Ranger cabin on the Wonderland Trail near Indian Henry’s hunting ground in Mount Rainier, Washington.

Contributed by Catherine Johnson. More photos here.

In spite of a private education and a good degree, my wife is lamentably ignorant about anything to do with geography. It's not that she lacks the aptitude; she simply has no interest in where places are in relation to each other and finds my love of maps and atlases completely baffling.

Two weeks ago my wife announced that she'd agreed to buy a kitten from someone and asked when I would be free to drive her and our sons to collect it. I gave her a date and asked for the address, imagining somewhere within a 30-mile radius of Lewes. My wife checked her emails: "She says she lives near Oswestry. Is that far?"

I took a deep breath. "Well, it's not terribly near."

On a list of things I thought I'd never do, owning a cat is in the top ten, along with line dancing, bungee jumping and joining the Territorial Army. However, I have just driven 525 miles in 24 hours to transport a kitten from a beautiful rural farmhouse in Wales to our glorified broom cupboard in Lewes.

Was it worth it? I'm not a cat person, but this little chap has completely won me over:

He doesn't have a name yet. I wanted to give him an inappropriate human name, like David, but I have been overruled.

The journey was mind-numbingly tedious: a sequence of Ms and As with various numbers attached, interspersed with service stations that appeared to be patronised solely by people who had recently been released from prison. Where were the middle classes? There's a gap in the market - I'm sure a service station that incorporated a contemporary art gallery and a sushi restaurant would be a huge success. I'd go there.

At every stop I couldn't wait to get back in the car and although the M40 wasn't the most exciting stretch of road I've driven along, the boredom was relieved by a wonderfully funny edition of Desert Island Discs with Miriam Margolyes (which you can find here). It was almost as funny as her unlikely encounter with will.i.am.

The outskirts of Birmingham were particularly depressing - the highlight was the largest electricity substation I've ever seen. But things began to improve once we reached Shropshire and the distant hills made me think of A. E. Housman's 1896 cycle of poems and their disarmingly prophetic sentiments:


On a map, the English countryside appears to seamlessly segue into the Welsh landscape and the border seems quite arbitary, but in reality the change is far more dramatic. Gently rolling hills become steep valleys, while whilst pastel hues change to darks greens, slate greys and burnt umber. This is where the Saxon invaders abruptly stopped, unwilling to farm on the increasingly sharp gradients beyond the Welsh Marches.

We had decided to break up the journey by staying overnight in Llangollen - a place I knew absolutely nothing about, except for its association with a famous Victorian lesbian couple. I was delighted to discover a small market town with an 13th century bridge that spanned the roaring torrents of the River Dee.

It was good to be back in Wales after so many years and I enjoyed seeing the once familiar words that I had struggled to master when I was at university there:llfrygell (library),swyddfa (office) and cigydd (butcher).

I had chosen to study Welsh in my first year, as it seemed liked the right thing to do. Sadly, I was spectacularly bad at it and became a figure of notoriety amongst the lecturers in the Welsh department (apparently they used to talk about me long after I had left). However, I can at least pronounce the words and still remember that a w is anoo, an f is a v, a u is an ee and a ll is ahl, not a cl.

My sons seemed quite bemused to learn that they were no longer in England and started asking when we were going home. Later, after a long silence, my seven-year-old suddenly said: "They're so proud of their country. Welsh butter, Welsh cheese, Welsh lamb. They'll be saying it's Welsh air next!"

Where did this world-weary cynicism come from? "Don't you find it exciting being somewhere new?" I asked. Both boys shook their heads.

I was a little depressed by my sons' lamentable lack of interest in Llangollen and decided to go for a proper walk in the evening, unhindered by whining voices and dragging feet.

I began by exploring the back streets of the town. I had forgotten how many pubs and churches there were in Welsh towns, with a wide choice of venues for both sin and redemption. The capels were as granite grey and bleak as an RS Thomas poem.

Over the bridge, a heritage steam railway offered a 30-minute ride through the Dee Valley. If I'd been here longer, I would have happily made the journey: "Single to somewhere unpronounceable unpronouncable please."


Beyond the station, in the far distance, a solitary house overlooked the town:

The lone house reminded me of the sense of isolation I often felt as an English student in Welsh-speaking Wales, where there often wasn't much of a welcome in the hillsides. Some of the local people were friendly, but most regarded us with an attitude that ranged from begrudging tolerance to outright hostility. I can't say I blamed them.

I crossed the road and began to climb a hill, leaving the town behind me. On the way, I crossed the Llangollen Canal, which is at least 50 feet above the unnavigable river below:

Further up, the towns ends with some fairly hideous 1980s council offices, which look as if they have been constructed out of Lego. These incongruous buildings make it is easy to be distracted and miss the small sign that points the way to the ruined Castell Dinas Bran:

The castle is thought to have been built by Gruffydd II ap Madog in the 1260s and has been a ruin for almost as long as it has existed. Sadly it was too late for me to walk to the remain of Dinas Bran (it was much further than this zoomed-in photo suggests), but the picture below makes me want to come back:

I managed to get about a third of the way there and was rewarded with these views:


In the distance I could hear the sound of a church bell, the whistle of a steam engine, the distant roar of the river and the bleating of lambs. It seemed almost impossible idyllic, but then I saw this:

It made a stark contrast to the window display in the taxidermy shop at the bottom of the hill, where two women ahead of me were struggling to walk in tight leather mini skirts and high heels. One had a long mane of peroxided blonde hair, the other's was jet black. They appeared to be in their early 30s, but as I caught up with them, the women aged a year with each yard until they reached their mid-50s.

I'd forgotten the buzz of a Saturday night in a small town.

Further along the road, their granddaughters were huddled around the till-point of the local Spar, squeezed into revealing dresses that looked at least two sizes too small. All of the girls were made-up very heavily, with the longest false eyelashes I had ever seen. Perhaps they were trying to get picked-up via Google Earth. The local boys certainly seemed nonplussed.

After a less than perfect night's sleep in a local hostel, hostal, we made a terrifying 10-mile journey to the kitten's owners, driving along tiny lanes with sheer drops to the side that plunged hundreds of feet. By the time we reached here, it felt as if we were on a motorway:


Our kitten was one of 20 cats that inhabited a remote farmhouse. The owners, who had moved there from Kent eight years ago, were lovely people who had seen the area they grew up in ruined by over-development and wanted to find a home where they could enjoy dark skies and be free from the distant roar of traffic. I asked them how they had integrated into the community. They replied that it was remarkbly easy, as 80% of their neighbours were also incomers.

The issue of migration is problematic. Once, we used to grow up in an area and call it home. Aunties, uncles, cousins and grandparents usually lived within walking distance, but after the 1950s, we all became more mobile, both geographically and socially. Fewer people rented and property prices became more polarised.

My hometown of Teddington used to be an unremarkable, lower middle/upper working class suburb, but in the 1980s it suddenly became very desirable and houses like my parents' Victorian semi shot from £3,800 in 1963 to £550,000 in 2003.

My wife and I couldn't afford to buy a house in the local area, so we sold our Twickenham flat and traded it in for a small (but perfectly formed) 1890s terraced property in Lewes. I'm very glad that we did, but I'm now also conscious that by doing this, we helped to increase the house prices in Lewes, making it harder for local people to get on the property ladder.

I don't feel comfortable about that, but I'm not sure what the answer is. All I can say is that I've made a long-term committment to the area and don't regard my home as an investment.

But I digress. To return to the main theme of this long, rambling post, we collected the kitten and began the long drive back to Lewes. It 'yowled' in protest all the way, but some times more than others. It became calmer when I played Beethoven, but when a guest on Desert Island Discs chose a Bob Dylan song, the yowling suddenly increased.

I can only conclude that this cat obviously has an impeccable taste in music.

We arrived home in the evening. Our nameless kitten shot out of his basket and hid in the shoe rack for two hours, but by nine o'clock he was shamelessly climbing over me, rubbing his face against mine and proffering his bottom.

We had bonded.

I'd always thought of myself as someone who loved dogs and hated cats, but it looks as if I've been wrong all these years.

Better late than never.

#ACRL2013, you were soooooooo good looking! We saw tons of creative fashions at the conference in Indianapolis last week. Below are just a few, but we encourage you to submit your own to be highlighted here at Librarian Wardrobe. Thanks to everyone who put up with our awkward interruptions and also to Lindsey Rae (Technology and Public Services Librarian at Champlain College) for her iPhone photography skills.

1. We caught up with Char Booth just before she took the stage to co-present “Love your library”: building goodwill from the inside out and the outside in. When we asked her about her choice of clothing she had quite a profound response: “Ties make me… feel.” Well, the presentation made us feel (awesome), so be sure to check out the handout and tweets at #makerlib.
   
   

2. Rachel Gammons, Learning Design Librarian at Millersville University, took a break from co-presenting her poster to talk with us about her choice of clothing: “My boyfriend told me I couldn’t pull off gold lamé for the conference, so I set out to prove him wrong.” Success!
   
   

3. Rita was spotted from across the Convention Center food court wearing an amazing short khaki trench-coat and silk scarf. She looked so fashionable that my friends bet me she wasn’t a librarian at all. tl;dr I won drinks that evening. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Rita Vine, Faculty Liaison & Information Literacy Coordinator at University of Toronto Robarts Library: “This is how I dress for work everyday.”
   
   

4. It was the subtle details that caught our attention when interviewing Michael Greenlee, Reference, Instruction, and Web Services Librarian at University of Tulsa. Along with his unbuttoned chambray shirt and comfortable brown oxfords, he takes pride in his linen pocket square: “I like it because it is something professional men at one time wouldn’t be seen without.”
   
   

5. D. Waheedah Bilal is an Assistant Librarian, Liberal Arts Team Leader, and Liaison for English at Indiana University-Purdue University Library and one of the only locals we caught up with over the conference. Initially drawn to her blue color-palette (nail polish included), we concluded that she truly rocked the headscarf. Waheedah cited “comfort” as the reason she selected this ensemble for the conference.
   
   

6. Bold colors were definitely a conference clothing theme, and Cat Silvers from Florida State University Strozier Library was doing it right! She had this to say about her wardrobe: “I like bright and fun colors.”
   
   

7. Melissa Gold, Science Librarian at Millersville University, co-presented her contributed paper bright and early at 8 AM on Wednesday morning. She was dressed to the nines in a pencil skirt with argyle tights: “They make me feel powerful!”

    

   (Thanks to @edorney!!)

Maybe even the best things.

They're low-maintenance.

As long as they're kept in sunny spots, they only need to be watered about once a week in the summer and once a month in the winter.

Source: instagram.com

They come in all kinds of colors.

Source: pinterest.com

Source: design-seeds.com

They're trippy.

'Sup Fibonacci.

Source: instagram.com

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Joseph Gordon-Levitt stars in his directorial debut, Don Jon,which centers on the life of a "porn addict" Jersey boy named Jon Martello. Though plenty of people will likely flock to a film that centers on two sexy stars and a porn addiction, Don Jon attempts to deconstruct the ways in which rigid notions of masculinity and femininity are damaging.

In the film, Jon Martello has his routine down pat: GTL (Gym, Tan, Laundry), going to the club with his boys to pick up ladies, then heading to church with his family every Sunday morning to where he can atone for his sins. Despite getting laid constantly, Jon's unsatisfied. His not-so-secret satisfaction? Porn. For Jon, porn is better than sex—he watches clips upon clips of naked bodies writhing around until they all blur into that one moment of satisfaction multiple times a day, day and even after having sex with the many of women he picks up.

Jon's routine faces upheaval when Barbara—a hilarious Scarlett Johansson who Jon's buddies rate a '10'—walks into the club and steals Jon's heart.In the course of their relationship, and Jon's new friendship with free-spirited community college classmate Esther(the always terrific Julianne Moore), the tanned protagonist starts to challenge his strictly gendered worldview.

Jon's father, Jon Sr. (Tony Danza), portrays an example of ideal masculinity: a gold-chain strewn, veiny necked, misogynistic nightmare. But there's a disconnect between the father and son; Jon isn't completely buying his father's ideas despite the fact that the pair wear identical uniforms of white tank tops and gold chains. While Jon's masculinity isn't necessarily more nuanced or progressive than his father's, he has some traits that both his is father and new girlfriend deem too girly. Barbara gets pissed over Jon's plans to buy some Swiffer products. In products, in a bizarre scene, she says saying it's embarrassing for her man to be buying cleaning supplies because he should have someone doing that for him.

Gordon-Levitt uses Don Jon to explore objectification in all forms: how societal expectations for our gendered behavior can leave us unable to connect to others on an individual level. He has been very open about the theme of objectification in the film, responding recently on Twitter —to to the obnoxious Esquire editor who said that women are "there to be beautiful objects"—that objects," that this is what Don Jon is all about. In the post-film Q&A at SXSW, co-star Brie Larson mentioned how our society deems beautiful women as public property for anyone to comment upon.

In Don Jon, this objectification impacts our personal sexualities in very negative ways. For Jon, it's his inability to be able to connect on an emotional or even sexual level with another person beyond his connection with porn. And for Barbara, it's about intricately tying her sexuality to what she sees in romantic comedies that are as unrealistic as Jon's porn.The film places importance on true, emotional human connections linked to sexuality.

While that's a good message to leave on and I applaud Gordon-Levitt's feminist calling-out calling out of objectification and limiting gender roles, especially in his directorial debut, I ultimately found the film to have has a limited view of sexuality. It suggests that the best sex happens when the two people are emotionally connected, which may be true in some cases but not in all.It also establishes itself as pretty anti-porn but doesn't widen the porn discussion to anything that isn't seen as mainstream porn. Don Jon keeps itself very much rooted in the types of clips (and they show a lot of clips) that could be used as examples in a "pornification of American culture" think piece. But there's no discussion of porn that exists outside of that, like feminist, woman-made, sex-positive porn. Jon's classmate, Esther, catches Jon watching porn on his phone in class and gives him a seventies-era Danish erotic film—but it strangely disappears from the film, never mentioned again. The film ends leaving the audience with the assumption that there isn't necessarily room for porn within a healthy sexuality.

Despite a rather limiting viewpoint on porn and what constitutes healthy sexuality, Don Jon is an enjoyable and very funny deconstruction of the ways in which we objectify each other and ourselves. By bringing up issues of sexuality, porn, gender roles and objectification in his directorial debut, debut Gordon-Levitt will certainly open up discussion to a broader audience. And in case you were wondering, during the post-film Q&A, when asked if he was a feminist, Gordon-Levitt responded to a delighted crowd with a resounding, "Absolutely."