, Glastonbury has been a draw for pilgrims, searchers, and New Age hippies for centuries. They were attracted to three main sites: the Glastonbury Tor; Glastonbury Abbey; and the Chalice Well.

Standing at the base of Glastonbury Tor.

Glastonbury Tor

The first crowds came in prehistoric times. Early visitors likely were attracted to the Glastonbury Tor, a conical hill jutting skyward from the Somerset plain.

Modern kooks who believe in ley lines — if you believe in ley lines, you're an idiot; please stop reading this blog — assert that the Tor lies at the intersection of two such lines, creating a vortex of great spiritual power. They try to backdate their silly beliefs by claiming prehistoric peoples followed tracks and pathways along spiritual highways running from stone circles here to burial burrows there, to geologic features here and ancient forts there. Many of these nuts add in a dollop of feng shui. Some sprinkle a dash of special magnetic fields, too. Throw in a few pagan goddesses and Celtic myths, and you have a stew of mystical goofiness attracting crystal-wearing bozos. Spring and summer can get crowded on the Tor with Druids, Wiccans, and others holding Beltane and summer solstice ceremonies, as well as "goddess festivals." Neopagans, unite!

{Ed.'s note: Not especially diplomatic of you.}

As I said, these people are kooks.

Jackson and I ascend Glastonbury Tor on a lovely September day.

Nonetheless, prehistoric peoples did visit the Tor. It offers commanding views for miles of terrain. When ancient peoples visited the Tor, it rose above a vast fenland, a massive peninsula towering above brackish water. In later centuries these waters have been drained to create fertile farmland, but a mist still sometimes encircles the base of the hill.

Glastonbury Tor provides a 360° view of the fertile Somerset fields.

Archeologists have found remains of Iron Age visitors atop the Tor. In later millennia, both Romans and medieval Christians built structures on the hill. After an earthquake in 1275 destroyed a wooden church, it was rebuilt in the 1300s with sandstone. The church stood until it was dismantled in 1539 as part of Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries. One three-story tower from the church remains.

The final ascent up the Tor, which reaches a height of 518 feet.

Only this roofless tower remains of St. Michael's Church at the Tor's summit.

Glastonbury Abbey

While the Tor was the primary draw for prehistoric peoples, in medieval times the main draw was Glastonbury Abbey. Christian monks were in Glastonbury as early as the 600s. A stone church, and then a larger abbey, were built over the succeeding centuries. By the time the Normans conquered England in the 11th century, Glastonbury Abbey was the richest monastic center in the kingdom, and getting richer.

At first, the abbey drew many visitors because of its supposed connection to Joseph of Arimathea. According to the Bible, Joseph is the man who donated his own tomb for Jesus, following Jesus' crucifixion. Many legends have attached themselves to Joseph of Arimathea, making two primary assertions: (1) Joseph founded Christianity in Britain; and (2) Joseph was the original bearer of the Holy Grail. The monks at Glastonbury helped propagate — indeed, helped invent — the myth that Joseph left Judea in 37 A.D. after the death of Jesus and traveled to England, creating the first Christian enclave in Britain at Glastonbury.

The thorn tree at Glastonbury Abbey.

This supposed connection to Joseph of Arimathea, along with claiming holy relics and bones of numerous British saints, helped make Glastonbury Abbey the foremost pilgrimage site in Britain, drawing many medieval worshipers. Later, in the early 1500s, a further legend arose that Joseph had thrust his staff into the ground in a hill near the abbey, and the staff had grown into a thorn tree. A shoot of that tree on Wearyall Hill (or Wyrral Hill) was planted adjacent to the abbey. While the original thorn tree was destroyed by Oliver Cromwell's troops during the English Civil War (1640s), various shoots from the trees have persisted to the present day. In a tradition dating from the early 1600s, a budding twig of the thorn tree is sent to the British monarch every year on Christmas day.

Though Glastonbury rode high into the 12th century, its fortunes turned at the end of the century. First, in 1171, four of king Henry II's knights slaughtered Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury. The pope excommunicated Henry and set about canonizing Becket. Suddenly, the English pilgrims abandoned their trips to Glastonbury in favor of the brand new St. Thomas in Canterbury. Glastonbury's fortunes tumbled.

A few years later, in 1184, a fire destroyed the abbey. It was a dark time for Glastonbury; the continuation of the abbey was in peril. And then, lo and behold, the monks declared they had miraculously discovered the bones of St. Dunstan! This saint, who led a revival of English monasticism in the 900s, had been born near Glastonbury and at one time been the abbot of Glastonbury. At the time of the fraudulent discovery of his bones, St. Dunstan was the most popular saint in England. Surely, the pilgrims would flock back to Glastonbury.

Even though Dunstan had eventually become Archbishop of Canterbury, died in Canterbury, and had a shrine with his bones erected in Canterbury, the monks at Glastonbury claimed his bones had been moved from Canterbury in 1012 for protection from a Viking attack. (This spurious claim eventually was disproven in the 1500s when Canterbury opened the shrine and found Dunstan's bones clearly marked inside.) Precisely why those precious relics were taken away from Canterbury and lost and forgotten in Glastonbury, was a question left unanswered by the wily Glastonbury monks.

Though Glastonbury's abbey was slowly rebuilding, the pilgrims did not return. Not even the lure of relics of St. Dunstan — whose popularity quickly was being eclipsed by the new St. Thomas — drew the pilgrims. What now?

Supposed grave site of King Arthur and Guinevere.

The next miraculous discovery, of course. In 1191, the monks claimed to have exhumed the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere on the grounds of the abbey. Though the skeletons were relatively bare, the monks claimed they found the bones buried within an enormous hollowed oak trunk. Atop this wooden coffin was an inscribed cross (incongruously, in Latin): Hic jacet sepultus inclitus rex Arthurus in insula Avalonia ("Here lies interred the famous King Arthur on the Isle of Avalon").

Jackpot.

The crowds returned. Building of the new church and abbey at Glastonbury continued steadily. First constructed and consecrated was the Lady Chapel (a British term for a chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary), built in the older Romanesque style to honor the previous church.

The thick walls, rounded window arches, and relatively plain styling are stereotypical of Romanesque buildings.

The heavy carving on the archivolt, depicting the life of the Virgin Mary, hinted at the greater opulence within.

Preservation work continues inside the Lady Chapel. Around 1500, a crypt — clearly visible here from the rough hewn brickwork — was built underneath the Lady Chapel.

The Lady Chapel around 1900 (viewed from the opposite end of the chapel from the photo above). How much more atmospheric and interesting the abbey would be if it were left in this condition! (Lithograph courtesy of Wikipedia.)

As the abbey returned to prominence, its funds grew. The abbey's church became one of England's largest; at 580 feet, it had the longest nave in Britain. Eventually, in 1278, the purported remains of Arthur and Guinevere were re-entombed, but this time at the foot of the church's high altar and under the eye of the current king, Edward I.

Tomb site of the supposed remains of King Arthur and Guinevere.

By the late 1300s, Glastonbury had returned to preeminence amongst English abbeys, eclipsed only by Westminster Abbey in London. The seekers and the pilgrims came in droves. The abbey added lands and resources and wealth.

In the 1500s, Glastonbury Abbey was still a preeminent Catholic abbey in England. As some of the most powerful fiefdoms in the realm, the collective yearly income of the abbeys was more than four times that of King Henry VIII. Moreover, the abbeys held roughly one-sixth of all the land in England. By the late 1530s, Henry VIII was in the process of divorcing his first wife; breaking with Rome; declaring himself the head of the Church in England; and seeking to diminish the hold of Catholicism across his nation. He was also, notably, cash poor.

And so Henry set about dissolving the monasteries, abbeys, priories, nunneries, and other religious orders throughout England. His ministers started first with the smaller religious centers, sending the monks and nuns to larger abbeys while taking the wealth of the Church for the Crown. But after a year or two, they came for the larger abbeys and nunneries, eventually closing and demolishing hundreds of religious sites across England. This process, now called the Dissolution of the Monasteries, was completed by 1541.

Glastonbury Abbey was dissolved in 1539. Its abbot, Robert Whiting, had originally supported Henry VIII when the king broke with Rome and made himself the head of the church in England. But Whiting resisted when Henry sought to dissolve Glastonbury. Henry made an example of Whiting as a warning to other monasteries and their abbots. Whiting was forced to drag a plank up the steep Glastonbury Tor, from which he was subsequently hanged, drawn, and quartered. His head was placed on a spike at the gate to the abbey precinct, while other pieces of him were sent around England in a grisly reminder of Henry's seriousness of purpose.

The view from the east of the church ruins at Glastonbury Abbey. In the center background is the Lady Chapel, the westernmost end of the church.

Glastonbury's monks were disbursed; many left for foreign soil, such as France, where monasticism was welcome. The abbey's gold and silver were taken for the Crown's treasury. Profits from its landholdings were given as a reward to royal backers, and the abbey site remained in private hands until the 20th century. The tomb of King Arthur and Guinevere was destroyed, though it's unclear what became of their purported remains. Much of the physical structure of the abbey, including its church, was pulled down. "Dressed" (i.e., carved) stones were taken away for uses in other buildings, but much of the remaining stonework remained on site until 1799 when it was sold.

The abbey's lands are now part of a 36-acre park. All that remains of other buildings are the foundation stones.

The monks ate in this long refectory (i.e., dining room). The pillars here (now reduced to stubs) supported an undercroft, above which sat the refectory.

Glastonbury Abbey still draws visitors, more than 100,000 per year. Some of these folks come for the history. Others are the same neopagans and New Agers who visit Glastonbury Tor for the ley lines and mystical electromagnetism. On our visit to the abbey, we encountered a group who eventually sat down in a circle and — I am not making this up — started chanting "ooommmmmmmmm":

Chanting circle. Get your crystals recharged here!

Chalice Well

Along with Glastonbury's abbey and tor, a third site provides a trifecta for the pilgrims, seekers, and kooks.

The entry to the Chalice Well.

The Chalice Well, located at the base of Glastonbury Tor, is an ancient natural spring which has been used by locals for several millennia. Fed by a deep aquifer, the spring produces more than 25,000 gallons of water per day, even in droughts. Heavy deposits of iron in the ground lead to oxidation, resulting in a strong reddish or rusty tinge to the water. As with the waters of Bath, people have long believed the water has healing properties. In the 1700s, thousands of people signed affidavits declaring the Chalice Well water had healed them. True assertions, or just a bid for tourism? You decide.

To reach the well, you ascend a gentle slope over a couple of lushly gardened acres. Sounds in the gardens are muted, with gurgling water and hushed seekers.

The garden path up the hill to the Chalice Well.

After a couple of minutes, at the top of the hill you come to the Chalice Well. Complete with meditating, awed kooks encircling the hole.

Are you feeling the mystical power? Me neither. Maybe if we all just concentrate on how the Chalice Well symbolizes the receptive feminine goddess and the nearby Tor the thrusting male god?

Remember our man Joseph of Arimathea, who supposedly traveled to Glastonbury in 37 A.D.? The Holy Grail carrying, Christianity bringing, thorn tree sprouting dude from the Middle East, who pops over to England? He worked his magic here, too. According to the medieval legend, he hid the Holy Chalice (i.e., Grail) here, at the bottom of the well. The water, which had been clear, instantly turned red, taking on power from the blood of Christ.

Is the Grail still at the bottom of the well? Some kooks — and if you believe the Holy Grail is at the bottom of this well in Glastonbury, you are an idiot; please stop reading this blog, you're not welcome here — believe so. They take home bottles of the spring's water. Sometimes they ease into wading pools for purification. Through the year are eight "Wheel of the Year" festival events, on days like the spring and summer solstices. And full moon concerts. And workshops to learn about the "ancient stream of sacred magic." And retreats with a "sacred ceremony 'initiation to the waters of Avalon' in the sacred White spring." And so on.

Well cover: interlocking circles; foliage to represent the Glastonbury Thorn; and is that a sword piercing the middle, in reference to King Arthur's mighty Excalibur?

I'm all for diversity of belief. Although I'm an agnostic myself, I don't begrudge the world's religions. But c'mon, man. Some of this stuff is just goofy.

{Ed.'s note: Besides, we all know the Holy Grail is hidden in Rosslyn Chapel, or is really the blood of the direct descendents of Jesus as described in the Da Vinci Code, or it's a simple wooden cup buried in the rubble as at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.}

Precisely.

Fill up your Nalgene bottle here at the Lion's Head fountain, where the spring water first flows from Mother Earth.

The water flows down from the Lion's Head fountain, above and below ground, down waterfalls and through channels and into pools.

We paused to fill up Jackson's sippy cup. And took a few slurps ourselves. 'Cause you never know. Amiright? Maybe now we'll live forever.

Groovy, babe!

Eventually, the water flows down to the bottom of the hill into a Seven Bowls Flow Form which drains into a vesica piscis pool. I mean, what else? It's gotta be that.

Once the water reaches the Seven Bowls flow form and vesica piscis pool, is it still iron-tinged? Or just dirty?

And then a final channel trickles out a bit of the mystical water outside the garden walls, for use by passersby when the well and gardens are closed.

Just in case you need to top up your everlasting life juice.