Bermuda Books and History

There are very few bookstores where you can ask “Do you have the Jarvis book?” and they will know what you are referring to, fewer still where they'll reply “Usually we do, but we're sold out. We should be getting more in next week.” Bermuda is actually, probably, the only place. The “Jarvis” book to which I was referring is the 600 plus page, 10pt font, meticulously-researched, heavily-footnoted, scholarly-tome, In the Eye of All Trade: Bermuda, Bermudians, and the Maritime Atlantic World, 1680-1783 (Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture) .  Published in 2010, the book is a credit to the Island's history. The fact that is it a nation-wide best-seller is a credit to the Islanders.

I was a bit confused however to find that while every bookstore carried an extensive list of Bermuda history titles from Dispatches from Bermuda: The Civil War Letters of Charles Maxwell Allen, United States Consul at Bermuda, 1861-1888 (Civil War in the North) to Rogues & Runners , the actual Island seemingly disregarded their history.

It's taken two weeks to understand this apparent contradiction. It is in its relationship to history that Bermuda seems to be its most British. Why they  make little of their historic buildings and forts (forts from 5 centuries line the coast), but at the same time read books like the Jarvis book. This morning however, it became clear. Like Britain, there is so much history everywhere, and in everything that making monuments or museums to every piece would necessitate turning the entire Island into a museum but everyone knows the history, everyone reads the books – at least enough to support a significant Bermuda History section in every bookstore.

That said, Bermuda is hosting a conference in June on its maritime history. With tours and lectures it sounds, at least to me, like lots of fun.

Little pink, and azure, and chartreuse houses for you and me

Even under the relatively muted February sun, a white Bermuda house looks sad, especially when compared with its brightly painted neighbours. For a staid, New England girl, this observation was totally unexpected. I'd heard about the colorful houses and dismissed them as garish, needlessly showie, certainly not something that 'fit' within the landscape of even a semi-tropical location such as Bermuda. But driving through the streets of St. George, I had to admit, it was the bright chartreuse house, or maybe that deep azure one that looked most at home.

House sizes and configurations varied from one story 'shotgun” style to multi-story, rambling mansions. Some homes are situated on suburban-type lawns, some right on the street (and by on, I mean no front yard, no shoulder, the house wall-less-than-three-inches-from-bus-mirror on the street). Others are built into, or out of the limestone clifts.

And while the houses vary in both shape and color the roofs are all of white, stepped blocks, channelled so as to collect rain water into holding tanks. All the homes have shutters, sun, hurricane or both, and are built of stone, cement block or stucco and painted pretty much any color except white. And all have porches or patios - living space outside being as important as living space inside.

Bright outside and in, sounds like home to me!

Three and Three are Fourteen

"Pardon?" I asked.

The information desk woman repeated her previous mathematically impossible statement verbatim, "Three and three are fourteen. Board either the 7 or 8 bus at the Dockyard,  ask for a transfer to the 10 or 11. Transfer at Hamilton, that will take you back to Flatts."

I've come to believe that getting to know the public and private transportation systems of an area is a good way to get to know a place. Bermuda is no exception.  The well maintained pink buses travel from one end of the 21 mile-long-island to the other along the same incredibly narrow, limestone-carved, shoulder-less  roads as the cars and bikes (motorcycles and moped with engines no bigger than 150 cc)  The people on board are polite, and quietly gregarious with one another.  At every stop someone would get on, sit in a seemingly random empty seat and begin talking about aunt so and so, or what happened last night at Joe's.

The bus fair system, like island life, is effortless to the locals, but enigmatic, apparently hard to explain, and really very simple. The island is split into 14 zones. Anyone and everyone will tell you that, however, they're not clear on where those zones are and zone maps haven't been printed in years. But really, that doesn't matter.  There are few options. You can either buy a day, week, month or three month unlimited pass, you can pay $3.00 (in coins) every time you board, or you can purchase deeply discounted 3 Zone tickets.  A 3 zone ticket will allow you to travel through 3 of those unknown zones. And here's the tricky part: 2 three zone tickets are used for any travel over 3 zones. 4-14, it doesn't matter, three and three are indeed fourteen.

From the Rail Trail to the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club

My first inclination after landing in Bermuda was to find a seat on a sunny patio and order up a frosty rum drink.  I fought that urge (for a little while at least) and followed my second, and usual habit when coming to a new place. Within an hour we were walking the Rail Trail down to the Shelly Beach, checking out the native Bermuda Cedar Trees, sandy beaches, green turtles and  colorful houses.

And everywhere is that famous azure blue water.  65 degree azure blue water. Clear and bright.  I just had to go swimming. How could I resist? It was 70 degrees and sunny,  warmer than most days I'd gone swimming last summer.  S.D. 'forgot' his swim trunks so could only watch. The Bermudians ignored the whole thing.

Finally then it was time for that drink! And while they won't swim in the winter, they do drink Dark and Stormys all year round.  Goslings rum remains the official alcohol of the island, even though it is no longer made here.

We followed up cocktail hour with a rum swizzle at a bar in Hamilton and dinner at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, waiting until after dinner to explore the old trophy rooms, bars and patios and find photos of all those CCA folks whose papers I'd arranged back at the Seaport.

I was just starting to get a feel for the place, and it turns out, my first inclination was as much a part of that as my second.

Zero Degrees in The Sun

The trick to hiking in 0 degree weather is to keep moving. From the trailhead where you open the car door and get that first frigid blast to three miles up the trail when it's time to break apart the frozen banana, or on the summit, crunching through a peanut butter, jelly, and ice crystal sandwich, you have to keep moving. You really can't even stop long to gaze North at the magnificent view of Mt. Washington rising out of the Presidential range, or East to Mts Passaconaway and Whiteface, and especially South towards Lake Winnipesaukee where the North wind smacks into the mountain.

But boy is it worth it! Our hike last Monday up to Sandwich Dome, via the Sandwich Mountain trail to Jennings Peak and then returning via the Drakes Brook Trail, was Cold and stunningly beautiful. It had snowed two days before, and the snow still hung on every tree branch. There was no wind in the valley and everywhere was a still silence. Except when we walked, and then the sound of our boots crunching on the snow filled the empty space. SD had been hoping to see a deer, or even a Moose but soon realized "We aren't going to sneak up on anything today." Of course we had to stop moving in order to hear each other talk so conversations were limited.

There were lots of great views along the Sandwich Mountain Trail, and even more from the summit of Jennings Peak. We had intended to continue on to Sandwich Dome but had reached our turn around time. What with having to flounder up some icy stretches we hadn't set a very good pace. And with those same icy stretches in mind we decide to hike back on the longer, but less steep Drake's Brook trail. That too was especially lovely in the cold. In areas where the water was fast, the brook still ran while in other, flatter sections it was frozen, with ice crystals freezing above it.

By the time we arrived at the car I was ready to sit directly in front of the blasting heater, but looking back to the mountains as we drove away also wished I was still crunching along through the winter woods.

Carter Doom?

Considering that for this, our third attempt on Carter Dome, we hadn't hiked a peak in over 6 months and the weather forecast was borderline blizzard/ice storm, there was a good chance we might not be reaching the summit  of our 44th 4000fter.  But we were prepared with microspikes, snowshoes, down and synthetic jackets, I had a new pair of Garmont Momentum Mid GTX Winter Boots, and a free weekend.

We were at the 19 Mile Brook Trailhead at 7am Saturday morning. There was a light snow, the temps were in the mid 30s, and all the mountains were covered in thick clouds. But at least they weren't predicting a blizzard like the were April 1, 2011when we made our last attempt on Carter Dome. Nor was it 2 pm and 85 degrees, as it was when we attempted it in May 2010, after SD's pack broke.  We had to make an emergency pack purchase and change the itinerary.

I was a bit apprehensive. Not so much about the hike, I realized, as about the possibility of not making it on the 3rd attempt.  How do you keep trying to do the same thing over and over again without succeeding?

We broke trail through the snow until about half a mile from Zeta Pass when we passed by a guy doing both North Carter and Carter Dome.  It was about this time that the snow became heavier and started to build up so it was good to have someone in front. At Zeta Pass however, he went North, and we went South plowing through 6 inches of powder. Just not deep enough for the snowshoes. The wind picked up and the temperature was dropping, but that was offset by occasional glimpses of blue sky. Maybe it would clear up by the time we reached Carter Dome? Because at this point, one thing was clear, we were less that 1/2 mile from the summit, and this time we were going to make it!

And we did! Guess you can just keep trying until you get it right. You could tell the view would have been nice if we weren't in the low clouds. You could also tell that within half an hour it would be. But the wind was blowing, and with the temperature dropping it was too cold to hang around. We decided to head back via Mt. Height which by the time we were there had some awesome views along Carter Ridge to the North. Mt. Washington was still in the clouds Pinkham Notch spread out below.

Homeowning. A Smoking Adventure?

What constitutes an adventure? SD and I disagree.  He insists that renovating this new house qualifies (he also insisted in adding a few comments - they are in green). I insists life is an adventure, lets enjoy it and take advantage of it.  (although most time he says it's "something to get through". I contend that having done more than 8 houses between the two of us, it doesn't.  What a stick in the mud.

That no matter what the house looked like when we saw it that rainy day in August, we both knew what it could be and that getting it from there to here and forward was something we would do, it might even be fun, but its something that really didn't qualify as an adventure. I insist it qualifies, (it is if you believe life is an adventure, loosen up!), because it's the first one we've done together, and because we're both a good 15 years older than the last time we did it.

C. K Chesterton says "An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered."(That a recipe for considering all life's trials and tribulations an adventure, it's all in your attitude!!)

So what then is inconvenient? SD's continuous whining, his non-stop ideas for the location of the half-bath?  Making plans is inconvenient? 

He feels that his adventure lies in doing the renovation with someone like Me. You are so lucky, as am I, how much better than that can it get? Life sucks, making an adventure out of it makes it better!!!!!

This morning I walked out to the compost bin we built two weeks ago and filled up last weekend. And it was smoking!! Actually smoking. That baby was burning! And not just in the middle. As i turned the outside leaves into the center more smoke rose. An upturned clump of grapes was almost shooting flames.  I have built many a compost pile in my time. Most molded into usability. Only one, and that one was half horse manure, ever burned. But now, with the help of the lovely SD, things are smoking (so life isn't an adventure but the compost pile gets you excited?). 

This house thing with SD just may turn into an Adventure after all.