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Today was the day, the best day of my life.
It was now July 6 1965 and I was officially turning 18. We'd planned a trip North from our home in Cambridge to travel to York - one of my favourite places on earth. I suppose to most it wouldn't be much but to me it was everything. With my camera at the ready, I sat excitedly in the car watching out of the window.
As the fields rolled by beside me, I couldn't help but smile as I looked over to my parents.
"Iris," My mothers voice made me turn to look over at her, my smile still everpresent. "Do you see over there?" She asked, earning a cheery nod from me. "That's York."
"Wow, now I guess I know how the Vikings must've felt." I chuckled, edging forward in my seat to see the city in front of us.
We planned to have the full historical experience for my nerdy self. First we'd look into the Vikings - for my university course - then the plantagenets. Of course there was Guy Fawkes, York Minister, And how could one forget the history of chocolate? But perhaps that was all just my own eccentric interest in the city and its history.
As my parents were both teachers in Cambridge, I had developed quite the keen interest in academics. My father was a historian, who specialised in the Danelaw in England circa the 9th century. If one ever needed help to do with Vikings and Anglo-Saxons, he was the go to. My mother was a professor of classics, and so knew vast amounts about Romans and Greeks. Although she was more of a philosopher, I had always been more intrigued by the strategies and tactics of ancient times. They did so much with so little.
My hand reached out the window of the car, making shapes in the wind as the air danced through my fingertips - fleeting. Everything was fleeting. I think that's what makes it all so beautiful. The song of birds, the way the sunlight sparkles on that one golden evening, only you will ever hear it or see it exactly that way. It'll never happen again. And that's the beauty of it, isn't it? That everything is like a dream, one that we hold onto in every essence, a smile as we recall each fleeting moment.
When the car stopped, I didn't notice. My mother tapped my arm, dragging me from my deep thoughts and into the real world again. I gave her a warm smile, pulling my satchel over my shoulder as we got out.
"So," My dad questioned, pulling me into his arm. "What do you want to see first?"
I beamed brightly, looking down at my brown boots on the cobbled floor. "The heathens, of course!" I laughed. "Do you think they'll show us a Blood Eagle?"
"Don't be so morbid, Iris." My mother scolded, in a way that let me know she was half joking. "Don't you want to see something a little more cheerful?"
"Mother," I interrupted, chin up and head high. "I'm here to see Richard iii and Ivar The Boneless and we both know it."
My parents laughed, knowing it was true. I'd always had a fascination with great rulers, and especially those misunderstood by history. And, like my father, military history had become rather a passion of mine.
If I'd known then what I knew now, perhaps I wouldn't have been so eager to see Vikings. Perhaps I would've chosen to look at art and literature as my mother wished. But now, as I am, I wouldn't change it for the world. This is, after all, now my home.
