George Eliot, in Book 3, deals with the mortality, predictably, of Mr Causabon and Mr Featherstone, but also, surprisingly to me, of Fred. More importantly, these events serve to further her entertaining romantic plots. But, I digress, to reflect on a different aspect of our tale, based on a personal experience of living in England.
My husband and I own a 400 square foot cottage (actually, a row house) in St Albans, famous for Romans ruins, a medieval cathedral, and a bustling market, about ½ hour from London. We lived there for 11 years while he worked at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. I learned the area by walking, particularly to two destinations where I spent most of my time, the cathedral (as a tour guide) and a local goat farm. I took for granted my lush, green and colorful surroundings where hedgerows predominate and birds sing from dawn till sunset. Our long, narrow garden faced south, towards the Abbey (in medieval days, the cathedral was an abbey where Benedictine monks lived), and we heard daily resonant bell chimes for Morning Prayer, noon Eucharist, Evensong, etc. Our yellow rose bush, wafting sweet scent, bloomed almost year round; snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils heralded spring; the huge lilac bush sent out its unique fragrance by the kitchen door; and the dense, vigorous hedge required a day of trimming three times a year (still does!). At least once a week, I walked 3 miles to a goat farm, which abuts the property of the Stanley Kubrick estate (where his widow still lives). I met the goat farmer in the Saturday market, where he rented a stall, selling all kinds of mouth-watering European cheeses, including his wife’s goat cheese. He was surprised when I got up the nerve to ask if I could visit the farm, but even more so when I actually showed up! I love the outdoors but I was not ‘farming-literate’, only curious to learn. He told me later that only an American would be so bold as to offer help, especially after he made clear that he couldn’t pay me, but the relationship and experience grew to a warm friendship with his family today. The trek from home to farm passed through neighborhoods of small, timbered/plastered bungalows, each boasting their own selection of English flowers. I think the most popular are the brightly colored, low-growing primroses and multi-hued roses. I also passed farms of crops, sheep and dairy, winding through a trail cut by medieval carts; of course, imagining who travelled this way before me, occupied my mind for hours! I helped the famer weed his land, cover it with goat manure to encourage healthy growth for fall harvesting of hay, plant trees in large spaces, more rose bushes…all of this energetic work after we had caught, milked and fed about 30+ goats. Late morning was learning from his wife how to make three different goat cheeses. Lunch at 1pm was a feast for the senses! My final chore was to feed the goats at the end of the day, before hiking home, exhausted but happy (with a backpack of fresh veggies).
The Abbey was my other home, at least 5 times a week. My journey was only ½ mile, through fancier neighborhoods of brick homes, with lovely gardens. I am impressed by the English flair for design, which just seems to happen on its own…colors mingle in a natural order that attracts wildlife, as well as human passers-by!
Compare the homestead of Caleb Garth (Mary’s family), described as rambling, halftimbered and, of course, the ubiquitous orchard (p. 242). On Sunday afternoon, my husband and I would take several large plastic bags (to pick up rubbish, mostly discarded soda cans and plastic bottles) and go off in search of another route to discover; blackberry bushes grow wild, so I am sure that Middlemarchers ate their fill, as well! Lowick (home of Mr Causabon), was entered by a long avenue of limes (p 273); these also line the main street of St Albans. Their ornamental quality adds greenery and vigor to a town center.
The great oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture ( p. 104) offers a more sobering image for me of the goat farm. Tragically, the famer died very suddenly, and his widow planted a small oak tree on his grave (which is on the farm) a favorite symbol of his for quiet and beautiful strength.
Returning to the US (Hamden, Ct) was a ‘landscape jolt’ for me. The barren, concrete highways and shopping malls take up too much space (granted, they exist in England, too), so I have begun to plant an English type garden of soft hues and fragrant scents in our back yard. And when I walk the dog, I appreciate every small attempt to return our city to nature.
I will close with the author’s depiction of her beloved landscape, which, thankfully, is still, familiar…(p 104)
The ride to Stone Court…pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in busy beauty and to spread out coral fruit for the birds…. the high bank where the ash trees grew; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel far to see in late life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls.
Tudy Hill