Lawrence of Arabia

On Monday during the long hours of dialysis, I read the new Smithsonian Magazine for July/August.  It is packed full of interesting articles.  I’ll be commenting on some of the others in weeks to come. But first I will write about Lawrence of Arabia. 

Surely you saw the film.  Young, tall, impossibly handsome blonde Peter O’Toole, dressed as an Arab sheik, striding along on top of  railroad cars. Flowing white robes billowed around him as he lifted his arms in triumph while below his Arab followers cheered his victory over the Turks. 

The Smithsonian agreed that the film was historically accurate, for the most part, except to point out that unlike the tall (over six feet) O’Toole, Lawrence was only 5 foot 3.  Ivor Prickett, author of the Smithsonian article, visited ancient Hittite ruins where young T. E. Lawrence worked as an archeologist before World War I.  The author also went to places associated with Lawrence’s World War I battles.  The site of his most famous achievement, the capture of Aqaba, a small mud village but a vital Turkish port, is now a holiday resort with high-rise buildings. The sea where Lawrence waded triumphantly is now a place where young Jordanians frolic in the surf.. 

At the end of World War I, Lawrence of Arabia was the most famous man in the World.  One can only wonder what the Middle East would be like today if he could have persuaded his superiors to give the Arabs their one, independent country. Instead, the territories were divided into Syria, Iraq, Jordan, etc. under firm British and French control.  That’s what led to the horrible conflicts in which our country is mired today – with no way out.

Lawrence, a colonel in the British Army was bitter about the lies he told the Arabs at the command of his superiors.  Disillusioned he tried serving in the Army under various aliases.  Giving up, he retreated to a tiny cottage in Dorset. On the last page of the Smithsonian article is a large, color photograph of a brightly painted Cloud Cottage overlooked by purple rhododendron blossoms.

In 1983 I took Mother and my son David to England.  I drove a little red rental car all around England and Scotland, David as my navigator sat beside me finding directions with detailed maps (4 miles to the inch), Mother in the back seat with the luggage, seeing Great Houses and Castles.  Mother and David had no choice as to where we went.  I took them to Cloud Cottage. 

It was a gray day.  The tiny cottage (two small rooms on the first floor, two more above beneath the rafters, no kitchen, no bathroom) was hidden by scraggly bushes and surrounded by a tall, wire fence.   A gloomy sight. Although it is listed as the equivalent of one of our National Monuments, from the car’s widow I read the placard on the gate which said,  “no admittance.” 

I did not linger.  The sun came out as I turned the car west towards Dorchester.  Was this the road Lawrence rode his motorcycle to visit his friend, author Thomas Hardy?  Was this where he had his fatal accident?  All along the narrow road were wild rhododendrons, tall as trees and covered with gorgeous  purple blossoms.  The flowers arched over the road and covered nearby hillsides.  In all my travels my eyes never enjoyed any sight more lovely.