It was Wednesday
evening and the second day of our five-day excursion into the south
of England was drawing to a close. We had had an exciting day
visiting the ruins of an ancient Roman palace at Fishbourne and then
taking a ferry to the Isle of Wight to see Osborne House, which had
once been the home of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.
We were going to be
staying in little cottages on the island that evening and had just
dropped off our bags, but though it was evening, the day wasn’t
done yet. Dr. Pulsipher and Dr. Hansen told us, when the coach
arrived at the cottages, to find our assigned cottage, drop off our
bags, change for a hike, and to remember to bring the packets of
poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson that we had been given.
We were going to be
hiking up to Tennyson Down, a hill on the west end of the island and,
as the sun set, sit around the memorial that had there been erected
to him while we presented our analyses and readings of his poetry. It
sounded like it was going to be the absolute most romantic thing I’ve
ever done, so of course I was excited, but I was in no way prepared
for what awaited me.
Our coach driver,
Jimmy, parked at the foot of Tennyson Down, and as we disembarked
from the coach I looked up at the hill Dr. Pulsipher was pointing to.
It didn’t look high at all; at the top, there were some trees
surrounding a fence and a gate, which I presumed was our destination.
This “hike” would be a piece of cake even though the hill
was on the steep side. I thought back to longer, more grueling hikes
of girls’ camps past and smiled to myself as we began the
climb.
Because our group is
comprised of about 30 students plus three adults, whenever we go
anywhere we tend to drift apart into a long string, straggling along
the path in groups of two or three or five or six. I was towards the
middle with a group that was comprised of Krista, Jake, Jessica,
Brooke, Preston, Jeramy, Lisa, and Heather.
We didn’t worry
too much about getting left behind. We could see our professors and
the other students walking ahead in the setting sun, and since we
could see clearly as well the top of the hill, we knew it wouldn’t
be too long of a hike. All we had to do was get up this steep hill
and to the other side of that charming wooden gate.
We picked our way
around cowpies and chatted as we climbed, turning now and then to
look at the lovely view behind us. We could barely see the town and
the coast from here. This was such a nice little walk.
Presently, however, I
realized that our professors and many of the students ahead had
already passed through the wooden gate at the top of the hill. Not
only that, but they had disappeared completely. I wondered about this
and supposed that they had already congregated on the hilltop and
that we simply couldn’t see them from where we were.
I was right, but only
partly. Upon reaching the wooden gate and passing through it, I
realized that not only was the hike not over, but that we had much,
much farther to go. The scene before me was startling in its simple,
majestic beauty. It was difficult to see, because we were walking
straight into the setting sun, but squinting through my sunglasses, I
was able to see how incredible this hike really was.
Our professors and the
other students who were silhouetted against the light appeared as
cloisters of people getting smaller and smaller as they progressed
farther up the hill, which had become a vast green field on one side
and a jagged white cliff soaring above the ocean on the other. It was
oddly silent up there, an odd muffled silence that seemed to have
been brought about by the blowing of the wind that tossed our hair
into our faces.
Ahead of us, the hill
seemed to extend far above to touch the clouds. It was as though we
were walking the border between earth and sky. Distant on the
horizon, I could make out a cross on the tip-top of the hill,
presumably the memorial to Tennyson that we were supposed to be
headed towards. I stopped for a moment, partly to catch my breath and
partly in awe of the supreme beauty, the like of which I had never
before seen.
The cross on top of the
hill didn’t look very far away — certainly not far away
enough for the walk to take a significant amount of time. However, to
my great surprise, it did.
We walked and walked
and walked. Krista and I, beginning to separate from the others we
were with, stopped to take some pictures on the cliffs. I turned and
looked at the view behind us. We were extremely high up —
high enough to be able to see the entirety of the town we were in and
a long way down the coast on either side — but the cross was
still far away.
We walked and walked
and walked some more, snapping pictures as we went. It was extremely
peaceful up there. I paused on the cliff to watch the waves rolling
far below. We were so high up that we couldn’t even hear the
crash of the ocean, just the blowing of the wind. I turned and
squinted into the sun, at the black cross that still hadn’t
gotten any closer despite how far I knew we had walked. I wondered
how long we had been up here and how much longer it would take us to
get to the monument. I felt as though I could stay up here forever.
In the end, it took us
about half an hour to get to that cross. It was much taller than I
had thought it was. It was also fenced in, probably to keep people
from climbing all over it, but there were benches on the outside of
the fence where a person could sit to enjoy the incredible view.
A squat little pillar
outside of the fence, engraved with “And may there be no
moaning of the bar,/When I put out to sea” — lines from
Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar.” The rest of the
students and our professors were sitting in a circle by the monument.
When we and the few stragglers behind us had joined them, we began
presenting our poems.
There was a strange
peace about the place. I was only half-listening to the poetry as I
looked around. The view was incredible. Not only could we see the
sea, stretching out for miles, but we could essentially see the whole
of the Isle of Wight below us. I could count individual houses and
castles, see the different towns, and thought I could even start to
see the curve of the earth, we were up so high. I was very, very
sorry when the last poem was read and we then had to sprint down the
hill to where the bus was waiting. The descent felt only half as long
as the ascent.
I felt as though I had
just visited one of God’s natural temples on Tennyson Down. I
couldn’t get out of my head how beautiful the place was, how
lovely the view had been, how peaceful it had been just being up
there. If such incredible natural beauty wasn’t proof of the
existence of a loving Heavenly Father, then I didn’t know what
was. It had been like walking into a small part of heaven.
Then I thought back to
the walk up, and smiled to myself. I’d thought the hike was
going to be so short and sweet and nothing special to remember, and
I’d only been focused on getting to the top of the hill so that
we could read our poetry, go home, and eat. It wasn’t until I’d
gone through the wooden gate leading to the hike that I
realized how far I still had to go. Not only that, but what a
wonderful journey lay ahead of me.
I think sometimes that
this is how things go in the everyday walks of life. We see a point
on the horizon — a goal, a blessing, the end of a trial. It
doesn’t look very far away, nor does the journey look
remarkable; but we know we have to get to it, and we focus on getting
there and nothing else. It is only as we make our way towards it
that we sometimes realize we were mistaken. We still have such a
long way to go before we can reach it.
The walks we’ll
have to take won’t always be as easy as my hike up Tennyson
Down was, and they won’t always be as aesthetically pleasing,
but there are always gifts to us from our Heavenly Father along the
way, gifts that are there for the taking if we stop to notice them.
If I hadn’t paid attention to my surroundings on Tennyson Down,
if I had only focused on the cowpies at my feet and complained about
the length of the hike that was delaying my dinner, I wouldn’t
have seen the glorious view around me, nor would I have come down
from that hill feeling as though I had experienced anything at all
remarkable.
Because I chose to look
up and around, the walk became for me a gift and a pleasure, and will
remain one of my fondest England memories. I can only resolve to do
the same in walks to come.
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