A Fond Farewell

With some sadness we said goodbye to London today. There are always more things to do and places to see so we fit in a few of them today. The weather was very cold but dry when we joined a London Walk entitled Darkest Victorian London. The guide met us at Monument Tube Station. The Monument is a 166 foot memorial to the Great Fire of London. We learned about the disgusting lack of sanitation, the quirky street patterns that survive from the Medieval times, the forgotten Southwark Cathedral, the role of the docks, the huge scope of global trading in Victorian times, and the beginnings of the trains. Charles Dickens kept sneaking into the conversation as many of the places are settings in his books and today streets are named after characters he created. After the walk our lunch was at the George, the only remaining coaching house in London; the equivalent of a railway station or airport nowadays as somewhere to go for inter-city transport.

Looking past the ancient buildings we often had a view of the Shard, one of the newest London buildings. It is the tallest building in Europe at something over 1,000 feet high, and its facades are all glass. Visitors are allowed to go partway up to an observation deck at the cost of £25 per person to regard the peripheral views through dozens of virtual telescopes, which are similar to iPads enabling you to zoom in or out, or call up the same views at different times of day. It didn't seem like good value when the weather would obscure the view. Instead we went for coffee and slabs of chocolate cake on the ground level cafe of the Gherkin.

Back to the flat for a stab at packing before our sole trip to the theatre. We felt lucky to get tickets to a sold out performance of the National Theatre's "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time". No half price tickets and we now know why. It was wonderful. The staging was so creative with hidden cupboards in the walls and floors, hidden stairs that appeared out of the wall, lights, graphics, and a post encore scene complete with confetti. All of that without seeming to be overproduced or gimmicky.

We managed to further postpone packing by putting this blog entry together, but now have to finally accept the party is over and we will be on our way to Heathrow in just a few hours. See you all soon!

 

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A Relatively Quiet Day

Breakfast as usual at our bay-window table, but grey and wet outside and neither of us over-enthusiastic about a speedy exit to start our morning, so we sat around reading for a while.

By late morning it was obvious that the rain wasn't going to give us a break, so once again we donned our non-waterproof best and plodded off to Tower Hill station en route to Paddington. From there we took a grown-up train westwards to Langley, where Mike's uncle Eamon was waiting to drive us to his house. His eldest daughter Elaine -Mike's considerably younger cousin - was already there to meet us with her partner Ken. These are people we get together with each year.

A light lunch had been promised, but Eamon as usual had excelled by preparing an overflowing table of meats, cheeses, salads and several other accompaniments, and then produced a selection of deserts to follow. True to form, Eamon then refused to accept any help clearing up, shooed the rest of us into the sitting room to catch up on each other's lives, washed up and put everything back in place before coming to join us.

It took very little time until he jumped up, insisting we must be in need of more tea and pastries!

All too soon the conversation needed to come to a close, and Elaine drove through the rainy dark to deposit us for our return train to London where we made our soggy way home.

Soon after returning to our flat we saw lights flashing and sirens blaring. Watching out our window there were buses and cars backed up along the narrow street, a fire truck, an ambulance, police, and an unmarked official car. After nearly an hour everything had disappeared and traffic returned to normal. This morning we learned that suspected terrorists had their tires shot out and were arrested somewhere on the street that runs next to our building.

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Walking Down Memory Lane

 

 

 

Awoke today to partial sun so we went out walking before the weather decided to change. Our flat is close to Tower Bridge and the St. Katherine's Docks so we headed in that direction. If I were to live in London these docks would be an excellent location. They are centrally located but seem far from the city because they are so quiet. Each dock is surrounded by buildings, most of which are residential. The waterside, free from cars, has restaurants and coffee shops connected by pavement and little bridges.

 

 

 

 

At lunch time we met Brian, Carole and Nicolas for lunch at the restaurant on Hampstead Heath. Mike and I went early for a trip down his memory lane. Emerging from Hampstead tube station - the deepest in London - we meandered up the hill and via some quiet backstreets towards one of the highest points of Hampstead Heath where Whitestone Pond sits at the crest of five uphill roads. The pond has sloping ramps at either end, which were there to allow all the horsedrawn wagons of olden times to be walked through to cool down the horses. One of these roads was a major trading route into London from the north in ancient times of highway robbers, and still features a narrow toll station through which modern day traffic has to squeeze in single file, since evolved into a tiny centuries old pub called the Spaniards Inn, where incoming goods or herds of animals were taxed en route to London markets.

 

Hampstead is very picturesque with narrow streets, extremely large and phenomenally expensive beautiful homes, restaurants and boutiques. Off to the side of Hampstead Heath stands 52 Hermitage Lane, the house where Mike's family lived before the extensive gentrification to its modern reincarnation. We walked through the Heath, a very huge area of woodlands and open grass fields with a view back to central London. The ponds, gardens, bridges, bandstand and deer enclosure of Mike's childhood are all still there unchanged, complete with a small zoo and a butterfly house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the way back we drifted into the Waterstones at Charing Cross. To tempt us Waterstones is nearly as obsequious as Starbucks and we find it difficult to pass by without browsing and buying. Our stack of purchases is ridiculously large. How to get them home is a problem that we can no longer ignore. Tomorrow is the deadline for finding a solution as we are flying home early the following morning!

 

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Curtailed by Wind and Rain

After breakfast in our flat we grabbed our Oyster cards and found ourselves once again on the tube, this time on our way to the Hunterian Museum within the Royal College of Surgeons impressive regal buildings. I have deferred the description to Mike as I must admit that I have a negative physical reaction to hundreds of jars of preserved animal and human body parts. Mike had become aware of the Museum's existence whilst reading Zadie Smith's most recent book. Mister Hunter and his brother were both surgeons and avid collectors who acquired enormous collections which they set up in London and Glasgow. Unfortunately, the London building suffered a direct bomb attack during WW2, with a consequential major fire which destroyed vast amounts of the collection.

 

Adorned with yellow visitor passes, we gently cruised through two floors of glass cases stuffed full of every imaginable healthy or diseased sample of human / animal / bird tissues or organs preserved in hundreds of glass jars filled with formaldehyde, plus complete skeletons or bone samples either healthy, broken, diseased or deformed. All of this was surrounded by highly informative information panels and labelling and audio-visual screens, together with anterooms filed with ancient and modern surgical equipment, some of it frighteningly horrific (various trepanes for drilling large diameter holes in human skulls to let out "vapours", and an enormous clockwork circular saw which once wound up could not be controlled or stopped, for amputating limbs in days long before pain-killing anesthetics were available).

 

 

Leaving the museum, the rains got heavier with each block that we walked. We ducked into a cafe for lunch hoped that the skies would clear and we could join a 2:00 walking tour. That was definitely not to be. The storm had settled in to stay and the view out the window was not encouraging. Umbrellas were up, people were ducking into doorways while they waited to cross, people entering,the restaurant were shedding rain onto the floor, and once again we were very much aware of the extensive amount of Goretex options we possess, all of it perfectly dry and 4,500 miles away in Portland.

Another quick change of plans took us to Selfridges department store. Mike and I had watched two of the PBS series about Mr. Selfridge and his empire. The store is enormous and almost everything seems quite expensive but the charm of the old building has been lost to remodeling. We did find a shiny toy car with hand tooled leather seats that will reach a maximum speed of twenty miles an hour as your pampered child drives around your estate. The cost a mere £25,000 / $40,000.

 

Still in search of a dry environment we traveled on to Harrod's. For me the most interesting part of Harrod's is the food court. There are rooms of every gourmet treat you can imagine. Of course we cannot being anything interesting through US customs so we settled for a few pieces of chocolate and photos. Lucy, if you are reading this, it is time to raise your prices. Individual decorated cupcakes for £5 / $8, with some of their larger cakes, although lovely, probably requiring a small bank loan to purchase.

 

 

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This is for You Angie

Today Mike and I went our separate ways for a few hours. Angie had given me explicit instructions about visiting an Ottolenghi restaurant. Ottolenghi is a London chef who has three locations in the city. With my carefully planned route and my Oyster card I set off for the Belgravia shop. The weather was cold and windy but with determination I tubed part of the way and then set out on foot. After a nice walk pass Buckingham Palace and through Green Park I made a few wrong turns. Recovering and finding my correct direction I found the storefront down a single block street. It was well worth the trek.

The shop is very small, not much larger than our living room and dining room. The window is filled with platters of delectable sweet treats. Inside is a very narrow passageway with a long counter. On the counter are the day's selection of salads and behind the counter are friendly, helpful young women. At the far end of the room is one round table with six chairs for customers who wish to eat in. The table was full. Considering the weather and my distance from our Tower Hill flat I was willing to wait for a place at the table. Within minutes a seventh chair appeared, a few people were rearranged and I had a place.

Slightly embarrassed I explained to my fellow diners and the waitress my desire to have pictures for my Seattle daughter, the gourmet cook. Complete understanding and cooperation and a copy of the daily menu to take back to Seattle.

 

 

Angie, the salads were divine, so flavorful, perfect, and satisfying that I didn't opt for a pastry. I did purchase the only items that would not be stale in a few hours. Mike and I mailed them off to you this afternoon.

 

On our way back from the post office Mike and I explored some of our temporary neighborhood until the cold and damp forced us to retreat to our flat for the evening.

 

 

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Back in London

Yesterday was a lost day in the blogging/photo scheme. Sue and Brian followed us as we turned in our car and then transported us and our baggage to the train station in Reading. Wonderful friends who took such good care of us. Arriving in London we charged up our Oyster cards, dragged our stuff on the Tube and headed to our luxury apartment near Tower Bridge. Next it was the housekeeping chores . . . grocery shopping at Marks and Spencer on "free" credit card vouchers and attempting to use a small device that claimed to be a washer-dryer all in one appliance. It took several searches on the internet to solve the puzzle of how to open the blasted thing and free my clothes that after an hour of drying were no drier than at the start.

 

A new day and we are back to carefree and doing wherever suits us. Several months ago Mike had arranged for a tour of Parliament. We had hoped to also climb the tower of Big Ben but we were excluded. Only Brit citizens actually residing in Great Britain can pass the security check for admittance. The vast Great Hall, where President Obama was invited to speak is over a thousand years old. The remainder of the building was rebuilt after a fire in the 1800's. This location was the site of the royal palace until the time of Henry XIII who desired a grander palace and gave it to Parliament.

 

The tour was very educational for me, the only foreigner in a group of twenty. No one can built palaces of over the top gold and splendor like European royalty. The building is divided into three sections, the House of Commons carpeted in green, the House of Lords carpeted in red, and the monarch's quarters carpeted, of course, in royal blue. Both houses have a chamber for meeting and discussion. For voting they have two anterooms. In the House of Commons they are for those voting "aye" and those voting "no". The Lords divide between the "content" and "uncontent". The language makes it sound so civilized. The ceilings, the frescoes, the paintings, and all of the pomp, ceremony, and formal clothing - "men in tights" as a policewoman remarked to someone standing next to Mike - make it seem like a past era. And then the guide explains the painted parallel stripes on the floor of the house that are two sword lengths apart. To prevent violence members of opposing parties are not allowed to step over their line, hence the term "toe the line".

 

After the tour we returned to the Central Lobby, the center room underneath the large spire. Everyday that the House of Commons is in session there is a ceremonial procession carrying the mace into the chamber. There are men in gartered tights with buckle shoes, others in formal wear, large medallions galore, and a squad of police lining the hall. No wigs in evidence today, but strictly no cameras allowed.

 

Lunch time was a nostalgic wander along the Southbank. All of the exciting markets, exotic foodstalls, wonderful sculptures, colored beaches, and gardens of last year had disappeared with the end of the Olympics. What remains is a cleaner city with even more cranes and construction than last year.

 

Our afternoon was spent at the London Transport Museum. London's Tube, the first underground railway in the world, is 150 years old this year. From its very beginning it has utilised poster art to publicise ever-expanding routes, attractive destinations for sports or leisure activities that tube travel made possible, safety messages for its own staff, and public safety propaganda during two World Wars. A hugely popular exhibition featuring some of these has been running this year, and has recently been extended a second time until early 2014. An amazing range of styles, talent and information reflecting cultural changes over one and a half centuries, and surprising to read snippets like 2 million tube journeys per week being made in 1948.

After the poster exhibition, we visited the rest of the permanent museum which covers the development of transport in London from river ferries when London had only one bridge, followed by hansom cabs, stage coaches, taxis, trams, buses, trolleybuses, steam trains and the electric underground. Large shiny examples stand in place on three floors, surrounded by interactive panels packed with information.

 

The day ended with a long, relaxed dinner with Mike's brother Brian.

 

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Revisiting Oxford

This would be our first completely unplanned day of vacation and our last day with a car. Our last night's lodging was in Reading and we were expected back in Reading in the late afternoon. Being a bit indecisive we headed off in one direction, made a small adjustment and after a lovely countryside drive landed in Oxford. Before arriving we knew that the science museum Mike most wanted to see was closed on Monday and today was Monday. Our last trip several years ago was also Monday, not the best planning, but we were sure we could find a day's entertainment.

 

While visiting the Tourist Information Office, Mike found a flyer for a free two-hour walking tour. As free rarely happens on our journeys we grabbed a quick lunch and arrived on time at the gathering spot. Now free is true, almost. The walkers are asked to pay according to their satisfaction with the tour and the guide, although we already knew the deal from the flyer information.

Bridge of Sighs

Our tour guide was a young man with a law degree from Oxford. He was knowledgeable, funny, and dramatic. Not wanting to sit behind a desk he and a friend started the business and have been successful although he does not see it as his lifetime calling. We walked to some places we had previously visited and saw many new sites. The Oxford history lesson was excellent but the best part was the insider's view of the organization and workings of the university.

 

For all the lovers of C. S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia this is THE door. If you look carefully Aslan's face is in the center diamond in the top half of the door. The first thing the children see when they pass through the door is the lamppost in the next photo. Lewis was a fellow at Oxford and used his surroundings for the settings of his famous series.

By now it is four o'clock and we are expected back in the Reading area by late afternoon. Traffic cooperated and we arrived at Sue and Brian's on time. Not only did they provide us with a large, comfortable room, they had planned an evening of entertainment. A cab ferried us out into the country, down a single track road to a cozy restaurant housed in an ancient, at least by Oregon standards, building. It was an excellent meal with an evening of live music played by a duo who called themselves Rag Mama Rag; two sets with him providing vocals and stunning work on an assortment of guitars and a mandolin, and her playing various combinations of washboard, percussion, spoons and harmonicas, including an enormous bass harmonica. Quite a range of music that was difficult to either sit still to, or refrain from foot-tapping or finger-drumming.

 

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Cruising around the Cotswolds

Up for an early start, looked out the window and saw more fog. We were in Worcester staying in a hotel directly across the street from the cathedral, but overnight it had disappeared from view. I had not written our blog entry for yesterday so it was decided to compose that and get a later start. By nine the fog was lifting and by nine thirty it was a clear and sunny morning. When making plans we were disappointed that we would be in Worcester on a Sunday when there are no cathedral tours but we were rewarded by being the only early morning visitors. We listened to the organist warming up and explored to the sounds of the bells ringing for a half hour.

 

 

 

For the remainder of the day we wandered through some of the small towns in the Cotswolds. Breakfast was in Broadway and lunch in Burford. In between we walked through Chipping Norton and Moreton-in-Marsh. All of the villages have strong similarities and each has its own character. The High Streets are lined with centuries old stone buildings now filled with shops geared to please visitors. The warm ochre color of the stones, the bowing of the old walls, the chimneys, the roofs all create an interesting sidewalk view. Shops are divided between restaurants, tea rooms, clothing, books, antiques, and galleries. Window shopping is engaging with such a wide variety of quality goods without a single souvenir tourist t-shirt to be seen.

The gorgeous weather drew us up the hill to the Broadway Tower. It is not known exactly why the owner suddenly chose to build it at the ripe old age of 78, but suggestions are that it was simply a whimsical folly, as was fashionable with many stately homes, or alternatively that he built it so that he was able to signal to staff at one of his other homes that he was en route and therefore they should get the place warmed up and ready for his subsequent arrival. Over the years it has served as a farmhouse, vacation retreat, and signal point during the Second World War. The view from the top is spectacular as we looked out over several counties with farms and towns dotting the landscape.

 

As we approached Chipping Norton we made a second surprise detour to Bliss Mill, a huge elaborate decorated stone building with an enormous chimney sprouting skywards from its centre. Formerly a tweed mill, this has now been converted into luxury apartments surrounded by landscaped gardens with a stream through the middle; the building is a more stately home than a factory. We ignored the Private Road signs and drove the winding approaches and crunching gravel for a closer look and a few discreetly snapped photos.

 

 

 

 

What could possibly surpass a sunny afternoon amongst a wonderfully scenic area of England? Why, of course, that would be trying to find the entrance for our substantially downmarket hotel for the night in a seedier suburb of Reading. Despite the fact we could see it from the road, it took two u-turns and a drive through an adjacent pub car park to reach. Not one of the better choices we have made for our trip.

 

 

To complete our day we joined Lucy and Adam for dinner and conversation at a converted boathouse alongside the Kennet & Avon Canal. An enjoyable evening, and a great shame that such get togethers only happen once per year.

 

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Side Trip to Longdon

Mike can feel vindicated. Today is the weather he predicted for the entire trip. The fog and rain are gone and the sun is shining between the clouds. We are able to clearly see how many sheep are really out there covering every bit of landscape. Traveling further north in Wales, our destination is the Bodnant Gardens. Along the way we drive through towns that were once thriving centers of slate production. Hillsides of slag are all that we see as reminders of a different time.

 

The gardens, the property of five generations of the MacLaren family, contain eighty acres of gardens, terraces, ponds, and streams. The house, in the usual English/Welsh style of aristocrats is enormous. Although it is a National Trust property the toothbrushes sitting in the third floor window seem to be evidence that the house is still occupied. Flowers still in bloom created a rainbow of colors. A staff of twenty keeps every the plants, trees, and acres of grass in pristine condition.

 

 

The pin mill sits several terraces below the manor house at the end of a large rectangular lily pond. The family moved this building from a previous location where it had been used as a manufacturing site for making dressmakers' pins. Hidden in the trees is the Poem, the family mausoleum where all the titled MacLarens are buried.

Around the estate are many ancient trees planted in the 18th and 19th centuries. Each has a plaque explaining its significance. One of the Yew trees is the tallest in Britain. This tree is extremely poisonous and was in ancient times planted in sacred places to ward off evil. The Christians adopted those sites for their churches and the Yews remained. The church protected them from harvesting for firewood or wood to make longbows so today ancient Yews are found in the yards of many British churches.

 

A last minute decision took us on a detour from our North Wales to Worcester route, veering off to Longdon. Our friend Maureen Piper had been a wonderful correspondent but I had not heard from her in eighteen months. My letters to her had not been returned. When we arrived the house was vacant and the "For Sale" sign was laying behind the brick wall. Mike and I rang the bell of the house across the street and were invited in. This couple had known Maureen for thirty years and provided daily assistance the the last few years. Maureen died of a lung infection last March at the age of ninety one. Although sad I was glad to know about the end of the life of a fascinating woman.

 

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Water on the Ground, in the Air, from the Sky

Last night Mike and I stayed in Barmouth beside the sea. Due to a lack of occupants, our innkeeper upgraded our accommodation to a large room with an ocean view. Very generous but the view was mostly of crashing waves through rain and fog.

 

 

The morning showed no improvement. Ever hopeful, we had made an expensive reservation to ride the train up the mountain in Snowdonia National Park. The drive was more fog and rain. The little we could see was an amazing landscape of hills of Welsh slate darkened by rain, water cascading down between rocks, patches of yellow-green vegetation, and large impressive waterfalls. The blobs of light color were the hundreds of sheep calmly nibbling grass in every field and verge.

 

The only interest of our train ride was our fellow passengers. It was easy to concentrate on them as our visibility was little more than twenty feet. There was the Japanese lady sitting next to us who slept for the hour to the summit and the hour back to the station and the overwrought child who screamed for the first fifteen minutes of the return trip and whined off key with each exhale for the rest of the journey. The most disturbing was the sleazy smoker of advanced age with the very young Korean woman who looked to still be a teenager. She played Tetris on her iPhone while he was inappropriately affectionate. Released from captivity we headed for a late lunch where everyone in the cafe was speaking in Welsh. It does not sound like the spelling indicates it should.

At my request we retraced our steps through the slate hills. The clouds lifted, the rain stopped and we were rewarded with a clearer view of the slate hills and endless cascades of water flowing down the hills from every direction. The elevation of the road must be close to an ecological dividing line. Dropping down the hills changed to thick forest that created an umbrella canopy over the road. Bordering the narrow roads were miles of stone walls and white houses with slate roofs. And, of course, more sheep.

 

Our last port of call for the day was Portmeirion. It is described in a guidebook as "a seaside fairy tale of Italianate buildings in a hotchpotch of pastel shades set on an isolated peninsula with a backdrop of a beautiful tidal estuary." Beginning in 1925 Clough Williams-Ellis spent fifty years developing the site. It is truly an odd place. The public faces of the buildings, very expensive to rent, are brightly colored and elaborate. The backs are quite plain. The terraced gardens found in front of and between the buildings are well tended. We soon noticed the preponderance of religious figures representing every faith built into the walls, gardens, and sculptures.

Tonight we are staying in a bakehouse, our very own small detached dwelling, one of the outbuildings of a farmhouse. The stone walls are about two feet thick with the interior painted a cream color. The ups and downs of the carpetted floor give the impression of it having been simply spread out over a ploughed field. The old stone fireplace sits at one end of our small, cozy space. The hearth now forms our sitting room of two chairs, with the chimney above our heads. Our own private garden is around the back, down a few stone steps, with an ancient boat oar salvaged from a nearby beach utilised as the handrail. The two donkeys belonging to the farm owner are corralled a few steps away from the front door of our wonderful little abode, and the view of the sea is in the distance. I wonder if the donkeys provide our morning alarm call?

 

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