December 26, 1999 – Boxing Day Atop the Malvern Hills

Today is Boxing Day, which is nearly a bigger holiday in Britain than Christmas. Its origins have to do with “boxing up” the Christmas leftovers and giving them to the poor. Tony and Caroline have a big dinner today away from Glenelg with extended family.

I am spending the day with Dean, Barbara, Ari, and Max. We are going for a short hike in the Malvern (pronounced Mouvern) Hills, about 50 miles away. There is a beacon on the high point, which will be lit for the Millennial New Year. It will be one in a chain of beacons and bonfires across Britain flaming on New Year’s Eve. According to Wikipedia, the beacon, which gives the summit its name―Worcester Beacon―comes from the use of the hill as a signaling beacon to warn of the invading Spanish Armada in 1588. A poem commemorates this:

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still
All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin’s rocky dales
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales,
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height, Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light.

I love the idea of beacons of fire being simultaneously lit across the country. Why don’t we do this in the U.S.?

The Kaplans pick me up a little after 10:00 AM.

The Severn-Trent River near Worcester is flooded; in every direction an expanse of muddy brown water covers what are normally fields. The weather changes from driving rain to sunshine to clouds all morning. At one point we see a rainbow in front of us as we skirt around Worcester and travel southwest along the A449. In the distance we can see Worcester Cathedral.

The small village of Great Malvern is very picturesque—a spa town known for its bottled water. Not only does Queen Elizabeth II drink this water, apparently Queen Victoria refused to travel without it.

The 1,400-foot climb winds up the hillside; gently sloped, sometimes muddy, sometimes paved. I thought after all the walking I have been doing that I would be galloping up the hill, but I admit to being a bit winded on the steeper parts. I watch bemused as a group of 70-year-old-or-more ladies in their wellies and carrying walking sticks cheerfully stride past me up the hill.

A monument marking the 60^th anniversary of Queen Victoria’s reign sits at the peak. We admire the panoramic view as far as Wales, including the Wrekin of poem, the high point of the Shropshire Hills, and the Bristol Channel. We know what we are looking at from the brass topographical map engraved on the flat surface on the Victoria monument. Amazingly, the rain holds off.

We start back down the hill and suddenly without a word Ari takes off in front us and is soon out-of-sight. When we reach a turn in the path, we hope that Ari knew which way to go. Dean goes off one way to see if he can catch up to her, Barbara heads off the other way. Max and I wait at the turn. Soon I see a young couple coming up the trail and ask if they had seen a 10-year-old girl by herself on the trail. They say, “Yes, she is quite a ways down.” I call to Barbara and we make our way down catching up with Dean. When we get nearer to the car park, Dean hollers and to all our relief Ari responds. Even Max is relieved.

It begins to pour again on our drive back into Great Malvern. We stop in the town, but Woolworth’s is the only thing open on Boxing Day. I see a National Lottery booth with forms for tickets for the Millennium Dome. I fill mine out for January 1, but there are no tickets available. I get a ticket for January 2.

Back at home, Barbara makes us turkey sandwiches and we watch a movie—Matilda. Dean and Barbara break out a bottle of champagne to celebrate my project’s completion. We have champagne and cheese and crackers. They have a terribly smelly cheese, which I don’t like, but also a cheddar and a Stilton, which I eat with relish. We talk and sip champagne. Ari has made me a Millennium/Y2K card and they give me a pack of cards with the English kings and queens for a Christmas gift. I love them. We no sooner get the champagne drunk when Barbara starts making supper—pizza and a salad. I am stuffed.

I bid them all a fond farewell. It is hard to say goodbye. They have become such good friends in such a short period of time. We promise to keep in touch. I visit them in Philadelphia and we meet once in Freeport when they are on vacation in Maine. But, of course, despite all the good intentions, we lose touch after a few years.