DOWNTON ABBEY: THE DAY I GOT TO SEE THE REAL THING

Me at Downton Abbey (Highclere Castle)

            As the car wound its way through the rolling hillsides dotted with fat sheep, I could barely tamp down my excitement. We slowed and pulled to the side for each approaching car as the lane was too narrow for two vehicles to safely pass each other.

            “No wonder Matthew was run off the road and died,” I said.

            “Who died?” My eleven-year-old son asked in alarm.

            My husband clarified, “Remember the show we told you about? Downton Abbey? One of the characters of that show was driving on this lane fast and was accidentally run off the road.”

            “Oh, so nobody really died,” our son said, relieved. “It was just a show.”

            Just a show?

            My husband David and I came upon Downton Abbey a full four seasons in. We heard the hype but never had the time to start from the beginning so we kept putting off watching it. Finally, I borrowed season one from the library and we began to watch. We needn’t have worried about the time factor. We watched the entire season in one weekend. Seasons two, three, and four immediately followed, although we paced ourselves a bit better so we could prolong the experience of immersing ourselves in that house, those clothes, the Crawley family, and their servants. Timing was on our side, because as soon as we finished watching the last of the DVD’s, the new season was just beginning on PBS. After binge watching every prior episode, it seemed highly barbaric having to wait an entire week between shows. Of course, that was nothing compared to the period of mourning we endured after the final episode, knowing we would be waiting a year to experience the final season of the series. Just a show?  Not quite.

            We weren’t driving up in a jaunty convertible Rolls Royce or 1911 Renault. It was a nondescript taxi and we didn’t get to pull up to the castle with Carson and his servants lined up to greet us. We made it only to the car park (the parking lot), but my excitement was not dulled whatsoever, because I had already gotten my first glimpse of Downton Abbey, a.k.a. Highclere Castle. It was more beautiful in person than they could even make it look on television. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

            Highclere Castle is open to the public on a limited basis (about 60 to 70 days each year), because the Countess of Carnarvon and her family make it their full time residence. Because of this, I expected it to be teeming with tourists. However, the grounds are so vast, we only saw small groupings of people here and there. We almost felt like we had been invited to one of the Crawley garden parties. 

            To balance the flow of traffic inside the castle, there are two ticket times, one morning and one afternoon. Our afternoon ticket was not in effect for another forty-five minutes or so, but we were allowed anywhere on the grounds before that time, so we took advantage of it. As you know from the show, the grounds are stunning. I always notice the trees when I watch, mostly because they’re usually incongruous with whatever season it’s supposed to be. (Sure enough, they had just wrapped shooting the Christmas episode the week prior when everything was in full bloom.) The trees are magnificent and enormous. You can get a sense of the scale with this photo of my son standing under one of the trees.

My son under one of the enormous trees

            We immediately recognized the path that is often trod when two or three of the characters are walking and talking outside.

The often seen path

We followed it around the perimeter of the castle. The grounds behind the castle lead to a meadow of wildflowers and a brick walled garden of roses and topiary bushes in the shape of arches. 

 

A greenhouse chock full of blooms stood adjacent to the garden. When we walked to the coach house later on, which is now a café, tea house, and gift shop, we saw several people buying their potted flowers. At the back of the garden we spotted a wooden sign that read Secret Garden, so we opened the wrought iron gate to reveal a winding path of countless varieties of flowers. How many adjectives can I substitute for the word spectacular? That’s all it was. Spectacular.

              

          Even so, 1:00 arrived and the castle awaited. We made our way to the front of the castle and waited a few moments for the short line of people to filter in. My only disappointment of the day was that there was no photography allowed once inside the house. To be honest, I am known to break this rule in certain places and just don’t use a flash, but because this was someone’s home, I felt I should respect the request. 

One of the front doors

            It was at this point that I felt a slight trepidation. I recalled the moment I first saw Dorothy’s ruby red slippers at the Smithsonian and was disappointed that they merely looked like the kind of red sequins I used to use for craft projects pinned to a shoe. What if, up close, Downton Abbey turned out to be Downton Shabby? To add to my fears, the first room we would be seeing was the library – my favorite room.

            I stepped into the room and caught my breath. It was even more stunning than on television. It was precisely the same but somehow better. The mahogany paneling, the rich red curtains, the desk, the columns, the fireplace hearth, the long windows, and the books. All. Those. Books. (Fun Fact: There are 5,650 books in the room.) Oh, how I wanted to sit on one of those red velvet couches and be served a proper tea. We lingered in the library for quite some time, but no one pulled the chord for tea service, so we moved on.

            The drawing room where they are sometimes seen gathering before dinner was also a favorite. The green silk fabric on the walls gave the room a soothing feel. An impressive collection of ancient Chinese furniture and artifacts were also displayed in this room.

            As we toured each of the rooms – the music room, the smoking room, etc., the only differences I could decipher from what is shown on TV is the removal of all the framed family photographs and the repositioning of some of the furniture. “That side table should be over there,” I muttered to myself. Three other obsessive fans women in the room nodded in agreement.

            We went up a set of back stairs to reach the second floor. The first bedroom we saw was where the Turkish diplomat Pamuk was carried back after he died while bedding Mary in season one. We also poked around all three daughters’ rooms and Cora’s, plus a few other bedrooms that are not seen on the show (or maybe they are but I didn’t recognize them). We were told that all of the bedrooms are currently used by the family. I’m sure it’s amazing to live at Highclere castle but judging by the bedrooms, not all that comfortable for sleeping. The beds looked lumpy and the bathrooms were not updated. Plus there was no air conditioning. But you couldn't deny that the views from every room were magnificent. Here at home, I often sit in a different area of the house to change up my view when I’m writing. I couldn’t help but imagine all the different spots in the castle from which I could write without replicating the view.

            The hallways connecting the bedrooms overlooked the central saloon and led to the oak staircase. (This is where Rose had the jazz band play for Lord Grantham’s birthday.) Wow! The 50-foot vaulted ceiling makes the space even more majestic. I was wishing I’d brought a veil so I could fling it down the grand staircase as Edith had done after her non-wedding. Before descending, I took a peek behind one of the upstairs doors that led to the servants’ stairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I had to at least get a little taste of the “downstairs.” Tom Barrow must’ve been outside having a cig, as I did not hear him plotting with anyone on the stairs. I took my time stepping down the sweeping red carpeted staircase and noted one of the secret servant doors at the bottom of the steps.

            The last room we saw was the dining room. It unfortunately wasn’t set for dinner, and as it was early in the day, I doubted Carson had yet decantered the wine. (Although I did get to view some of the silver in a showcase before leaving.) As I walked past each dining chair, I easily imagined one of the first scenes of the series where Lord Grantham is seated at the head of the breakfast table while reading a telegram about his cousins being on the Titanic.

            Although the castle guides often told us about the painted portraits or the furniture, most people asked about the show. Apparently, one of the perks of being a docent is that they get to stick around for the shooting of Downton Abbey. “What was it like?” we all asked them. The guides concurred, “Extremely boring. Every scene took forever. We had the hottest day of the year last week and the poor actors were sweating buckets in their winter costumes.” 

            I guess I’ll have to stick to the glamour in my imagination.

            The “downstairs” part of Downton is filmed at another location, but we did get to glance at the real servants’ kitchen and sitting and eating rooms as we exited through the basement, although they were now being used as overflow tearooms.

            Just before leaving the castle, the hallway offered one final gem: the wall of servants’ bells. The bells were no longer present, but each room was labeled under the circle where the bell had once been. There were A LOT of bells!

            Servants’ bells begin the opening credits and it’s where we reluctantly took our leave. We stopped for tea at the coach house and walked the grounds one last time before finally departing. Even without a footman in sight, it was an extremely satisfying visit to Downton. 

NO KIDDING! THE BENEFITS OF TRAVELING WITH CHILDREN

Our son on one of his first flights

For months my husband, son, and I have been talking about our upcoming European holiday and all the things we're excited about getting to do. As it approaches, my son's exuberance for even staying at the airport hotel the night before our very early flight made me remember why I love traveling with him so much. I originally wrote this post back in 2011. My son is 11 now, so the packing is easier than when I wrote this (just one stuffed animal makes the trip now), but his delight at every aspect of travel still holds true.

     As our much anticipated vacation nears, the excitement of taking a family trip ebbs as the realities of getting there take its place: the shopping, the packing, the scheduling, and the dread of crowded airports.
     I laugh now when I think of our pre-child travel days when my hardest decision was how many kinds of shoes I should pack. At least having a kid in tow has made that decision easier. I know I won’t have room for more than the sneakers on my feet with all the just in case clothes I pack for him; I know pizza places and burger joints don’t require aren’t these cute? heels; and at a moment’s notice I’ll need to be able to transition from strolling through a museum to barreling through the dinosaur exhibit before he successfully scales T-Rex. One pair of sneakers should do it.

    Deciding what to pack for myself in my carry-on bag is no longer an issue. I’ve got a dozen matchbox cars, The Magic School Bus library, stuffed animals he’s certain can’t stay home alone, and virtually the entire cookie/cracker aisle of the grocery store. I just might be able to squeeze in my People magazine as long it’s not a double issue.

    But even with the additional packing challenges, traveling with my son has some considerable benefits. For him, the trip is an adventure from the get-go. It’s hard to stay crabby when he is bubbling over with enthusiasm. Have to get up at 5 AM? We get to watch the sunrise! Have to wait in an endless ticket line? There are always new friends to make! Nobody’s grumbling while they’re listening to a bunch of kids under the age of seven compare their vacation itineraries.

    While we’re plying ourselves with caffeine, my son is looking out at the runways giving a zealous play-by-play broadcast of the jets taking off. We notice several travel-weary businessmen close their laptops and gaze out the window, too. Maybe they can’t work with all the racket. But who knows, maybe they’re reminded of themselves at his age when they thought jets were that cool. 

     He enters the plane with anticipation as we schlep past the relaxed first class passengers already drinking champagne in their capacious seats, I tend to feel a little like cattle prodded past the prized stallions into our cramped stalls with hopes of eventually being fed some cud. Once we’re in the air, I impatiently count the hours and minutes until we land and we can begin our vacation. Taking advantage of his window seat, my son comments on the topography below and the texture of the clouds. When he wonders aloud what it would be like to fly through a rainbow, I can’t help but take a peek at the sky and for once appreciate the experience of being in an airplane. His enthusiasm for flying rubs off on the flight attendants and before long he’s helping to hand out peanuts and collect trash. They escort him to the cockpit after we land and he’s allowed to sit in the pilot’s seat and pretend he’s the captain. What an adventure he created for himself just by enjoying the present experience. It made me wonder what the rest of us could do with a change in perspective.

     For sure, traveling has its fair share of hassles. However, we can approach it as an irritating inconvenience or a surplus of uncharted experiences. We can grumble with the masses or lighten a few people’s outlooks. I’m choosing to share my son’s attitude. On our next trip, I may just bring a playlist of show tunes and hand out peanut butter cups to the passengers. First class can have their cushy seats, but coach class will have an adventure. 

IS IT BAD THAT I'M HAPPY?

            I don’t have it all. I've lost and gained the same seven pounds every year for the past five years. I struggle to help my son overcome the specific challenges he faces on a daily basis. I haven’t finished writing my book. I’m tired of the cold weather encroaching on my warm weather months. And Mark Ruffalo doesn’t live next door to me. Despite all of this, I’m happy.

            But I kinda’ feel like I’m not supposed to be. There’s a reason people refer to happiness as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. True contentment can be elusive. Everyone wants to be happy. We all support each other while we’re inching our way towards that rainbow, but does anyone really want us to reach it? There’s always someone who finds the downside, almost as if focusing on happy has become taboo.

            If I’m happy binge watching The Real Housewives, it’s dubbed a “guilty” pleasure. If I’m snacking on popcorn, I’m reminded how the butter will kill me. If I wake up feeling good about life, there are at least three people who willingly post sad and/or horrific stories on Facebook just in case I might’ve missed the various atrocities outside my control. Might you be feeling happy about your life? Shame on you.

            Do more, start anew, and by no means remain in your comfort zone. Motivational people are the experts on happiness, so they would like us to believe. But first they need us to be dissatisfied with our lives. They make pleasure seem lazy and contentment seem trite. How can they motivate us if we’re already fulfilled with our lives? If I’m comfortable, I need to push myself harder. If I’m satisfied, I’m stuck. According to their edict, I’m not nearly sufficiently driven or successful enough to be a happy person. Essentially, I shouldn’t be happy yet…even if I am.

            As much as we follow the inspirational/motivational mantras, we also listen to the Buddhists, and more importantly Oprah, who have their own thoughts on happiness. The enlightened path is to be fully present in the moment. Finally, Oprah has united us in our quest for happiness. Live in the present. That is, after we make our vision boards focusing on our futures. Sigh.

            Chaperoning field trips, having long phone chats with my best friend, or going out for Saturday morning pancakes won’t ever come up in a google search of my name, but the small parts of my life are just as vital to me as the so-called big parts. Writing is my compass when I feel I’m blowing in the wind. On the other hand, sometimes it’s nice to have the freedom to see where the wind takes me. Perhaps it’s that very balance that fulfills me.

            There are still plenty of new things I expect to do. I understand and have experienced the rewards of triumphing over difficult undertakings. However, it’s also not a bad thing to enjoy our days, take time for our friends and family, choose our pleasures, and ultimately give ourselves a break from the arduous task of seeking society’s definition of happiness. I reject the notion that because I’m content with my life as it is right now that I need to challenge myself for that promised, intangible more out of life. Besides Mark Ruffalo regularly stopping by to borrow sugar, what more can I get out of life than to be happy?