Last Full Day

Today was my last full day in London. I start packing tonight, and then I’ll leave early retracing my route back down the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow terminal three. Holborn is not a bad station to use unlike others I’ve seen. There’s only one short flight of stairs.
Today after breakfast I walked up once more to the British Museum. Before it opened I walked around the area and licked some touristy shop windows.
Pil! What is with this window licking—most unsanitary! No no. It’s a metaphor I picked up in Paris. To lick the window is to look rather than buy. In some of the stores across from the British Museum you could buy reproductions—some life size—of various antiquities. In a few stores you can buy small non museum quality but genuine antiquities.
Once the museum opened, I visited the Elgin Marbles, for one thing. Now in a small room just off the Parthenon Room is a series of defensive-sounding placards trying to justify Britain’s holding on to the marbles. The story seems to be that Greece has half of the frieze left and put it in a museum for protection and that’s all Britain is doing. I’ll leave you to your own opinions.
I visited a few other things there, including (ahem) the shop. All these places have shops, and most of them are good. I have actually been adding to my collection of a series for kids called Horrible Histories. I would say apply Moscow Rules. If you want something get it. Do not expect to see whatever it is at the next shop.
After dropping off my purchases at Citadines, I tubed off to South Kensington to the Victoria and Albert and visited some goodies—and the shop. The shop is beautiful, but this time I did not get anything, so I moved on to Harrods.
Nosing around Harrods is very interesting. What’s his name al Fayad has sold the place, which is a great advantage because the toilets are now free, and you can still find lotion and perfume there to try. Please note that Harrods has a good shop at duty free, and if you want tea to bring home—some of us do—waiting will work.
Then I walked up to Green Park as I wished for some relief from the concrete. It rained off and on all day, but I had my umbrella and I had a pleasant walk through the aptly named park. I got lost though and ended up down by Pall Mall. This worked out though because while making my way back to Piccadilly I passed St. James Palace. None of the big royals live there but it’s still the official “court.”
I had a great time poking around Hatchards, and have a couple of history books to read on the plane. Then I got the tube home.
Four whole weeks here was a real treat. I did not see Everything I wanted, but I did see what I wanted to see most. London makes a great base, but what I appreciated most was the chance to leave the city for the parks and stately homes around it. Those lovely walks through fragrant gardens and peaceful woodlands are the memories I will cherish most.
Another great thing was the Oyster Card. It was so easy to use and so convenient. I wish that I had such a thing at home and the extensive public transportation system to go with it. If I could walk a few blocks from my home, touch a card, and take a train for forty minutes and be in the lush countryside--how wonderful would that be? But Los Angeles does not work that way alas.
There are experiences that I used to have before I took to apartments. I would go to a tea room or even pub to write postcards and rest my feet as I had refreshment. Now I prefer to come home where I can take off my shoes and contact lenses as well.
The Citadines in Holborn was perfect for me. I could not have asked for a more convenient location. I could walk to a lot of places, find food easily, and it means a lot not to have to change lines with my luggage going to and from the airport.
Thank you for sharing my trip with me!
Cherrio.

That Wooden "0"

A proper good morning to you.
Tomorrow is my last full day in London. It’s been great getting to be here so long, and I’ve been able to enjoy a lot of things without driving myself nuts with frantic running around. My problem is—as it always is—that the appetite grows in the consumption. I have found out about even more lovely things to see near London, so I know I’ll have to come back.
Today’s weather was a surprise even to the forecasters, which I think might happen pretty often in England. It was warm, but we had steady rain. Thinking back on the humidity yesterday, it seems like a natural development. I had plans to stay out and maybe tube up to Hampstead to walk on the Heath. Maybe tomorrow. Today the lure of going home to have tea and put my feet up was too great.
But before that—yes, I was out and about.
I walked down High Holborn and ended up at St. Pauls. Before that I went into the Thameslink Station, which I should have done weeks ago, only I didn’t. So many things lie within reach although not within reach of my Oyster Card because I asked. Nevertheless. . .
Passing St. Paul’s I crossed the wonderful Millennium Bridge once more, delighting in the views. I gave money to a beggar. They annoy me, but I felt sorry for his patient dog. Turning left on the south bank, called Southwark (Sothark) or Borough, I strolled to the reconstruction of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre.
The Globe was the dream of American actor Sam Wanamaker, and it more than fulfills his conception. As far as they could, given modern building codes, they reconstructed the thing with authentic proportions and building materials. One can visit only as part of a tour or in attendance of a performance. I had the tour but now, of course, I want to see a Shakespeare play there.
First there is an exhibition explaining the construction and some of the materials used. Building materials, tools, costumes, props, musical instruments are all on display, accompanied by videos or recordings.
Our tour was giving by an energetic young man named Andrew with an actor’s voice. He was both knowledgeable and entertaining. The theatre itself is surprisingly beautiful. The sides and ceilings of the stage are painted and so are some of the boxes for the high folks. Her majesty attended the very first opening night and sat in one of them. Andrew told us that Philip, Duke of Edinburgh is their royal patron and shows up regularly as he loves theatre.
Most of the construction is of thick oak posts and beams. They used authentic pegs rather than anachronistic metal nails to hold it together, and the city government of London allowed them to use thatch—normally illegal in the city limits--on the roof in the interests of historical accuracy as long as a sprinkler system was installed.
Most of the stage and the area where “groundlings” stand is open to the sky, and the rule is that the show must go on no matter what the weather, but spectators are not allowed umbrellas, which block the view of other members of the audience. Luckily no performance was scheduled for today.
I walked around Southwark for a while, as it is an area of London I had not visited. I looked in at the Borough Market, of course, but was not impressed. Maybe it’s better on weekends because a lot of the stalls were closed when it was midday today.
I recrossed the Millennium Bridge and walked down Ludgate which becomes Fleet Street and then the Strand. There I visited the Temple of Tea—Twinings--and bought one of their traditional blends that I have never seen in the United States.
It was raining pretty hard by then, as I made my way up from the river through Covent Garden. I stopped for some goat cheese at Neal’s Yard Dairy as my days of saturated fat indulgence are almost over. I am having it for dinner on crisp whole wheat cracker. The contrast with the rich, buttery, salty cheese is just like heaven.
Cherrio.

An Excursion to Greenwich

A proper good morning to you.
Several ways exist to approach Greenwich. Some would find it exciting to arrive by river. I chose to go under the river. But my journey to Greenwich was the longest and most involved I had this trip—and it need not have been.
I took the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square and transferred to the Northern Line and got off at Embankment to transfer to the District Line for Tower of London. Then I walked over to the Docklands Light Railway Station where I was exceedingly puzzled to find no trains for Greenwich even though signs proclaimed in large, bold letters that Tower Hill Gateway was the station to take.
Fine. I got on the a train going east. Now the DLR is not like the tube. It’s more like a surrealist Disneyland ride through a series of tableaux. The trains have no drivers and mostly are elevated and at window level. So let’s go through the East End where the names Shadwell and Limehouse invoke seedy crime-ridden river front life. In the twenty-first century it’s world of scaffolding, run down council flats, graffiti, and open pits. Then suddenly one comes upon a swank marina with pleasure boats and luxury townhouses that would not be out of place at Newport Beach. Then a few minutes on, we’re back among the ugliness.
And yet not long after that one arrives at Docklands. I changed at a station called Poplar and again at Canary Wharf. The tracks wind through the gleaming high rises. Some are corporate buildings, some expensive hotels (Would you pay five hundred dollars a night to have some snoopy train passenger look in your room?).  Swank condo towers house the business folk who work here—or I suppose so. On the weekend it was kind of spooky.
But the train I picked up at Canary Wharf took me to Island Gardens where I hopped out, admired the view across the Thames to Greenwich and then plunged into the Pedestrian Tunnel that goes under the Thames.
It’s actually rather like the transfer tunnels on the tube only longer, and drippy.
Greenwich is a very pretty and terribly historical place. It manages to be touristy without seeming like a trap. The first thing that strikes the viewer as she emerges from the tunnel is the glorious Royal Naval College, splendidly designed by Sir Christopher Wren.  I enjoyed a good wallow in Late Baroque because they’ve opened things to the public that were previously not. The painted room features frescos on the theme of the Triumph and William and Mary, and you will be glad to know they had the approval of the Olympian Pantheon. There were far too many putti for my taste—although it’s well known that I think one putto is far too many.  But it’s a beautiful and very grand room. I was also lucky enough to see the lovely chapel in the same style.
Wren’s structure was not the first royal commission to occupy the riverside. Inigo Jones, the follower of Palladio who built the Banqueting House in Westminster designed a country retreat for James I’s queen, Anne of Denmark, and it was later used by Henrietta Maria wife of Charles I, so it is known as the Queen’s House. Wren was sternly ordered Not to Spoil the View. His solution was masterful.
I visited the Queen’s House. There’s nothing of large historical interest remaining, but I was interested in the architecture, and I found the house very pleasing and on a human, livable scale. I think I am going to hold on to Chiswick House, so one of you can have this one—on condition that I get invited regularly.
Then on to the National Maritime Museum, which is chock full of models, nautical relics, weaponry, interactive exhibits, and anything else having to do with sea power you could want. I especially made sure I visited the Nelson room, to see his Trafalgar uniform and other items associated with him.
Up the hill in Greenwich Park is the Royal Observatory where you can visit the Prime Meridian and see a lot of fascinating things including Harrison’s clock that allowed the accurate calculation of longitude. I did not go this time. And down by the river the Cutty Sark was undergoing restoration so I did not get to see it.
What I did do, is go to Greenwich’s market. The usual crafts are on offer. There’s no junk. The “food hall” is amazing. What continent are you interested in? Antarctica is the only one not represented. I include North America because they have TexMex, but why not go for Ethiopian instead? The smell was incredible since they were preparing the food right there. But it had turned sultry, so I had ice cream—honey flavored and delicious.
I had a very good time poking around the market and the town. Then I picked up the DLR near the Cutty Sark. It zipped under the river and emerged in Docklands and wound its way back to stop at Bank. I got the Central Line for Holborn and home.
Right now I am sipping refreshing Bitter Lemon and eating olives, as I watch the final stage of the Tour de France, but for dinner is Chicken Tikka Masala—the second national dish of Britain.
Well? Come on, Pil. How is it?
Good! Cardamom-scented rice and rich, creamy, and slightly sweet, spicy sauce with chicken chunks. I had something called Chicken Rogan last Sunday, and it was a bit too hot for me. This has a bit of an afterburn, but it’s not unpleasant. It definitely tastes exotic because of the spices. I wouldn’t eat it every day or even every week. But eat it again? You bet.

Just Out and About

A proper good morning to you.
This morning after some grocery shopping, I went on an excursion to Mayfair.
I set out west down Oxford Street this morning and walked up and down Regent’s Street. This is a most handsome boulevard. At street level there are total luxury brand shops with modern and very lick-worthy picture windows. But above that the buildings show a remarkable architectural unity. This road along with Regent’s Park was the project of John Nash, whose vision appealed to the future George IV, so anyone wishing to practice the identification of classical elements will have a field day with the pilasters, engaged columns, and even the occasional trigylph.
I even went in some of the stores, because I was scouting for anything I might want to buy as I get Christmas and some birthday presents when I’m abroad. Most of the time I quickly staggered out again suffering from sticker shock, but I also helped myself to fancy scents. I took a good look around Liberty which is set off of Regent’s Street because its Tudor style would not go with the rest of the street.
Then I strolled on Piccadilly visiting venerable old Hatchards—the coolest bookstore in the Galaxy. It was founded in the eighteenth century and has a half-timbered look, but none of that would matter if it did not also have a fabulous stock. I saw many books I wished to read, and fortunately my local library will eventually buy some of them. I’ll be going back to get a book for the plane ride home, but it will be hard to choose!
A bit further down the street is Fortnum and Mason, and I found the Food Hall nearly empty when I popped in to buy more tea. The shop assistant who helped me congratulated me for being early. Well, I wasn’t that early, but maybe the other tourists were out reveling.
Then I walked up both Old and New Bond Streets turned right and walked a few blocks down Oxford Street to Selfridge. Do you know what they have there? A gelato bar! I had some caramel yumminess and chocolato-hazelnut richness. I sat and enjoyed, resting my feet tucked away in a corner near the champagne bar from whence I watched bemused as the barman kept topping off his customer’s flute. At that time of day?
Feeling refreshed, I tubed home on the Central Line, dumped off my tea and started off again. I walked through Lincoln’s Inn fields and buildings to Chancery Lane. That street name always makes me think of Dickens. But it was another literary figure I was after.
Samuel Johnson, whom I quoted quite a few posts ago lived in a little city square just off Chancery and Fetter Lanes, and his house is open to the public although it has kind of odd hours.
It is interesting as an well-preserved example of an eighteenth century middle class townhouse, and I enjoyed it for that reason, but there are few authentic items dating from Johnson or his time.
All that walking has built up an appetite as you can imagine. I am treating myself to a sort of high tea. High tea does not mean fancy. It actually means late and meal-like, but it’s not that late. I’m just home watching the final time trial of the Tour de France, but I got a sausage roll.
I happen to like them and back in my B and B days sometimes they were a mainstay of snacks and meals. You take a sausage, roll it in flaky pastry. Bake. Serve. Consume with gusto. A cup of tea or a half pint of beer or cider are equally appropriate.
Cherrio.

Views over London

A proper good morning to you.
The rain appears to have moved on—maybe. It’s cold and cloudy, but I did not get dripped on today. I decided to take a “flight.” But NOT in an airplane. Flights are what they call a turn of the London Eye, the world’s tallest ferris wheel.
I started early tubing from Holborn down to Leicester Square and then changing to the Northern Line and changing again at Embankment to the District Line. The goal of this underground rigmarole was Westminster. The tube exit is right by Westminster Bridge and Parliament, and across the bridge sits the Eye. Now I just showed up before it opened and got in line and it worked out. I did not wait long at all. But people can also book timed tickets on line. One can also book a pod for a private party—the really cool thing to do is to get married on the eye. In the evening posh “Champagne Fights” occur.
Now my day was not the best. It was cold, windy, and as I mentioned cloudy, nevertheless it was an enchanting experience and one I highly recommend. Some will tell you to do it first thing on your arrival in London to orient yourself, but I say get over the jet lag first.
We were not packed in as I feared, and I shared the pod with some nice and friendly folks of various nationalities, who offered to take each other’s pictures and obligingly moved out of the way when one wanted to snap something. There is not much sense of movement and no noise either—just a smooth and very slow rising above the Thames with the city and the encircling hills laid out before one. I caught glimpses of Greenwich and far off Richmond. I looked north to Hampstead where I was going next. Various landmarks jumped out: St. Paul’s, St. Mary Axe, the British Telecom Tower--even Buckingham Palace!—just the façade by the way. Nothing is allowed to over look Her Majesty’s gardens.
I was sorry when it was over. I strolled over to Waterloo, paid 30p to use the toilet and then took the Northern Line to Hampstead.
Now I can hear you grumbling through the screen. We love those woodland walks, Pil, but we don’t have the time in London you do. Well, don’t fret, mates. Go to Hampstead. The town itself is very pretty and Victorian although the streets are steep. I stopped in at a Hungarian patisserie for a piece of heaven called an Almond Slice. Almonds are good for one, I rationalized as I shoved it down my throat. I could taste the butter. Do almonds make up for all the butter I’ve eaten?
Then I walked over to the Heath. Hampstead Heath is not exactly a park. There are park-like and garden areas, but most of it is wild meadowland and wood land. There are a lot of paths and few signposts. It is possible to get lost, and you definitely do not want to be there after dark. But during the day it’s lovely and quiet and has the advantage that unlike Richmond it is not under the Heathrow approach.
Some historical sights are in Hampstead. I enjoyed Keat’s House one previous visit although I did not go this time. There are a few more things, but nothing major—it’s just a pleasant place to poke around in and have tea.
I started walking downhill. It’s a long, long hill and I walked a long way, taking off my sweater, putting it back one, taking it off . . . At length I came to Camden High Street. Camden is known for its market. I am known for not being able to resist a market—although I’d call this one more of a tourist trap.
A real travel writer would describe Camden on a summer Friday afternoon as “vibrant.” In other words it was a zoo. Some really nice crafts were on offer and much junk. What kind of food do you want? You can find a stand selling it. I thought it looked like a pickpocket’s paradise and kept my hand on my bag.
I turned off toward Regent’s Park, which was pretty and peaceful, but I ended up not exactly knowing which direction to go. Noticing my confusion, a Londoner at the park who was playing with his son offered me directions. Kind! I put something in the travelers’ aid pot myself nearly everyday giving directions to folks because I have to ask plenty of times myself. I walked down—quite a fair step it was, too—to the Regent’s Park tube stop and I came home, stopping only to pick up a wrap at Pret a Manger.
Cherrio.

A Walk in the Summer Rain

A proper good morning to you.
So many false alarms have been called about rain, I am not surprised that folks ignore the forecast. But it’s come true today. I’ve been carrying my umbrella and am glad I did, but even so, I came home pretty damp.
Because of the rain and chill, I thought it a Good Day for yet another dose of fish and chips. So good. Seriously. So Good! A hot meal on a day like this is very comforting. It’s probably good I don’t actually live in London or I’d be turning to fish and chips too often for my waistline. I’m glad to be snug and dry in my apartment, but before that I did go out of town—again.
I hopped on the Piccadilly Line and changed to Victoria at Green Park. Note to potential travelers. Green Park is a good stop, but an awful place to change. I fetched up at Victoria Station in time to get on the train to West Dulwich. By the way, this is pronounced West Dulige.
West Dulwich is a short ride to the southeast just south of Brixton, but it feels much further away from London than that. It actually took me longer to walk from the train station to the village than it did to get there from Victoria, but it was a pretty walk. West Dulwich is the home of a fine picture gallery, which was my target, but I had a stroll around the village first. West Dulwich College is also famous. We would call it a prep school and among its alums are P.G. Wodehouse and Raymond Chandler, so they must have had a superlative writing program.
But I was there for the paintings. The picture gallery has the distinction of being the first public art gallery and dates back to the early nineteenth century. The museum is comparatively small—an hour is more than adequate for the main collection—but is full of gems. There’s a lot of seventeenth century Dutch Golden Age art including a Rembrandt. I especially enjoyed some lovely Gainsborough and some truly wonderful Canalettos. Saying this will subject me to heat for my taste in art, but the light he creates and the beauty and balance of the compositions are most pleasing. One, a depiction of Walton Bridge was a commission from an English man, and Canaletto even went to the trouble of putting in a small portrait of his patron.
Back at Victoria, I took the opportunity to scout out the terminal. Look. I happen to like nosing around train stations. What’s your problem? You are unlikely to starve at Victoria. There are two Burger Kings. But why bother with American fast food, when so much English and French (better!) fast food is on offer? A shopping mall above the station will cater for any other needs you might have.
On the way home, I left the tube at Leicester Square and walked over to the National Gallery. If you are wondering if I ever get enough of art the answer is no, I don’t. But actually I went to see something specific. Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks has been rehung after a cleaning, so I needed to see it. Amazing. No one is like Leonardo. The beauty of the figures, the subtlety of the shading and sfumato, the detail of the setting are unsurpassed. What makes him inimitable is how his figures live from within. And, of course, once I was there, nothing stopped me from visiting other favorites.
I walked home in some pretty hard rain, feeling smug that I had an umbrella when so many Brits and tourists were caught without. There was thunder, too, but that did not stop me from taking a detour for my dinner.
Cherrio!

A Day at Hampton Court

A proper good morning to you.
Rain was in the forecast, so I usually have a rain plan and a fair weather plan for each day. As the rain did not materialize, I went off on another trip out of town.
If by any chance you are planning a trip to London, may I urge you to make Hampton Court a must see? After wasting my time on Kensington, I was a bit apprehensive, but Hampton Court did not disappoint.
Apart from the rich historical associations, the palace is beautiful and lots of fun, and, moreover, easy to get to lying about thirty miles down the Thames on a suburban train route from Waterloo. The palace has places to eat, and you could easily spend the day there.
I took the tube to Leicester Square and transferred to the Northern Line, which took me to Waterloo in good time for the 10:06 to Hampton Court. Lots of us got off the train at the end, and there were plenty of people already there, but the place is so big, it did not seem crowded. I had some rooms and large parts of the gardens to myself.
Hampton Court began as the country place of Thomas, Cardinal Wolsey who like most of the people who served Henry VIII well, got a raw deal from his master. The king’s girl friend Anne Boleyn complained that his eminence had a nicer house than Henry, so the Cardinal was compelled to offer it to the king. It did no good. Wolsey ended up in disgrace and was smart enough to die before he could be executed.
What I find fascinating about Hampton Court is the mix of styles. The buildings are laid out in a series of courtyards. A significant portion of the Tudor Palace remains with its fine brickwork and irregular lines, and there are solid exhibits on Henry VIII and his wives. The great hall has a wonderful and highly ornate example of hammer beam ceiling.
Sir Christopher Wren got a hold of the place at the request of William and Mary, so part of the complex is a beautiful late Baroque.
The state rooms which cover Tudor to Hanoverian are very grand, and many have gorgeous painted ceilings or are hung with huge tapestries. One of the room wardens explained that the state rooms were largely bare of furniture because it was illegal to sit in the presence of the monarch. Queen Anne’s throne dominates one room. She got to sit down!
Some of the privy chambers are also open, and they have a far more comfortable and human scale. One small paneled room looked like the perfect place to sit with a cup of tea and a book on a cold winter’s afternoon. Both Mary II and Anne were devoted to the revivifying amber liquid, tea, a habit they picked up from Charles II’s neglected Portuguese wife. Thus I will always have a soft spot for Catherine of Braganza.
The art on display is impressive as well. Andrea Mantenga’s magnificent Triumph of Ceasar fresco cycle is one his best works. You can see both tapestries and oil paintings done of Raphael’s cartoons on scenes from the New Testament. Both are extraordinarily beautiful. I also found Artemesia Gentileschi’s marvelously expressive self portrait, and some early Caravaggios.
But, you cry, we want gardens! And you shall have them. Hampton Court does not have the kind of woodsy or natural walks I have been describing in some of my visits. The gardens are formal, extensive and very beautiful with brilliantly colored blossoms, and spraying fountains, and if you get tired of them, you can leave the palace and take the Thames Path along the river and commune with the swans.
Cherrio!

The Tower of London

A proper good morning to you.
I simply love castles. On my many journeys I have made a point of visiting as many as I could and have spent many happy hours clambering around the walls and up and down the towers. Naturally I had to visit the Tower of London again.
I took the tube. I walked down Oxford Street to Tottenham Court Road Station where I could pick up the Northern Line from which I could make an easy transfer to the District Line east to the Tower stop. So I thought. The escalators were out of order, so I climbed down a long spiral staircase. Long. By accident I ended up on the right platform. My transfer station was Embankment, and I had to hike to the District Line.
But I arrived in good time—to join the ticket line. The Tower of London is extremely popular and with reason. It is a must see. Mine was a return visit, but I found a lot of new and improved exhibits.
The Tower of London was originally built by William the Conqueror (Team Normans-- Yay!) in order to insure that the English and in particular the City of London stayed conquered. It was the Normans who brought stone fortresses back to England. The Romans did it first, and in fact the Tower is built on Roman foundations some of which are visible. It is hard for the millions of tourists who enjoy the Tower to grasp, but the place is still an important military installation and even the picturesque Beefeaters giving all those tours and posing amiably are serious military guys.
The first thing I did was rush off to the Jewel Tower to see the Crown Jewels and Coronation Regalia. This avoided the lines and afforded me a much better view of the Imperial Goodies. You aren’t supposed to stop and stare, but the first time I was there I was absolutely mesmerized by the Star of Africa—a glittering diamond as big as my fist. I stopped. I gawked. The Beefeater on duty laughed indulgently. “It’s nice isn’t it.” he said. “Yes,” I croaked, “It’s nice.”
Still is. A very handsome hunk o’ carbon.
And the rest is impressive as well.
After that I briefly joined a tour and then wandered around and visited the many towers that make up The Tower. The oldest part is the White Tower which is being worked on so some of the Really Seriously Norman parts were closed, including a beautiful little Romanesque chapel dedicated to St. John, but there is an marvelous and educational exhibit of arms and armor, some of which is interactive. Hey, I can still pull a big bow! But my jousting skills need work. There are items one can touch or try on, which is another reason, if you intend to visit, to get there early on a weekday. Other towers hold other historical exhibits. If you are interested in how to use a rack you can find out.
A monument stands where Anne Boleyn, Jane Grey, and others died, justly or not, in the Tower. Legend claims that Britain—or is it just England?--will be safe as long as ravens inhabit the Tower. To insure this, their wings are clipped and they are extremely well fed.
I had a highly amusing historical wallow on a rather sultry day. The only thing I have never liked about castles are those dark, narrow, steep, spiral staircases. They scare me. Especially going down, so I hold on to the wall!
Wishing to avoid the mess at Tottenham Court, I strolled down Byward Street, which became Great Tower Street, which became Eastcheap. Cheap is Old English for market. There are good window licking opportunities along this route and I went into a department store for a squirt of expensive perfume. The sign said the ingredients were “well traveled” so I took this as a hint. Nah. But my target was the Monument Underground station which according to my map has the Central Line. Nope. So I walked up King William’s Street to Bank.
The Central Line would take me all the way to Holborn but I popped out at Chancery Lane and stopped in at the Marks and Spencer's for food before making my way west on High Holborn. I'd dumped off the groceries and walked up Southampton Row to the Hummus Bros. I tried the Ful and liked it, so I went back for another dose. The beans are very savory, but I can’t put my finger on the seasoning. Coriander? There must be something else. At any rate mushed into a piece of whole wheat pita with some hummus, it’s awfully good and comparatively healthful.
Cherrio!

Come Down to Kew!

A proper good morning to you.
Even though it’s not Lilac Time (for you Alfred Noyes fans) and the Blue Bells are long over and the Rhododendrons are gone, Kew is still worth a visit.
Pil, you left London yesterday and walked in grounds. Don’t you ever get enough?
No. What’s your point?
The thing is there’s more rain in the forecast, and my time is growing short. It was going to be hot and awful in Central London, and I particularly wanted to return to Kew. So today I did. But I wish I had gone earlier, because I realize I’d like to go again, and it won’t happen this trip.
My weekday breakfast is whole grain bread and hummus. The bread is not as wonderfully bready as the stuff I had in Vienna but it’s good. It’s fortifying for a long day of sight seeing.
Kew is Southwest of London a bit up river from Richmond and like Richmond has royal associations about which more later. To get there I tubed to South Kensington on the Piccadilly Line and transferred to the District line as I have done several times before. It was about an hour’s trip from Holborn.
The Gardens are about a ten minutes walk from the station. There is an admission charge, but there is plenty to see and do, and one could easily spend the day. Kew was long royal property, but it was the Princess Augusta, mother of George III, who began to collect plants from at home and abroad turning the estate into a center for scientific study, which it still is.
Kew takes its preservationist and educational missions seriously, and I enjoyed the labels and placards placed here and there, but above all Kew is a beautiful place to visit and provides quite a few activities and attractions—as long as you like plants!
On my last visit many years ago, I barely penetrated the grounds. I stayed near the greenhouses and formal gardens. This time I lit out for the woodland walks and the restoration of natural habitats. The first thing I noticed was the fragrance of the air. Sometimes the scent of flowers wafted by and sometimes herby smells. You can certainly find old English woods here with oaks and chestnuts. They’ve also planted an American conifer forest. There’s a lovely stand of some comparatively small redwoods.
Both of the gigantic Victorian greenhouses are worth a visit. I had the Temperate House all to myself with its carp pond, blossoms and towering trees. The Tropic House is even more exotic although you need to be prepared to sweat.
A highly cool new feature is a tree top walk. I climbed an awful lot of stairs, but strolling around the branches and tops of trees was lots of fun.
Another new structure is the Conservatory named for the late Princess of Wales. A variety of plant habitats and types are well displayed, but the truly magical experience is the butterfly room where jewel like insects flit and fly freely amidst the enchanted visitors.
The Gardens also contain, among other things a “palace,” so called only because it was a royal residence. It’s in fact a large, unformal house in a vaguely Dutch style and became the favorite home of George III and his wife Charlotte. It is charmingly simple and homey just as the royal couple liked it.
Poor old George has an undeserved bad reputation in the United States because he went crazy and Thomas Jefferson used him as a propaganda target in the Declaration. But George was a hard working monarch and affectionate family man. He loved gardens and was also keen on scientific discoveries and would be thrilled to see what his old home has become.
On my way home I stopped off at Covent Garden for some goat cheese at Neal’s Yard. One has kind of an ashy rind and is very rich and creamy. The other is a bit harder and is definitely more yellow and the cheese maker used a traditional vegetable rennet usually used on cows milk so it sort of tastes a bit more like Brie—kind of. Both are scrumptious! But before digging in to the cheese, I enjoyed a big lettuce and vegetable salad I’d picked up at the grocery store.
Cherrio!

A Study in Contrasts

A proper good morning to you
I took another excursion out of town. This time I went by normal rail rather than “tube,” and I have to confess to feeling absurdly powerful touching my Oyster Card in and out rather than bothering with Retro--that’s so Twentieth Century--tickets.
I walked out to the Tottenham Court Road Station to pick up the Northern Line to Waterloo. It was blustery cold and a bit drippy. Never mind that. Waterloo Station used to be the terminus for Eurostar. It is not as interesting as St. Pancras International any more, but if you are in the neighborhood and need a book or a drug store they are open on Sundays.
Syon House, yet another aristocratic mansion, was my destination, but to get there we need to get out of London by train. Now if you have ever left London or Paris by overground transportation you will know of what I speak. The trains run through the most awful areas imaginable, the people having money, status, or power not having to live where trains run right by their windows and people like me can and do peer in.
Unbelievably hideous industrial buildings that would blight the landscape of Mordor squat menacingly beside the tracks. Council tower flats that look like Orc barracks are so depressing even to look at I can’t imagine the misery of actually living in one.
Turned social revolutionary, have we, Pil?
Nuh, uh. I’m getting away from the squalor as soon as I can to wallow in peace and luxury.
I popped out of the train at Syon Lane and had a walk—taking the long way around as usual to Syon Park and House, still home to the Percy Dukes, of Northumberland, and no I can’t claim them as relations due to that pesky extra vowel in my surname. While I doubt his grace and the family are hurting for money, the only way these stately homes can be kept up is by opening them to the public and charging admission. I visited their palace at Alnwick, which is up north in Northumbria, too.
Syon House is so called as an English corruption of Zion because it used to be a convent that was shut down and made royal property when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. James I gave the property to the Percies in the seventeenth century, but the present house is a Robert Adam remodel in a sort of Palladian Style. The exterior gives no hint of this, however.
Inside is all exotic colored marble, inlaid floors, columns, painted and gilt ceilings, and the whole bit. The state rooms are extra ordinarily beautiful, but while they are pleasing and tasteful, they are also so very grand than I can’t imagine anyone actually living in them. In fact since the family was away at one of their numerous other homes, we got to peek into a few of the private rooms and the grandeur was considerably toned down although the rooms featured priceless antiques.
The audio guide is first rate—much better than Osterley’s, and the room guides are friendly and enthusiastic. When I’m abroad I feel like I am representing the United States as a guest in these countries, so I submit to being told some things I already know and sometimes have to bear historical inaccuracies. They aren’t lying but reciting traditions associated with the places. These guides were eager for me to experience all the things they loved about their rooms, and in fact pointed out some things to me that I would have overlooked.
And then the gardens and grounds are green and lush. No fear of getting lost here, so I took every branching path and had splendid and refreshing strolls in woodland and beside the lake. The gardens were full of color and fragrance. Even the woodlands had a sort of minty, liquorish smell, but I could not figure out what plant was emitting it. I walked, and looked, and absorbed the loveliness of the place. You can keep the interiors of these stately homes. It’s the parks I covet.
But then it was time to return to reality and go back through the nasty ugliness of London’s periphery.
Cherrio.

The View from Richmond Hill

A proper good morning to you,
The best thing to do if you are in London for the weekend is to leave. As the weather forecast was reasonable, I went back out to Richmond. First I fortified myself with a good continental breakfast of croissant, and lots of butter and jam accompanied by a pot of strong tea.
Continental breakfast, you cry. Pil, you are in Britain. What about the Great British Breakfast?
Well, mates, I used to eat them when I was in B and Bs outside London, and I can attest that they are wonderful even if they do surpass the normal calorie requirement for a day and the saturated fat limit for a week. You would have been fascinated in a horrified way to see me at the breakfast table. Each morning I consumed fried egg, bacon, sausage, grilled tomato, grilled mushroom, fried bread (Don’t scoff; it’s wonderful!) and beans. Along with this are mountains of toast and oceans of tea. Boy, were they good. I can feel my arteries hardening just thinking of them.
You can get something close for a price in London, but I don’t want to go out because that would mean getting dressed and putting in my contact lenses and not having the BBC to listen to.
Richmond is south and west of Central London and a long tube ride. I get the Piccadilly Line at Holborn and then change to the District Line at South Kensington. There are other places to change, but that’s station I use. The ride is about an hour including change and platform wait.
My goal was a different than last time. After snooting around the town I turned away from the river and began to climb Richmond Hill. The reason? Richmond Park. There’s no history going on now—it’s all nature, but the area has strong royal associations. Sheen Palace used to stand here, but its name was changed to Richmond by Henry VII, and it was a favorite residence of Henry VIII and Queen Anne (Stuart).
The park is a huge open space and while it’s tended most of it is wild and natural. Numerous trails crisscross the park. I was concerned about getting lost—a real possibility—so I generally went in one direction and then came back.
Heath land turns to woodland. Mighty, widely branching oaks with thick trunks abound interspersed with smooth beech. The undergrowth full of ferns and shrubs harbors a variety of wildlife. I saw a variety of birds, most of which I could not identify. Squirrels scurried about on their business. They did not seem to be bothered by human presence.
A more formal garden surrounds Pembroke Lodge near the car park and snack bars. This part of the park is entered through gates and is closed to dogs. Gorgeous flower beds give off sweet fragrances. And there’s a hill called King Henry’s Mound, which is the highest point of Richmond Hill.
The story is told that Henry VIII stood here waiting and watching for the signal from the Tower of London that Anne Boleyn was dead so he could ride off to Jane Seymour. Well, no. The story is pretty much debunked, but an even cooler reason exists to visit this spot, and I found out by accident.
I was standing at the mound looking at the impressive view over the river. In one direction one can see Heathrow, which is not that much of a treat. The two men behind me, dressed in cyclist kit, were looking the opposite direction and could not contain their wonder and excitement. One of them urged me to look insisting I would be able to see St. Pauls Cathedral.
Yeah right—WHOA! There was the dome, small and remote but unmistakable. There’s a telescope to look through but I could see it with my naked eye, and my eyesight even with contact lenses is charitably described as adequate. The cyclists explained that the view had to remained unobstructed by law. No one was allowed to build a high rise in the line of sight.
I’d packed a modest lunch that included the left over Belgian chocs from Leonidas. Funny how they smelt and tasted so much better when I was ravenous.
Richmond was meant as a deer park and royal hunting preserve, and the deer are still there. Yes. Deer. I think they are fallow deer because they have spots. I got to see them awfully close up. The deer are clearly habituated to humans, bikes, and cars, and don’t appear to mind posing for photos either. Their antlers were still covered in velvet.
A couple of the young bucks began to play? fight and drew quite a crowd.
I spent hours walking and enjoying the fresh air and green countryside. I left the park by a different gate and of course had no idea where I was but I knew that if I kept going down hill I’d return to town eventually, which obviously I did.
Cherrio.

European Chocolate Face Off!

A proper good morning to you.
I realize that some of you think that I have been neglectful of Serious Cultural Research. Well, nothing of the sort. We—or rather I—acting as your representative will carefully taste and report on chocolate from Britain, France, and Belgium, but you are going to have to wait for it. First, the day’s activities.
It was a blustery morning but not actually raining. After doing my morning chores, I tubed out to Hyde Park Corner. I wandered across beautiful Hyde Park. It was peaceful, and the air was scented with flowers. The traffic noise never entirely went away but apart from that it was not like being in the heart of a great city.
I especially enjoyed walking around the Serpentine, a lake created by damming up one of little rivers that drained into the Thames. I can’t remember which one. The rest have been paved over.
I was fascinated by the waterfowl. A variety of ducks and some swans make the Serpentine their home at least during the summer. They appear perfectly habituated to both humans and dogs. I did not try to touch them, but one can walk right up. Papa Swan did hiss when a dog got too close to the cygnets, but that was all. They also are not aggressive like some ducks and pigeons, who equate humans with handouts.
So the walk was great and very refreshing. My target was in sight: Kensington Palace. I’d been there before but not for a long time, and I was so pleased by the improved displays and all at other sights I’d been to, that I was expecting the same.
Uh uh.
I do not want to be negative, and apparently some people are thrilled to pieces with what they’ve done, but I am not one of them. The state rooms are definitely worth seeing for the wall hangings and painted ceilings. The King’s Staircase boasts a famous fresco of an Italian Renaissance-looking crowd hanging over railings and moving about in a loggia. The place simply screams HISTORY. Why not work with that?
But oh no, they had to turn it into an “Enchanted Palace.” The lights are kept dim so one cannot see the paintings, etc. properly. Most of the objects associated by royalty have been replaced by artistic installations. Some of the rooms represent a princess, and there are cryptic sound effects and shadows cast on the ceilings. One is supposed to guess which princess is being portrayed. Since I knew the history I could guess, but otherwise I think it conveys exactly nothing. No mention of William and Mary, no mention of Sir Christopher Wren. Princess Margaret got a quick look in, but that was it. What a waste.
Thank you for reading my rant. Let’s go on to something more fun. [UPDATE: I see Rick Steves agrees with me about this tiresome exhibit. He said it was not worth the price of admission! The good news is the the palace is undergoing extensive renovations and might be better for the Olympics crowd in 2012]
I walked down to Kensington High Street. There are numerous opportunities to lick windows, including the British version of TJ Maxx called TK Maxx and Whole Foods. Whole Foods was fun and pretty much what you would expect. I walked up and down the high street and it turned blustery and rainy, but I had my stout shoes and umbrella.
I took the District Line to Earl’s Court and transferred to the Piccadilly Line and hoped off at Green Park and began walking up Old Bond Street.
It should be called Luxury Retail Street. This is window-licking territory supreme! Name a high end brand. and I can almost guarantee it has a big fancy store on either Old or New Bond Street. My mind was boggled, and most of it I would not want, but I did buy something—about which more later.
At the top of Bond Street I turned east on Oxford Street and fought the crowd until I got to Holborn and home.
With apologies to the Swiss and Dutch, the taste test comparison is confined in this instance to Britain, France, and Belgium. Which is best or rather which do I like best and why? We confine ourselves in this instance to premium chocs. When I was in Harrods a few days ago, I was not idly wandering the Food Hall. I was on a mission.
In this corner representing France is La Maison du Chocolate which I have tried in Paris. Oh la la! Over in this corner representing Belgium is Leonidas, whose chocs I have not yet tried. And over in this corner Charbonel et Walker by Appointment to Her Majesty and headquartered on Bond Street in a beautiful shop.
Now this cannot be a head to head taste of similar chocs. They are all of different sorts, but I have chosen types characteristic of each sort, and I will try to describe each.
Ok. Here we go. I have eaten, so hunger will not be a factor. This is desert. All are at room temperature. I will have one piece each, which I will try in alphabetical order of country. Between each I will cleanse my palate with water and a bite of cracker. Yes, I am serious. Why did you doubt me?
Belgium: I sniffed the chocolate praline. It smells like a chocolate, and yet I am not overwhelmed. Fragrance is important to me. Now for a bite. The choc has some kind of nutty filling. Good texture of the shell. Rich chocolaty taste as well from the shell well complemented from the filling. It’s tasty. The Belgians have special rules for their chocs holding them to a higher standing of ingredients than the rest of the EU, and yet considering what I paid for this and where I got it—Harrods!—I would expect something more sublime. This is not as good as I could get from Mary See (owned by Warren Buffet who obviously knows his candy.) at Del Amo.
Britain: A chocolate truffle smells darker and richer, but still not as enticing as I would hope. The bite is good. Very rich and a good texture. The shell is on the thick side, but that’s ok. This one is less sweet and has more of a pure cocoa flavor, which you may or may not like. The filling is very smooth, very rich. I’d like more of a melting sensation. But HMQ obviously knows her chocs.
Now France: Good scent in line with the other pieces, but not irresistibly fragrant. The bite was luscious. The shell was yielding and yet contributed a rich, chocolate taste that went well with the filling. Texture is buttery. This is more complex than the others and tastes richer somehow. I pick France as my winner. But obviously you will have to try for yourselves.
But Pil. You just had one piece. Surely there are left overs.
Well, yes. Waste not want not. But I am done for this evening.
Cherrio!

Cold Rainy Day and Hot Soup

A proper good morning to you.
Time for an easy day. I have been doing some major walking, and I’m tired. Normally after a bit of sight seeing and a snack, I’d take a good book and find a pretty park to sit in, but today was rainy and blustery. In California we call this kind of weather “winter.”
I got a late start because I needed to wash my hair and couldn't face it last night, so I did it this morning. I also had to go out for groceries. It was hard to juggle umbrella and grocery bag on a crowded street with the wind blowing, but that is just part of the London experience.
Another part of the London experience is second hand smoke—alas. Smoking is forbidden indoors in most places now, so people smoke on the streets.
I strolled up to Bloomsbury and walked around for a while and then went to the British Museum. I went up stairs to see some things I wanted to see and found it gratifyingly uncrowded. The British Museum is a treasure trove all right. The big bulky statues, monuments, reliefs are all on the ground floor, but upstairs lay some wonderful items.
I started out in the Egyptian Rooms, and one of the things I did was visit the tomb paintings of my old pal Nebamun. Art history students will recognize the name. I also viewed the grave goods of Puabi from Ur, although I was disappointed to find the “Standard” was on loan and so not there.
From there I passed on to the Etruscan, Greek, and Roman rooms stuffed with jewelry, vases, and artifacts of various kinds. I got a really good look at the Portland Vase, the inspiration for John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Find an image on line and then read the poem.
I made a point of looking at the well-displayed jewelry and weaponry from the Celts and Germans. I’ve always had a fondness for the Barbarian Style and would gladly pin on one of the lovely broaches.
Since I was there last, some significant new discoveries have come to light, including some major Roman British and Anglo-Saxon hoards. The exhibits on these are fascinating and also a reminder that not everything that can be found has yet to be found.
The Sutton Hoo Ship Burial exhibit is another must see. The craftsmanship is simply exquisite. The actual Sutton Hoo site is now open to the public under the auspices of the National Trust, but it’s way up in East Anglia so I won’t be going there this trip.
Well, then the rooms began to fill up with school trips and tourists, some of them walking around with the glazed look I’ve come to recognize as museum overload. I was feeling tired, and it was time for me to go.
I call cold, rainy conditions “soup weather,” so that’s what I decided to have. Some nice hot spicy chicken soup. And let’s go Asian. Vietnamese! How about some Pho?
Hey, Pil, sounds good! Did you make it?
Nope. Forgot to pack my crockpot. But I think I will try to make it some time at home and maybe cut down on the chili a bit. I obtained it from a fast food joint called Eat, which is the major competitor of Pret a Manger. Often the two places are right next to each other. Both are higher end and not cheap, which may explain why the local McDonalds is always full as well, but the food in both is organic, fresh, and very well prepared. Both do a line of salads, sandwiches, wraps, desserts, drinks. But Eat also has soups.
One plucks the container from the shelf and takes it to the counter where it is filled with hot spicy broth. Then one takes it home, opens the container, only to be smitten by the scent of chile and coriander. A quick stir to mix up the noodles, vegetables, and chicken, and we are ready to go. It was the perfect choice. I will also have some salad and some chicken satay I obtained at the grocery store while I view the Tour de France.
Can Andy Schleck hold off Contador’s challenge for the Yellow Jersey?
I hope to get a good night’s sleep and give you a more exciting day tomorrow.
Cherrio!

Into the Next Millennium

A proper good morning to you.
Weather forecasts in Britain change every fifteen minutes, and with reason, so the public is left in great uncertainty as to whether it will rain or not. The safest thing—and what I and most Londoners so—is carry an umbrella if there is any chance at all of precipitation.
So I came prepared. And I am still waiting and at this point hoping as I am inside—for the rain.
I get restless in the mornings even though things don’t open until ten so my umbrella and I started out. I crossed the street and ducked into a lane that led to Lincoln’s Inn’s Fields a park about three minutes walk from my place. I walked through it to Lincoln’s Inn. This is one of the “inns of court.” I can’t go into the British legal system here. If you have questions you can post a comment or email me.
Suffice it to say there aren’t actual law schools. A barrister or solicitor joins one of the inns and hangs around learning the trade. These institutions date from the late Middle Ages and some of the buildings and grounds are very old and extraordinarily beautiful. I enjoyed my wander around them more than I thought I would.
I emerged onto the Strand, not quite knowing how I got there. By this time (ahem) my morning tea had caught up with me, so I walked west toward Trafalgar, but I stopped in Somerset House where I found facilities I didn’t have to pay for and also saw some of the inside of other parts of the building including the Nelson Stairs at the Admiralty.
Then back down the Strand, which became Fleet Street.
Much window licking opportunity exists here including the Temple of Tea—yes the Original Twinings Shop. It’s been closed every time I’ve been by previously, but it was open today. Of course I went in to sniff the offerings, and of course I’ll be back. I didn’t buy anything because I didn’t want to carry it.
So let’s proceed east past the Royal Courts of Justice and toward St. Paul’s and the City of London. Most of what we call “London” is actually Westminster. I turned down some street toward the river. I was following signs and ended up on Queen Victoria Street and then I turned left onto a sort of plaza just below St. Paul’s.
Before me lay the Millennium Bridge!
This is a foot bridge over the Thames built to honor—well, you guessed it. It leads from St. Paul’s over to the Tate Modern.
Look, if you are in London come here. Walk across this bridge—even if you are going to walk right back again. The view of St. Paul’s from the midst of the crossing is unsurpassed and you can see down the Thames past the Tower Bridge to Docklands.
If you are going elsewhere the South Bank is well sign posted. I will be returning, but today my destination was the Tate Modern, opened in 2000 in time to greet the new millennium.
This museum is a converted power station and the interior still shows some of the industrial guts. In fact the space is very well designed to display art. It’s spacious and easy to navigate. It holds a brilliant collection of non British Art from 1900 on.
Let’s be honest—most Modern Art leaves most people cold, and I’m not going to pretend I like it all. Some of it I find very compelling. Some of the Surrealists like de Chirico and Miro fascinate me. I love the Fauves, especially Matisse and Andre Derain.

There’s an (inferior) cast of Boccioni’s Unique Forms of Continuity in Space.
My practice is to stand in a room and survey. If something grabs me I go look at that. Some of the offerings I ignore, but I have to say that the displays and information panels here are first rate.
Warning. This paragraph contains a distasteful story, and you may want to skip to the cheese. Italian artist Pietro Manzoni regarded the Tate curators as a bunch of pretentious gits. He donated a work that consisted of canisters into which he had defecated. These cans were proudly exhibited at the Tate Modern with much fanfare about daring and expanding the definition of art, etc. Human waste being what it is, gases were produced. Now unbeknownst to the curators, Manzoni had designed his canisters to explode when the internal pressure got too great spewing the contents across the floor. Apparently there’s a You Tube Video of the bewildered yet credulous curators trying to explain the “spontaneity” and the “patterns created” of the results. Reportedly Manzoni laughed himself sick.
So did that work up an appetite? My walk sure did, because I walked to the Tate Modern and walked home, too, via Covent Garden and the Neal’s Yard Dairy.
It’s Bastille Day and I like to celebrate with fois gras and cheese. I got some pate de fois gras de canard at Sainsbury and stopped for some cheese on my way home. No suitably French fromage was on order (yes, I’m a Norman. I’m picky. Sue me) so I stuck with British.
I am enjoying a rich, strong aromatic goat cheese. It’s not at all goaty. It is rather salty, however. Think of cream cheese and then add Camembert. The other cheese is from Gurnsey Cows, which as the young lady told me, explains its deep yellow color and buttery flavor and texture. So desolee, France. I’m not missing you aujour d’hui.
Pil, didn’t you mention pate?
  Oh yes. Fluffy, but pronounced flavor. Quite good actually although in France pate is considered weenie food, as far as fois gras goes and fit only for foreigners. But I’m not in France am I? I can enjoy it on cracker. Oh whoops! Le biscuit! Another French non non. Vive le Republic anyway.
Cherrio!

A Stroll Across Central London

A proper good morning to you.
Rain is back in the forecast, which leaves some of my plans up in the air. It was raining when I woke up this morning, and I opened my window to enjoy the sound as I breakfasted. I was unwise enough to use the new toaster I was brought, and now I have had to swear off toasters for the duration. The reason? Attempts to toast completely blow the fuses in my apartment. My TV and outlets won’t work, and I still don’t have internet back, so we’ll see if I can post this. A bit late, but yes—finally I can.
It was drizzly as I left this morning, and I wore my sweater all day. I decided to walk. I went west on High Holborn to New Oxford Street and picked up Shaftsbury Avenue where a lot of the West End theatres are. I followed this street as it crossed Charing Cross and went down toward Piccadilly Circus were several main roads meet. I chose Piccadilly and walked south west meeting with great window licking opportunities, among them the great bookstore Hatchards founded in the eighteenth century and the various arcades created to facilitate aristocratic shopping. I passed Fortnum and Mason and walked through lovely, peaceful Green Park and past Apsley House which I visited my first full day here.
I proceeded down Knightsbridge until I came to Harvey Nichols, the department store for real British Fashionistas. It was ok with me, too. I used their toilet and investigated the food hall and the perfumery.
Then I continued my walk down Brompton Road and onto Cromwell Road where the Victoria and Albert presides majestically. I only did the top two floors but I was left feeling as if I’d consumed a five pound box of chocolate in one go—happy but replete!
The top floor is about design and architecture, but the things I wanted to see more were on the third floor. The exhibits point up why I prefer stately homes. I like the period rooms with some furniture and some ornaments because seeing display case after display case of great heavy silver urns with fancy reliefs is not the way to appreciate such things, and tables and chests while very beautiful are not as effective out of their settings.
It was the same with the jewelry exhibit. Each piece was both rich and exquisite. Seen altogether, few could be appreciated. I happened to like the emeralds that Napoleon gave to his kinswoman Stephanie de Beauharnais. They were among the few items I would actually wear to enhance my appearance. I’m afraid that anyone wearing most of the necklaces, tiaras, and broaches would merely be gawked at—and not in a good way.
Leaving the V and A, I walked back to Knightsbridge and Harrods. The store is huge, but I focused on the food halls and had a good time looking around. Some of the counters were giving out samples and I got some wonderful chocolate and a cookie tasting richly of the best butter.
By that time I was too tired and footsore to walk back so I hopped the tube at Knightsbridge back to Holborn, but before returning to Citadines, I walked up Southampton Row to Theobalds Road for some fish and chips. Mmmm, and I had some cider to go with it.
Pil! It’s so greasy. It can’t be good for you.
Not right, Mates. That’s why it’s wrapped in paper. The grease gets absorbed by it and not by the ingestor.
Cherrio!

Pounding Pavement and Viewing Faces

A proper good morning to you
Rain was in the forecast for today and following days, although the chance of rain has apparently evaporated, because of the uncertainty I stayed fairly close to home.
I walked west on High Holborn to Oxford Street and then turned left down Berwick Street. Now I love a market, and you might not think that London would be the place for one, but the Berwick Street Market abounds with flowers and vegetables. Even the fruit stand guy across the street from Citadines does a roaring business. He “cries” his wares, too, which is cool.
From the market I continued downhill I suppose towards the river more or less strolling through Soho and China Town mostly on Wardour Street. I eventually fetched up on the upper end of Trafalgar Square, which was my destination, but as it wasn’t raining I decided to wander. I walked through the Admiralty Arch and down by the Horse Guards and then crossed the street and strolled through St. James’s Park. It was not as nice as Osterley—something about the passed out drunks on the grass impaired the elegance—but it is a lovely place and I had a good walk.
I returned to Trafalgar Square and the National Portrait Gallery. I had to dodge school parties and had a hard time shaking the woman talking on the cell phone, but otherwise it was a satisfying visit. I have always loved portraits even of the fine art variety. Most of these were conventional, but the collection has been expanded and the displays improved since I was there last. Most of the exhibits are royalty or politicians, but artists of various kinds and writers also have found a place. Cassandra Austen’s pencil sketch of her sister is on display.
Now I know the history, so I knew who most of these people were. With some of them I already had an idea of what they looked like, with others I did not, and found myself thinking, “He’s kind of hot,” for some surprising people. The scientist Michael Faraday, example, did he really look like that? The portrait portrayed a handsome man with an intelligent and kindly face. I actually prefer portrait busts because I think the three-dimensional images give a better idea of what the person looked like.
It was fascinating to see the different fashions in poses and how the way the artist or the subject chose to portray or be portrayed. The paintings of the famous were worth seeing, of course, but as portraits they were disappointing. I tell my students that a great portrait shows you what the person is like. The most engaging images were of the more obscure figures whose personalities popped off the canvas. More than once I said, “I’d have liked to have know him or her.” Something about the light in the eyes or the humor or good nature in the expression strongly appealed.
Somewhere in there I went out to take a gelato break and then return. I did not go to my usual place. I came across an Italian café on Charing Cross Road that featured a flavor called Donatello. That sounded good to me, and it tasted good to me as well. It was vanilla with caramel bits.
After I left the gallery I poked around the bookstores on Charing Cross Road. London has a lot of bookstores, and they are excellent. This is my theory. Cities with good public transport encourage reading. Time after time I have seen people jump on the tube and immediately pull out a book—usually a paperback but not always. I don’t know how they can read while balancing against the pull of the train or concentrate with all the noise and people around them, but they do. I have not seen anyone with an electronic reader. I have no theories as to why this is.
Dinner tonight is Middle Eastern. There’s a small chain called Hummus Brothers, whose motto is “Give Peas a Chance.” I have a lovely fresh vegetable salad with tomatoes, red pepper, onion, and cucumber dressed with parsley and vinegar. The vegetables are sweet and crisp, and the dressing has a mild tang.
The main course is some humus topped with an ancient Egyptian bean dish called Ful—something I have wanted to try for quite a while. I have an egg with this and some pita and to wash it down some cold pear cider I got at the grocery store.
So World Cup. Paul the Octopus has been vindicated. I did not think it was a good game, and play was dirty. I fell asleep.
But the Tour de France sure is mesmerizing!
Lessons from the life of Lance Armstrong. After you triumph at one thing—then it’s time to move on to the next. Never go back. Always go forward. Just saying.
Cherrio!

A Day Near Paradise

A proper good morning to you.
Sometimes people explain to me and usually in a disparaging tone of voice that I like history because of my desire “to live back then.” The best answer is to start listing all the things I would have to do without. The truth is historians know Too Much about the past to want to inhabit it. Nostalgia? Ha! I don’t even have any for the decades of my youth.
But I admit to twinges of longing for less hurry and more green, for less concrete and traffic and more stone and trees. Today I got it—for a little while.
I took the tube out to Osterley Park. For those who like to follow on the map, it’s west of London fairly near Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line. The park is open every day and is the largest open space in the western part of Greater London, and yet it is not well known. All the tourists run around Central London, and who could blame them? The attractions are spectacular, but then so is Osterley.
Osterley House and Gardens are run by the National Trust, and the opening times are limited, but the place is never crowded even on a weekend and is definitely worth seeing.
So after topping off my Oyster Card I had a straight shot from Holborn. It’s a fair walk from the tube station to the park and then from the park entrance to the house. But once one walks through the gates and starts down the tree-lined avenue, one begins to enter another world.
The traffic noise fades, and animal smells replace exhaust. A cool breeze rustles the leaves. Over in the field to the left are cows and horses. On the right is a farm stand with fresh vegetables from the farms. Walk on and lakes appear teaming with ducks, geese and swans, and when you round the curve of the drive Osterley House stands before you.
But since it was not open and would not be for a while, I walked down one of the quiet lanes. A creature that looked like a tiny weasel ran across the lane in front of me. I walked back and took more paths through meadows and along a lake. The air was fresh, and none of the waterfowl seemed troubled by the presence of humans or dogs.
I strolled back across the meadow to get my ticket to the house and gardens. It takes about an hour to go through the gardens and by that time the house will open. I was not the only one there, but the grounds are so extensive, that I felt I had them to myself especially as I walked through the woodland at the perimeter of the park. Park of the path took me past yet another lake shaded by trees. Most of the grounds are in the naturalistic English Style, but here are also a few formal flower gardens, and here and there sit Neo Classical follies. The flower gardens had a spicy scent. Just delicious!
But it's only near Paradise because it's too near Heathrow and planes fly over every twenty seconds--yes, I timed it. One gets used to it and tunes out the noise, but I have sympathy for the residents in the suburb.
The house and much of its interior was designed by Robert Adam and was also strongly influenced by Classicism. It’s very beautiful with much period decoration and furniture. The audio/visual cassette features patronizing dramatizations and rhetorical questions, but it’s free and is reasonably informative.
The house was the summer dwelling of the Child Family of bankers, and one grandchild married into the aristocracy and became Countess of Jersey. How pleasant to see what all that money could do. The annual budget for the upkeep of the place in the eighteenth century would be a million dollars in our money.
You can also count on the National Trust for a good shop and pleasant tea room, but I noticed a lot of folks carrying picnic looking bags.
Well, it’s the first day in the Alps for the Tour de France and a big test for the major contenders. I had to tear myself away and hop the tube back to real life. But the scenery on the stage is lovely, too, and tonight—World Cup Final. Paul the Octopus (way big news here) has tapped Spain, but I have some country and continent neutral Indian food. By the way, in honor of the World Cup hosts I picked up some South African wine at the local grocery. Apparently it’s widely available here but esoteric in the USA. I got some cheap Rose, which is not bad but has an odd smoky taste. Well, it may go well with my semi spicy Indian snacks, but after World Cup I’m going back to the French stuff.
Cherrio!

Out and About in Bloomsbury

A proper good morning to you.
Some people like to scoff at my cultural research, but I am serious! Take today. It was turning unpleasantly hot, and I was on my home yet I turned aside to stroll down to the gelato place in Covent Garden. That’s the one with chocolate from many different places. I am working my way through them. Today I paired hazelnut—the nuts coming from Piedmonte--as they told me--with chocolate from Madagascar. Perfect.
The heat is supposed to break tomorrow. I hope so, although my apartment is very comfortable, and I am so glad I have it to come back to. I did lots of walking today, so let’s get started.
I started out for the British Library this morning. I walked up Southampton Row, which becomes Woburn Place. I passed pretty Russell Square on my right and continued until I turned right on Tavistock Place and then left on Hunter Street. This is Bloomsbury near to where I used to stay when I passed through London. It’s full of Georgian Squares and small parks and was pleasant and cool on this weekend morning. Hunter Street became Judd Street—this happens a lot in Europe—and then I came to busy Euston Road. There was the British Library in front of me.
But also right there was that marvelous late Victorian Gothic fantasy—the East Midland Hotel, now being refurbished to become the heart of St. Pancras International the new EuroStar terminal. It is an incredible building, and I think beautiful for all the fakery of the Gothic. The detail work that went into it is truly amazing, and yet this wonderful structure was left derelict for some fifty years. Thank goodness they are finally going to use it!
I wandered around the train station for quite a while. This might not be your idea of an amusing thing to do, but hey it’s MY trip. There’s a stopping center with some pretty tony shops including some gourmet food stores. Because it’s a train station they are open on weekends for ravenous travelers, so it’s good to know about. There’s a Boots the Chemist, too, so I went in and squirted my self with some cologne.
Oh yes—ahem—the British Library is housed in another notable building. It’s very heavy looking, but not actually unpleasant. Within are some terrific exhibits. You can see old maps, stamps, but I was most interested in the historic documents. One manuscript copy of Beowulf survives, and it’s shown at the British Library along with the Lindesfarne Gospels, a beautiful example of a Guttenberg Bible and letters and documents too numerous to mention. I was taken by a display of different illustrations of Alice in Wonderland starting with Lewis Carroll’s own notebook.
It was a good choice on a hot day because the rooms are kept dim and air conditioned to preserve the works.
I strolled back to the British Museum, retracing my steps except to cross Russell Square on the diagonal to pick up Montague Street, which took me to the entrance around the corner.
I strolled around for a bit, but I was really there to see the exhibition of drawings by Italian Masters lent by the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When I say Italian Masters I mean among others Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Rafael. Also displayed were drawings by artists I knew because I teach art history and some very impressive drawings by artists I’d never heard of. They are not large and some of them are faint, moreover, the light needs to be kept dim so they aren’t damaged. I had to pay the equivalent of twenty bucks to get in, but it was so worth it to see, for example, how evocative a few sketched lines from a great artist can be.
When I emerged the sunlight was glaring and the heat was up. I walked back along Great Russell Street and cut through Sicilian Avenue to Southampton Row. Turning left would take me home to Citadines, but I turned right because I had developed a craving for gelato. The gelato zone is in Covent Garden. I walked down New Oxford Street and turned left on Endell Street and proceeded downhill to Shorts Gardens where I got my treat, and then I made my way back eating as I went.
So I am stiff and footsore, but the Tour de France is on, and I am sipping at some bitter lemon. It’s been a good day.
Cherrio!

Cheesy Tourist Fun

A proper good morning to you.
Yes, cheesy tourist fun but also some very fine art is on the menu for today. First of all outside it is hot and miserable. But I am sitting in air conditioned comfort with my feet up, the Tour de France on TV, and plentiful food and drink.
I went out early to post some cards and get some cash. I also stopped off at a French bakery for croissants for the weekend's breakfasts. They came right out of the oven, and if I pop them in the freezer, they come out good as fresh in the morning. I also stopped off at the grocery store for some salad fixings and some non-alcoholic liquid refreshment about which more later.
Since the forecast was for swelter, I decided to stay in town so I could come back early and escape the heat. I took the Central Line to Oxford Circus with the intention of transferring to the Bakerloo line and hopping off at the Baker Street stop, for I was going to Madame Tussaud’s. Yes, the wax museum, and if there is anything in London that epitomizes cheesy tourist fun more, I am not aware of it.
So we pull into Baker Street to be greeted with the announcement that the Bakerloo Line isn’t running. Fine. I emerged. A quick check of the map confirmed my idea that Madame Tussaud’s was within walking distance, and it was not yet so hot as to make it unpleasant. You may want to follow me north on Regent Street (which becomes Portland Place) toward the park and around the crescent to Marylebone Road. Along the way I had a lot of very beautiful eighteenth century architecture to admire.
I turned left on Marylebone Road and walked until I saw the line and then got in it. There’s always a line for Madame Tussaud’s, but, see, I hoped to be there early and be further up. I had a long wait ahead, but I also had the company of a pleasant Australian woman who was ticking off her tourist list.
You have to wait and wait to get in even if you prebook, and it’s really expensive. Inside it’s packed and noisy and sometimes hard to get a look at the figures because of the crowd. A legitimate question exists about it’s being worth the time and money.
But the figures are amazing. I wish they had more of the historical ones on display, but that’s just me. Everyone else was going wild over the movie and sports stars. I have to give the folks there credit. I expected Obama, but they also had the new Prime Minister David Cameron. I wondered if they had time even to make a Gordon Brown.
I’d bought the cheapest ticket I could so skipped some high tech stuff and also avoided the Chamber of Horrors where actors jump out of the waxworks to thrill, i.e. scare to death, any passersby.
Instead I went to the Spirit of London—a sort of Disneyland ride via London cabs through time featuring models and wax figures and sound effects, so it was pretty cool.
The truth is I was glad to escape it all.
I walked back east along Marylebone Road to Marylebone High Street and turned right. This was like entering a whole different world. It was English to be sure, but I had a hard time remembering I was in London. It was quiet. People went about their business without being frantic, and the stores were window-lickin’ good. I had some ice cream (chocolate but not that good) and then turned right on Blandford Street. I turned left on Manchester Street and arrived at Manchester Square home of Hertford House and the Wallace Collection.
For one thing the house itself is one of the few surviving aristocratic mansions open to the public. The furniture is magnificent as is the porcelain and display of gilt and enamel snuff boxes. It would be worth a visit for that alone, but the Wallace Collection is likewise superb. The gems of the collection are Fragonard’s Swing (a beautiful but Naughty painting) and Franz Hal’s Laughing Cavalier, who doesn’t even look like he’s smiling to me. You can also find Watteau, lots and lots of Boucher, some Rubens, and Rembrandt. There was a room full of beautiful Canalettos that was closed, but I got to peak in and see them pretty well.
The Wallace Collection also contains the best exhibit of Middle Eastern and European armor and weapons. These are works of art in themselves, and obviously intended for gifts or display and not for battle. They are inlaid with precious metal or enamel. And the best thing is that one can enjoy it without the crowds at the bigger more well known places.
When I emerged it was HOT. I made my way around Manchester Square down Manchester Street towards Oxford Street. I was on my way to the tube station, but there was Selfridge’s Department store right in front of me. I HAD to go in. I snooped around the perfume area, and a very nice lady at the Guerlain counter gave me a squirt of their latest—very nice and refreshing but too redolent of Lily of the Valley for me. Selfridge’s also has a food hall which was less elegant but more realistically priced than Fortnum and Mason’s.
From there it was an easy stroll back to Bond Street Station where I could pick up the Central line to home.
So I think I’ll have a Kir Royale as an aperitif. We all know my appetite does not actually need stimulating, but there is nothing exciting for dinner—just piles of salad and some non fat Greek yoghurt. Sorry. When it cools down I’ll do better.
I have some Schweppes Bitter Lemon in the fridge along with some Elderflower Cordial—both are available but hard to find in the USA but very refreshing in this sort of weather. I am going to have some Bitter Lemon as a digestive. It’s made from the whole lemon and quinine water so it has a strong somewhat bitter taste that I happen to like.
BTW--VeloNews published Another of my comments yesterday. Too Cool.
Cherrio!