Wales

I had a great weekend.  It started Friday after school with my going for a nice long walk with Eileen, my friend and teaching assistant.  (Since class sizes are so huge, each teacher is assigned a teaching assistant.  Eileen is fabulous.)  Anyway, we went to Eileen's house, got her dog, Bonnie, and headed to a beautiful huge country park called Baggeridge.  The park is an expansive 150-acre open space with hiking paths through wooded areas, grassy hills, ponds, meadows, wildlife habitats, and even an aerial ropes course.  It was just so nice to be out in nature and a nice break from going home to an apartment.  We plan on doing this more often before the weather gets too cold and rainy.

On Saturday Julie picked me up early in the morning and we headed for her caravan in Wales.  Remember, a caravan is a trailer, so a caravan park is a trailer park.  But unlike the negative connotation of trailer parks in America, caravan parks are little seaside "villages" filled with caravans that families can get away to on weekends and holidays.  They are a very, very poplular idea here.  I learned that caravans have a "shelf life" of about 15 years afterwhich time they need to be replaced.  It keeps the caravan parks looking well maintained.  Rachael's family's caravan is in Barmouth, Wales.

The drive through the English and Welsh countryside was stunningly beautiful and the little villages through which we passed were old and charming.  Whereas the houses and buildings in the West Midlands are made of brick, the architecture of Wales is natural stone.  All the houses I saw were made of ages-old stone and slate that is mined in the area.  When we reached Barmouth it started raining and ominous clouds swallowed the surrounding mountains.  But the rain and clouds and mists only added to the mystique of the breathtaking Welsh seaside.  After depositing our bags at the caravan, we drove into Barmouth and explored the shops of the quaint little town.  When we got back to the caravan, I went for a long walk on the beach, collecting shells and stones along my way.  Later, we had dinner in a pub, and that night I was lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of the ocean's waves.

The next morning I went back down to the beach for more beachcombing only to discover that the tide was in too far to allow for a walk along the sand, so I hiked up a grassy hill.  When I reached the top I stood there for the longest time just breathing in the fresh sea air and the beauty of Wales.  I looked out on the Irish Sea, its whitecapped waves crashing against the rocky shore, and when I turned around, there were rolling hills, patchwork-green and sheep speckled, ascending shadowy mountains.  It was quiet except for the music of sea and gull, my two favorite sounds in the world.  I knew I had to capture this moment with my pen, so I walked back down to the caravan, grabbed pen and paper, then made my way back to my spot to write.  I was in Wales . . . writing.

I determined that I need to remember to carry a little journal with me now so I can write at the time of inspiration, not merely recall at my computer.  Steele students, keep journaling every day--especially when you are inspired--whether you are skiing in the mountains of Colorado or traveling in a foriegn country or just hanging in your backyard.  Just write.