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!