UK 2012 ISSUE 14

The Shard

We finished off our sojourn in London with a trip down the Portobello Road and an exploration of the "literary" squares of London.  Hammersmith, the area of London where our rental house was located, is a pretty middle class, white area of the city.  But, as with most places, you don't need to travel far for the entire character of the place to change.    Hammersmith had been our Underground station of choice so, just to change things up we decided to take a stroll to Goldhawk Road, just a hop, skip, and a jump from Shepherds Bush.

A handful of blocks and we were in what is obviously a very multi ethnic/cultural area.  Lots of shops selling strange sounding foods, generally African, would be my guess, although there seemed to be quite a number of folk of Caribbean extraction on the street.  There's a  lovely lilt to their speech that makes it delightful to listen to.   All of a sudden shops were no longer sedate   establishments selling pretty trinkets, middle class necessities and trendy food; instead they seemed of another time and place.  We passed an astrologer, an apothecary selling dried who know what, a business specialising in eels and masses of fabric shops.  The fabric shop windows were a blaze of colour and texture.  At first glance, you might have thought every Bollywood costume designer in Europe must shop here.  On closer inspection, it went way beyond spangles, embroidery and gauzy fabric.  There were stores full of African prints.

Goldhawk Road

 One seemed to have nothing but gabardine, or whatever it is that men's suiting is made of.  Another obviously specialised in upholstery fabric and there was a little hole in the wall that sold thread and needles, lace and zippers, as well as "buttons and bows" (so, I stole that one from Oklahoma and my penance shall be an ear worm for the rest of the evening.)  Just outside the underground station was an alleyway that marked the beginning of the Shepherds Bush outdoor market.    From all appearances it runs from Goldhawk Road to Shepherds Bush, down an alley probably not more the 20 feet wide.  Shops were built into the wall under the train tracks and down the centre of the path were stalls without formal roofs but covered in tarps and various kinds of canopies.  You could have outfitted your kitchen for most any cuisine.  There were those funny looking pots for tangines, woks, food processors, pots sized from one pint to five gallons, name it you could probably find it.  There was every sort of linen you could possibly want for your entire home, quilts and comforters, blankets and bedding, towels  and curtains, furniture covers and area rugs.  As in any English market there was an never ending supply of cleaning products and hardware, never mind the clothing and knick knacks.  There wasn't much in the way of fresh produce but I did spot a butcher and a fishmonger.  This is a market for serious shopping, not shopping as entertainment.  We were too early, so there wasn't much open and we did have a destination in mind, but this is a place that might be fun to explore some other time.

Next stop, Ladbroke Grove.   For me that name is synonymous with the Van Morrison song Slim Slow Slider, although I no idea what the connection might be, as there are definitely no sandy beaches anywhere nearby.  "Saw you walking, Down by the ladbroke grove this morning Saw you walking, Down by the ladbroke grove this morning, Catching pebbles for some sandy beach, You're out of reach"  but the "new boy and Cadillac", are definite possibilities.  What is really here, however, is the bottom end of The Portobello Road . . . which also has song lyrics, thanks to Disney and the film Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

Portobello road, Portobello road,
Street where the riches of ages are stowed.
Anything and everything a chap can unload
Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.
You’ll find what you want in the Portobello road.  

 It wasn't a weekend, so the market was somewhat diminished but entertaining none the less.  The bottom, or Ladbroke Grove end, as opposed to the top, or Notting Hill end was mostly stalls selling produce and the permanent shops were run of the mill grocers, haberdashers, clothing and newsagents.  Just because the market is a tourist attraction doesn't mean that isn't meant to service the local community.  

The actual market runs roughly two miles up the road and has several distinct sections.  There is of course the previously mentioned Fruit and Veg section near Elgin Crescent, where we saw a policeman on horseback all decked out in traditional "bobby" gear. They, the horse and his rider, were ambling down the road chatting with the pedestrian and stall operators.  At one stall the proprietor selected a bright green apple and gave it to the horse, which he calmly munched dripping apple bits and juice everywhere.  The policeman, however, was on his own for snacks.  

The Second Hand Goods market is exactly what it's name says, a glorified flea market offering anything from a used stereo to a three piece suite (living room sofa and two chairs), as well as cast off Marks and Spencers clothes, golf clubs, shoes and everything in between.  If you're really the young and trendy, up at the top near Notting Hill and the Antiques Section, you will find the Fashion Market.  There is plenty of new stuff some of appearing to be quite upmarket, but the stuff that caught my eye were vendors selling such fashionable ware as vintage hand bags, another had vintage lace and linens, two more with costume jewellery and another who specialised in vintage fur coats.  There were rack upon rack of shoes, t-shirts and messenger bags emblazoned with LONDON or PORTOBELLO MARKET or other unmentionable phrases.  

Portobello Road

                           

The last section, the ANTIQUES MARKET, was mostly closed down since Saturday is their main trading day. There were a few shops open and others with window displays of gilt framed pictures, clocks of various vintages, silver serve ware, etc.  The top two thirds of the market had no stalls in the street, though some of the shops goods spilled higgledy, piggledy out on to the sidewalk.  On the weekend I understand the entire stretch has market stalls with canopies over them and the crowds are horrendous. 

Last stop the Squares, lovely oasis in the midst of the city.  Surrounded on four sides by stately buildings and landscaped with trees and shrubs, benches and fountain, they are a refuge from the hustle and bustle.  We stroll past London College where the inscription over one of the doorways was, School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, one wonders.  But then again not really, the Brits did a good job at colonising remote outposts where hygiene and tropical diseases were a real issue. 

Borrowed Image of Bedford Square

We leisurely strolled for several hours, around and through fifteen or more squares.  Often we found building with plaques detailing notable citizens who had once resided in these building.  Each square had it's own distinct style and clientele.  Some had pushchairs and prams, others students reading, one at least had a small tea shop and, Tavistock Square contained a bust of Virginia Woolf (one of my favourite authors) as well as a statue of Ghandi, and a peace memorial.   This is the area referred to as Bloomsbury, the stomping grounds of the likes of Lytton Strachey, Clive & Vanessa Bell, Rupert Brooke, Maynard Keynes and  Leonard and Virginia Woolf.  You probably don't want me to get started on this subject, Vita Sackville-West, Bertrand Russel, etal., but for what it is worth,  I own a number of books on these people and the era in which this was there habitat, which I would be happy to lend out.

Virginia & I

We finished our evening with a West End play, or more precisely a musical,
Matilda.  The story is based on a Roald Dahl childrens book and is about Matilda Wormwood, an exceptionally smart and talented and shall we say surprisingly sophisticated little girl with ordinary (think Monty Python) and rather mercenary and unpleasant parents.   The over the top, monster of the play was Miss Trunchbull, the headmistress of Crunchem Hall Primary School, played by a man in drag.  It was everything you could possibly want in crazy, predictable, slapstick fun, with, of course, a happy ending.

 Last call before heading out to the West Country, Hampton Court Palace.  This is one of my favorite buildings because, despite its size it feels intimate.  It was originally built by Cardinal Wolsey, enough history lessons, you're on your own on this one.  He in turn gave it to Henry VIII who turned it in to a Royal Residence. We didn't have a

Henry VIII Dining Room

lot of time but did mange to get through the Royal Apartments.  We ended up having to miss out the grounds and possibly some other pieces of the building,  btw the Olympics has hit even Hampton Court, they were dismantling bleachers from a UK2012 celebration concert and getting ready for whatever it was they need to do to be part of some cycling event. 

Things I have learned

1. Fly tipping refers to dumping, so a sign saying no fly tipping, really has nothing to do with those annoying flying things and everything to do with not dumping garbage.   
2. Ned Ludd, whose name was appropriated by the Luddites, was born and raised in Anstey, the next village over from Groby.  
3. Heard a new spin on the phase "As different as chalk from cheese".  In essence as different as apples and oranges but the proposed derivation is that the hilltops are chalk and as such dry and not particularly arable while the lowlands are lush with grass and support large herds of cows which produce milk and thus cheese. 
4. ABC, an acronym Carol heard from a Aussie tourist, Another Bloody Church, Another Bloody Cathedral, Another Bloody Castle. 
5. Palace vs Castle - A castle is meant for defense, safety is the major concern; decoration and form are secondary.  A palace, on the other hand, is a building designed for leisure providing a diversion to the King and the other people residing with him.  A palace should have spacious halls, decoration and comfort is the primary driver. 

Tapestry

Hampton Court

UK 2012 ISSUE 13

Poster in Russell Sq.

It is a new morning and we opt for something a little more leisurely, a trip on the River Thames to Greenwich, home of the Royal Observatory and the National Maritime Museum.  We make our way once again to the Westminster tube station and thence to the wharf where the boat is docked. The first seats we took looked to be prime territory for sightseeing but it wasn't long before a curious or should I say lavatorial odour assailed our nostrils.  We were just aft of the stairs to the "facilities".  Needless to say, we moved. 

The ride was pleasant and the guide was full of the typical braggadocio of his genre, but he kept us amused.  We passed under  at least seven  bridges; Charing Cross, Hungerford, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Southwark, London, Millenium, and Tower each with their own distinct story.  The oldest, London Bridge, has had four incarnations, 50 AD, 1209, 1831 (this is the one that now resides in Arizona) and 1973.  I love the Wikipedia description of  a possible fifth London bridge or more accurately the names of those involved with London in that time period: "With the end of Roman rule in Britain in the early 5th century, Londinium was gradually abandoned and the bridge fell into disrepair. In the Saxon period, the river became a boundary between the emergent, mutually hostile kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex. By the late 9th century, Danish invasions prompted at least a partial reoccupation of London by the Saxons; the bridge may have been rebuilt around 990 under the Saxon king Æthelred the Unready, to hasten Saxon troop movements against Sweyn Forkbeard, father of Cnut."  And you thought I was having a go with the name Bodaciea!

Inside the walkway Tower Bridge

It's a nice way to see London, you can pick out a lot of the monuments and noteworthy attractions as you cruise by.  Once past the Tower and under Tower Bridge you are in to dockland, with wharves, quays, piers, whatever it is you want to call them down to the waters' edge.  There is substantial urban renewal and refurbishment going on, while the whole Canary Wharf area is modern glass and steel highrises surrounded by intense residential development. 

 Arrival Greenwich and a quick look around the Maritime Museum, which warrants a return visit some time, and up the hill to the Royal Observatory.  Let it be known that the Olympics have made their presence known in Greenwich, the soon to be site of the Olympic equestrian events.  Instead of a lovely green leading to the top of the hill you have to dodge construction equipment, men in hard hats (some of them weren't too hard to look at) and massive bleachers under construction.   They were definitely headed for nosebleed territory, if not a heart attack just climbing them.  Am I beginning to sound a trifle bitter, perhaps. 

The above is a picture of Frank, Gayle and Carol at the Royal Observatory with feet firmly planted either side of the Prime Meridian, making us half in the Western Hemisphere and the other half in the Eastern Hemisphere.  Want to know more, read the book Longitude by David Sobel.  It discusses much of what took place on these premises and the how mariners were able to determine longitude when navigating. 

Cutty Sark Rigging

Can't really take you through all the places we explored in our week in London.  Obviously we had to do the Tower of London and I insisted we do the "Tower Bridge Experience" which allowed you on the walkways between the two towers of the bridge.  Lunch that day was at Kitchen, a cafe owned and operated by a gay man, who upon hearing us talking about Fortnum and Masons informed us "and She's not the only Queen who shops there!".  More than that he provided us with some pretty tasty Cornish Pasties and one of the most creative presentations of sausage and mash I have seen. 

Sausage & Mash

Mick and Carol scratched an itch, created by taking an art history class at OLLI, with trip to the National Gallery.  The Carravaggio collection was closed but Mick scored another Titian on loan from the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersberg.  Best part, for me as they had NO photography,  was it was free and we escaped for Sunday lunch at a local pub, The Sherlock Holmes.  What precisely Sherlock Holmes or Conan Doyle may have had to do with part of London is unclear, but if it weren't for "poetic license" and flights of fancy life would surely be dull. 

Tower Bridge & Walkway

As much as I love London, sometimes you just need to take some time out from the highlights and take a look at much more mundane things.  Chalk Farm and Camden Town were old haunts of mine when I stayed in London while Mick finished his Masters dissertation.  Although I would have like to take in a play or something at the Roundhouse (a round building that was once a train turnaround) that wasn't in the cards.  Instead it was a ride in a canal boat from Little Venice to Camden Lock.  Nothing to write home about but pleasant enough.  Went past a number of quays where live in house boats were moored, and Regents Park Zoo where the only thing you get a glimpse of is an Aviary designed by Anthony Armstrong Jones, ex brother-in-law to the Queen.  The big surprise was Camden Town.  In my mind it was just another dowdy middle class shopping district . . . not any longer.  We were by far the youngest people on the street and our clothing was pretty much antiquarian!!

The street market was full of vendors selling every sort of food imaginable, Ethiopian vegetable stew, Polish sausage and potatoes, Indian curries, Caribbean jerked chicken and fruit and vegetable smoothies.  I think this gentleman was offering lamb.

After a sampling of cuisine from a couple of stalls  we made our escape meaning to get the tube up the hill to Highgate and the cemetery where Karl Marx is buried.

Camden High Street

 

 This permanent Public Market,  has some inside buildings but most of it out in the open.  A large portion of the market is located in the former  stables and horse hospital which served the horses pulling   vans and barges which once plied their trade along the canal. Many of the stalls and shops are set in large arches in the railway viaducts.

 Check out the "tights" in this shop.  Tights here generally refer to pantie hose but in this case it extends to leggings as well as other forms of foot and legware.  Like the legs sticking out of the wall and definitely want a pair of those strippy hose.  Only problem, one size fits all and that size is  not my size. 

 Really got off on these store fronts.  Hate to think how much money was spent on their "signage", but it kept me entertained.  Obviously directed at a younger crowd, should you want shoes or a tattoo you are in the right place. 

The streetscape was so changed I was unsure of which way to go so as any good tourist might do, we followed the signs.  Woe betide the juvenile delinquent who played mess around with the directional signs, took me the better part of  half mile to decide we really were going the wrong way. 

 Did finally find our way to the underground and the Highgate station only to realise on exiting that it was another half mile up a very steep hill to get to the park that we needed to cross to get to the cemetery.  Spent some time exploring . . . it is a very beautiful and entirely overgrown space but it feels entirely natural and cared for in a way only the English can accomplish when it comes to growing things.  Beware, you may get a blog devoted entirely to the English love of gardening and the super abundance of plant life to be found here. 

 Found Karl Marx grave as well as several other English notables but my personal favourite belongs to Douglas Adams, author of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  If you haven't read it give it a go.  There are several books and which is which and what order they should be read I could not longer say, but they are delightfully silly, I mean, who could come up with a character named Slartibartfast. 

Enough with dead people and perhaps enough with this blog. 

 Things I have learned

1. Was told that Wharf  was an acronym Ware House At River Front but subsequently learned it is was is a termed a backronym invented by Thames river boat guides.  
2. A memorial dedicated to the people of Malta and their importance to WWII was an eye opener.  Just look at how strategically placed it is and you begin to understand.  
3. Where there is a will, there is a way.  Despite having no garage in which to store or charge an electric vehicle this owner draped an 

extension cord out a first floor (US second) down a light standard and manged to plug in his vehicle. 

4.  Trip Advisor complaint about a B&B . . . The tea service in the room did not have any biscuits (cookies) to go with the tea, coffee and hot cocoa.

View from Tower Bridge Walkway

UK 2012 ISSUE 12

It's a new morning and it's London, wahoo!  What to do first?  Transit Pass, yes, London Pass for access to museums and other places of interest, yes.  It's a good six or seven years since I have been in London and probably more like 30 since I have properly done the sights . . . what are we waiting for.  Where do you go to make a major league impression on first time visitors to this city, take the tube to the Embankment station and make sure you come up on the river side of the street!

Off we jolly well go. A short walk and it's on to a train and the next thing you know we are headed out of the station to a walkway that runs along the River Thames.  As we exit, the London Eye, a giant Ferris wheel, can be seen across the river.  But the best surprise is yet to come.  Turn right and walk past a door labelled "City Loos", where a pee costs you 50 pence (75 cents American), and  up a short flight of stairs.    It pretty much hits you in the face

Another borrowed image

 . . . the Houses of Parliament, sometimes know as Westminster Palace and Big Ben, which is really the bell but more generally identified as the tower that houses it, no more than 50 yards away.  There are plenty of others tourists, just like us, standing there gawking . . . or to use a very British phrase "gob-smacked".  It's pretty impressive and also just a little depressing or at least disconcerting.  These iconic buildings, sitting in a sea of traffic, what might they have looked like in another era?  Admittedly, they were built/rebuilt in Victorian times but they feel ageless.  It's difficult to see them with fast food establishments, street vendors and some truly indifferent architecture surrounding them but this is the reality of most big cities where historic preservation has not been a priority.  We can also thank the Germans and the blitz for the modernisation of London, although I really don't know that there was any real damage in this part of the city.   Never mind, for all that, it is impressive.

We cannot get in to the buildings, much like the capitol buildings in DC everything is fenced and guarded.   A few pictures under the statue of Boadicea and her  horses and we make our way to Westminster Abbey.  Another opportunity for a history lesson, Boadicea was the warrior queen of a British tribe who led a revolt against the Romans circa 60 AD.  I tend to forget that Britain had a pre "royal" history, the royal one being the one most studied in school.  But lets just acknowledge Rome, Roman Baths in Bath, Hadrians Wall in the north, Watling Street stretching across the country, there 's a lot of their history here, as well.

The buildings are awe inspiring, but, the traffic is also impressive. When crossing streets I still look both ways about a dozen times, is it left, right, left or right, left, right and what about all those flashing lights and signals that talk to you . . . oh, hell, just watch out for the bloody cars and go!  The locals, as in any big city, pay little or no attention to traffic signals.  It is easy to follow their lead and find yourself scrambling for the other side of the street with a barrage of cars and taxis coming your way.

After several false starts we manage to make our way to the Abbey.  Really not a particularly remarkable building, on the exterior at least.
                                               
It's really a matter of, as an Aussie tourist told Carol, ABC.  Another bloody church, another bloody cathedral, another bloody castle.  They accept our London Pass and we're through in record time.  We even get a headset with a walking tour of the place.  I'm pleased to report that you may have to pay, which was not true in the past, but at least there are plenty of well informed and eager docents around to ask  questions of.  Things are labelled and explained, it is no longer a matter of walking about with your Green Guide reading a really dense description of the minutiae of the place.  The original building, of which there is little left, was started before 1000 A.D., while the building we are most familiar with was begun around 1245 by Henry III.  Every time I walk in to one of these enormous churches I have to remind myself that most were built before Henry VIII came to the throne and as a consequence were originally Roman Catholic.  It wasn't until the dissolution that they became Church of England.  Small wonder I feel like a young girl being dragged to mass by my devout Italian aunts, the building infrastructure follows the same architectural guidelines as the church in Asti. 

This is a building for notables and royalty.  It is where they are christened, married, crowned and buried.  Every coronation since 1066 has occurred in this building.  Most of the Kings and Queens are buried here as are innumerable others.  The area which gave me most pleasure was spending some time in Poets Corner.  So what did I learn from my guided tour about this little section of the Abbey?  Let's start with Geoffrey Chaucer, who "started" it all.  He is buried here not because he wrote  Canterbury Tales, but because he worked for Abbey in some capacity.  Later, one Edmund Spenser (The Faerie Queen, thank Ms Cuddyback for actually making me learn some English Literature in High School) was buried nearby.  It is said, it was these two tombs that began the tradition.  

There are oh so many others either buried or with monuments in the Abbey.  Lord Byron, has a memorial here, as does Shakespeare but neither was acknowledged until long after his death.  You have the Bronte sisters, as well as Jane Austin and in a much more contemporary vein Noel Coward and Margot Fonteyn, never mind T.S. Eliot and Oscar Wilde or for that matter Handel.  Oh so many notable artists in incredible number of varied artistic disciplines.

Westminster Arms

We make our escape, heads full people, places, events and dates and totally bewildered by the ornate super abundance of the place.  Time for some sustenance and perhaps a walk in a park.  Mick is our acting guide since he spent a great deal of time in London and can generally navigate without a map.   As the rain begins to fall we nip in to the Westminster Arms for lunch and an opportunity to get off our feet.  Stone floors and cobbled street can really do a number on your feet and ankles.  Our first opportunity to introduce our travelling companions to quintessentially British cuisine . . . pub grub!!  A couple of pints of Bitter and a half of cider gets things primed for Cottage Pie (ground meat, veggies and gravy covered in mashed potatoes) and a Ploughmans lunch (bread, butter, apple, cheese and pickled onions) and I'm can't quite remember what else. 

Revived and refreshed we determine to make our way via St. James Park to Buckingham Palace.   Already the Olympic Games are making navigating London an odyssey in creativity . . . No access to the Park, fences and barricades block our way and temporary buildings are sprouting up all over the place, paths exist where grass once grew and there are security guards everywhere. It will have to be the much less romantic walk down Birdcage Walk leading to the side of Buck House rather than the dramatic access down the Mall to the front gate. 

For Carolyn BookRep extraordinaire

An afternoon of sun and rain, wandering in and out of buildings and attractions.  Pastries and coffee, glimpses of shopping streets and government buildings.  Alley ways and avenues, covered arcades and street vendors, welcome to central London.  We pass Saville Row, once famous for the tailors and the bespoke (custom) suits and shirts available in this short block. 

 Loads of people ride bikes, maybe not quite like in Amsterdam but definitely it is not just for the delivery folk.  On the evening news you often see some minor cabinet official cycling away from Number 10 Downing Street.  Barclays Bank has stands of blue bicycles with their logo all over the city, where with a membership, you can pick up a bike and drop it at another drop point.

Piccadilly, Trafalgar, Regents Street, St. Matins in the Field and the National Gallery.  A touch of shopping a Littewhites, six levels of sports gear and it's time to call it a day.  One more obstacle to navigate . . . the Underground at rush hour!!

UK 2012 ISSUE 11

Just back from a fortnight in London and the south of England with friends from Ashland. When travelling with others it is often a challenge to remain on good terms and still see that everyone's needs are met, but I think I can say that our trip was an unequivocal success. What say you Carol and Frank?

An early start out of Leicester and a bone rattling ride down the M1 to London in the Punto got us to New Malden in plenty of time to drop off the car and make our way by train in to the city centre.  I have heard stories of people's GPS (known as Nav Sat in this part of the world) sending them off and wild wonderful explorations of their surroundings.  I am now here to tell you, don't always trust Google Maps, they too have their foibles.  Sometimes a paper map and your intuition are far superior.  All the way down we debated the merits of the M25 vs the inner ring road as recommended by Google Maps.  We know the M25, which takes you around the outer limits of London, past Heathrow Airport from which it is an easy "expressway" exit onto the A4 and New Malden.  With time to spare we opted for the Google Maps recommendation of the  North/South Circular and a trip through Richmond and Kingston.  The first ten or so miles were lovely, an almost empty piece of highway, far superior to the normal traffic of the M25 and as a bonus, through areas we have never explored.  We hit the Ring Road somewhere near Wembly and caught a glimpse of the New Stadium, circa 2007.  Pretty iconic, say what!!

A borrowed image

There are undoubtedly some Olympic events going on here, but I have no idea which ones.  We're off the motorway but traffic is moving nicely, for a while, at least.  The road  continues through residential areas. Oh, thank goodness I don't live in those houses.  Can you imagine walking out your front door on to the pavement (aka sidewalk) and being face to face with two lines of traffic going in each direction.  No trees, no grass, no protection!!  There is a mixture of commercial, small shops and pubs some light industrial, but mostly houses.  London is a noisy, smelly, busy, cosmopolitan city, with traffic to spare but this is pretty much the worst I have ever seen! Just can't feature what it must be like living cheek by jowl with constant road noise, thank god for double glazing.

Before long we begin to experience roundabouts and traffic signals; our speed deteriorates.  The next barrier to progress, Richmond, or was it Kingston?  We cross the river (Thames) and it's narrow lanes, shopping precincts, restricted bus lanes and people!  People everywhere, it is a shopping day and they are out in force.  The High Street is lined with shops and everyone is going about the business of shopping and strolling and generally enjoying the fact that it is not pouring down with rain, while we creep along in first gear.  Escape is near by, a quick left and right and we leave the crowds behind and enter a residential area.  The directions say "take the left fork" so we do.  Probably not the "right" left fork.  A single lane road. lined with parked cars climbs steeply up the hill.  Enormous residences to the left and a panoramic view down in to the valley on the right.  You can see Richmond Park and the Thames flowing below. 

What goes up must come down and so it is down we go.  We trade houses and views for a stone wall looming over us on one side and an expanse of green hedge on the other.  Who would have thought we were still in the purview of Greater London.  We pass signs for landmarks we know, the wall of Kew Garden, glimpses of Richmond Park and its' herds of deer, signs saying Richmond Bridge.  We know where we are, but without a map (abandoned in favour of instructions from Google), we have no idea where we are.  Any hope of following those directions was abandoned about the time we climbed Richmond Hill, where I am told Mick Jagger and Gerry Hill have adjoining houses.   One thing is certain we do not want to cross a bridge, we're south of the river and that is where we wish to stay.

Eventually a sign, with the words New Malden and an arrow pointing straight on, emerges from the mass of suburban village greens and quaint pubs.  Curious how something ,which under other circumstances  might feel appealing, has become tedious and intrusive.  Just let me find my way back to something I know and never mind all this quintessentially British village thing.  There it is a Pub we know, and the Halal butcher, the road we turn on is coming up soon. 

We arrive, the Punto is parked in Lesley's driveway (forecourt) for the next two weeks.  There is a cuppa (cup of tea) on the go and Lesley, who is Welsh, produces Welsh cakes.  Welsh Cakes, a new taste extravaganza for both of us, are delightful little delicacies.  A cross between a pancake and a scone, they are full of currants and other delights.  The cakes themselves must be baked on a buttered griddle as there is that delightfully nutty flavour of butter that has been melted and used for frying.  What better accompaniment for a pot of tea. 

We visit, we catch up on friends and families.  This is a friendship that stretches back over forty years, almost to the days before children.  It is always amazing how, after not seeing one another for years on end, we can pick up as if it were yesterday and we were sitting in each others kitchens watching children play. 

It's time to go, Carol and Frank should be landing at Heathrow and we have a train to catch up to London.  Lesley drops us at the New Malden train station and we make our way via Clapham Junction (I have always liked that name but don't recall ever having been there) to Olympia.  I learn that many of the routes from London's two busiest stations, Waterloo and Victoria, pass through Clapham Junction making it one of the busiest in Europe.  The number of trains using it during off peak hours can exceed hundred per hour. We change trains, it's up the stairs off the platform.   We need to make our way from platform 8 to platform 1.  We walk along a pedestrian bridge with windows allowing you glimpses of multiple train lines and platforms.  There is a constant stream of humanity umbrellas in hand, up and down stairs, pushing prams, grasping briefcases or sports bags, chatting and strolling, hustling or standing, talking on mobiles, intent on where they are going and what they need to do.  You can feel the energy endemic to a big city, the excitement and intensity of people on a mission, intentful, places to go, people to see, things to do.  This is the beginning of an ongoing pattern.  A kaleidescope of stairs and lifts, platforms and elevators, pedestrian bridges and long tiled tunnels and everywhere you look people.  Welcome to London.

The house we have rented is a ten minute walk from the Olympia above ground station and perhaps 15 to the Hammersmith Underground with four possible lines to choose from, never mind the buses.  Transportation will not be a problem and having a travel pass will mean easy access, no paying for tickets.  Just poke your travel card in to the machine, it pops out the other end, the gates open and you are on your way.  We are met by the owners as well as the agent from the letting company.  We have our selves a two bedroom, two bath house on a quiet side street.  It is part of a row of houses probably built early in the last century.  There has been some serious remodelling done.  A modern new kitchen was added out the back, with the second bedroom and bathroom sitting above it.  All very clean and modern and the second bedroom doesn't have a closet!!  Sorry Frank and Carol.  No stair rails or banisters, sheets of glass provide a barrier to falling and also towel rails since apparently the interior designer didn't believe in them.  Despite all that, the beds are comfortable, there's a proper American style refrigerator/freezer, a dishwasher (major score) and  wireless Internet access.  What more can you ask. 

The Sobotkas arrive and we venture out to explore the delights of our local Tesco.  Hallelujah, no need for the full English breakfast, we can have what we please and more than that, when we please.  We stock up on fruit, cereal, bread and jam of course.  Also a pre-cooked chicken, a bottle of wine and lots of salad stuff . . . life is good and our adventure in London is off to a positive start. 

Perhaps it is now time to stop . . . wouldn't want this to get too long.  Will be back with you in a day or two.

ttfn

UK 2012 ISSUE 10

Hawthorne Blossom

As promised, I will explore the joys of staying in an 18th century public house and exploring Little Moreton Hall.  We found the offer for our stay at the Sportsman Inn through living social.  A little research showed that people were either thrilled or totally disillusioned by their stays with them.  Mostly the food reviews were good, but several complained about the beds. We once managed to spend two nights in a White City, New Mexico RV Park (the scariest bathrooms you might ever see) so having done that, how bad could it possibly be.  Besides, we're kinda in to funky, and as long as the sheets are clean, what is there to worry about.

Our room was on the ground floor, at the front (the first floor being what we in the states refer to as the second floor).  There was an entrance to the building from the street so it was not necessary to go through the pub.  The room was tiny, just enough space to walk around the double bed.  The flat screen television was behind the door and on the shelf beneath it was the requisite electric kettle, steripac milk, sugar, instant coffee and tea bags.  Designers of a cruise ship would be proud of how they crammed a 3 x 6 foot bathroom, as well as a 3 x 2 foot cupboard/wardrobe/closet in to the space.  The shower was a metal box with fold away glass doors, the sink was hung on the wall and held about a cup and a half of water, when full, and the toilet took up about as much room as a straight back dining chair.  It was old, it was beat up, it was mostly clean, it was most definitely funky.  We're back to that same old thing, what can you do with an old building, in this case made of stone rather than brick, that doesn't cost the earth.  How do you retro fit modern conveniences in a building that was never intended to have such features.   So, okay, I didn't really want to wander around bare foot, but the sheets and towels smelled clean and fresh and it was only for two nights.  That said, I have to admit the bed was dreadful, clean but truly, truly, truly, uncomfortable.   The food on the other hand, one dinner and two breakfasts included in the package price, was amazingly good.  

Stone Fences

Would I recommend the Sportsman Inn to someone else . . . it scores high points for location if you want to hike in the Peak District, the out door beer garden was a pleasant space to sit and have a drink or a meal, the food was well above average, booked through living social the price was decidedly cheap, the room quality pretty much comparable with an older Motel 6 in need of some refurbishment.  So, yeah, if those things are acceptable, I would recommend it.

Hayfield Rooftops

We spent our second day hiking.  After breakfast we took off back up toward Kinder Scout and did some wandering over farm tracks and back roads while barely seeing a vehicle or a person but plenty of livestock.  Across one field paddled a gaggle of geese heading directly for a kiddies swimming pool, there was a donkey in the field and little bittie bunnies hopped about.  The bunnies are nothing like our great big jack rabbits, they are dainty little furry tan things with cute little puffy cotton tails.  We wandered past Hill House, a 1730 farm building overlooking the valley that held Hayfield.  Up the farm track past a field of black and white sheep and across the farm yard  at  Booth Farm.  It is always a little disconcerting to cross what is so obviously private property, but that was the way the trail directed us.  Up the hill again for a view of the reservoir from the other side of the valley and through Farlands, a collection of four or five houses that dated from the time the reservoir was originally built.  We opted to back track a bit rather than going down a extremely steep cobbled path.  It appeared to be really quite idyllic, like something out of the last century.  Cobbles and stone walls, creepers and climbers and other plant life creating hillocks of mossy green and covering walls and the ground with their new shoots.  A view across a vista of green and brown with sheep grazing and birds on the wing.  Also steep and treacherous and hard work to walk on, the cobbles turning your feet and ankles every which way.  And did I mention the helicopter that was carrying fertiliser and seed out across the moors in  an attempt to do some restoration and rehabilitation.  Back down the lane and across the green fields was much tamer and definitely less hazardous.

Hayfield Wellies

After lunch we decided to take the advice of several people who had suggested walking the four miles to New Mills.  We were told that it was generally flat as it followed an old railway line and the bus between New Mills and Hayfield ran every 20 minutes.   The first mile or so we walked with a Hayfield native.  A 70 year old woman, who after a hip replacement made a habit of walking the path each day with the aid of two canes.  It was fun listening to her talk about how things had changed, she pointed out the ruin of an old mill and talked about the pond we went past and how it had been used as a mill race for powering the original mill.  She rabbited on about how the new housing in the village was out of character with the original stone structures and generally kept us entertained.  We made it to New Mill but unfortunately the every half hour bus turned in to an hour wait and a $6 fare one way and there was still a mile to walk back to the Sportsman.   On our way back did pass a rather unique pub name, there are plenty of Saracens Head or Pig and Whistles out there, but this was the first ever Waltzing Weasel Free House I have seen.

Our two fine days in Hayfield became pouring rain on the morning we were to leave.   We hit the road headed toward Marple and Mellor after leaving the village of Hayfield where, come to find out, Agatha Christie used to live.  Any significance there, yeah maybe.  Not to be outdone by the Waltzing Weasel, we now have passed pubs by the name of Soldier Dick and Dandy Cock, make what you will of that.

Our destination, Quarry Bank Mill and Little Moreton Hall, both National Trust Properties.  We are members in good standing of the National Trust, a non profit that owns and maintains historical properties.  Being a member grants you access with no additional charges, so seeing National Trust Properties becomes something of a priority.  The mill was pleasant, but a bit of a disappointment after seeing the Blackstone Valley National Heritage Corridor.  We have often found the Brits seem more interested in preserving the building but what they place inside is not always historically accurate.

Quarry Bank Gardens

They did have lovely gardens though.  Are you sensing a theme here, garden.  If there is any one thing that the British are mad on it would have to be gardens.  



Back to food for just a short minute here, I found this litany when reviewing the messages on the digital recorder.  Sauces; as I may have intimated previously, the English like sauces or condiments with their meals.  Don't know if this is because the cuisine is dry, or they really don't like the taste of their own food or just a cultural idiosyncrasies, like dessert gravy, but the choices are numerous.  At one eating establishment the individual packets of sauce included tomato ketchup, mayonnaise, salad cream, brown sauce, tartar sauce, horseradish sauce, english mustard, Mint sauce, french mustard and american mustard.

Little Moreton Hall, our next stop.  You have got to see it to believe it.  It was begun circa 1450 with building and expansions continuing until the early 1500s.  I could ramble on a bit, but it's the pictures I really want to share.   It really is quite spectacular.  This is another of those National Trust Properties.

We glommed on to a tour group that was going round and got a little of the history.  But mostly it is not about history but just about the architecture.

Fireplace

Long Hall - top floor

 Each room had a fireplace, but it's the carved bits that impress.  The Long Hall on the right is on the top level and was used as a place to take some exercise when the weather was poor.  The floor rolls and undulates, amazing.  In the exterior picture it is that long wall of windows.   The windows fascinate me.  The reason the windows are broken into smaller leaded panes was because that was as large a piece of glass they could fashion.  Enough going on . . . time for pictures.

Leaded Window

The Ashland Avatar UK 2012 Edition is going on hiatus until our return from London and the Cotswolds.  We are definitely down to one computer so one must be considerate.  If you need a good laugh about the Jubilee and other things British, Google The NOW Show for Friday June 8. 

ASHLAND AVATAR 1A

This is an attempt to put everything I have previously published in one location . . . not on my hard drive!  Most of you will have read this previously as an email, I am merely making in a permanent part of my blog.

I'm sure you have all heard of a year in Provence, well this is my attempt at six months in Groby. It's been nearly two weeks since my arrival in the UK, where an officious little English civil servant held me in immigration for more than an hour before releasing me with the admonition not to overstay the six months I am allowed to be here. All of this is because I set off red flags by applying for a visa to stay for “up to a year” on compassionate grounds. Fortunately, the fact that they denied my request appears to be a non issue as Mick's Dad is making a rather remarkable recovery for a man of 89. Oh , how the world has changed, particularly since 9/11. Back in the seventies, yes I realise some of you weren't even alive then, they simply wrote on my passport “does not need to report”. Mind you the Brits weren't the only ones to mess me about . . . the Americans took my hand cream off of me when going through security and proceeded to leave my baggage behind in Las Vegas. But then, I'm here, my luggage is here and all is well with the world.

I am sorry to report that despite the fact that it is March and rumour (English spelling, Dad's computer insists I don't know how to spell rumour) has it that there has been rain and snow in Ashland in my absence, the weather has been fabulous, brilliant even. I'm sure it must have reached 70 the last couple of days, definitely shirt sleeve weather. We have been doing our best to take advantage of this unusual circumstance and have been out exploring the countryside. Until yesterday we remained mostly local, within 10 miles of Groby. Did a couple of local parks and explored a reclaimed coal tip in Coalville. A tip is British for the tailings or debris that results from mining. They have been quite successful at renovating these eyesores and turning them in to places to walk and “recreate”. Oh by the way if you want to speak Leicestershire(eze) put the accent on the ville part of Coalville and the county I am staying in currently, Leicestershire, is pronounced “lester sheer”. Mick suggests that I also share with you if you are afraid it would not be uncommon in these parts to say you were “frit”.

Yesterday was an outing to Foxton Lock. Always a joy navigating in Britain . . . merge on to the A50, go through four roundabouts and take the third exit on the fourth roundabout to Langton. Turn right at Beechwood Drive ( a narrow lane with no signpost!) go to the second roundabout and . . . you get the picture. I think the hardest thing is that nothing and I mean nothing, is laid out on a grid. Roads, curve and turn and wander for no apparent reason and to cap it all off you may never get on a different road and yet the name has changed three times. Learned an abbreviation on our route, HMP, Her Majesty's Prison. This one was HMP Gartree and did not look to be much of an establishment for incarceration, more like council houses. Ah well, as Americans we do have a reputation to uphold for imprisoning folk for reasons that others worldwide cannot fathom.

As to the locks, I posted some pictures on facebook, so for those of you with whom I am not facebook friends just send me a request and I will “befriend” you. There is a substantial canal system in England which had been a significant means of transporting goods before the railways and the automobile. Now they are mostly recreational and run through rural areas and periodically there are either tunnels or locks to navigate. The locks are all hand operated and in the case of Foxton there are actually 5 lock gates which carry one boat at a time and it takes about 45 minutes to go from top to bottom or bottom to top. This one has a lovely pub at the base where we had lunch.

We spoke with a couple who were waiting their turn to traverse the locks and his theory was that someone went out and surveyed all the best pubs in the country and connected them up with water. I like his reasoning, seems a good reason to have a canal boat holiday. Was just googling about hiring a canal or narrow boat for a holiday and found the most wonderful place name, Wootten Wawen. Have no idea where it is or how to pronounce it, but I do like the name.

II

I'm sure I have shared with some of you how when Mick's Mum (Mom in American) came to visit we nearly always lost some major appliance as well as innumerable pieces of glassware. Well it would seem turn about is fair play and so it is the Church household is now the proud owner of a new “tumble” dryer. It all started when, using a pressure washer on the patio, we blew a fuse and related or not the dryer would no longer open. Also set off the burglar alarm which entailed resetting it at least five times while it beeped incessantly. The dryer was well and truly stuck, we removed the top and there was no way to get to the latch. We turned it over but the bottom was a solid piece of sheet metal as was the back, and brute force short of a hammer was totally ineffectual. So we made the trip to Curry's to assess the possibilities. England is a small country, their houses are small and their appliances are equally small, just check out the photo of Dad's refrigerator on facebook. There was no shortage of choices, there were at least 8 different models of vented dryers and an equal number of “condenser dryer” (it's tough to put a hole in a brick wall just to vent your laundry), a veritable cornucopia by UK standards. The silly things are about as big as a two drawer file cabinet, yes I exaggerate, but not by much. The largest capacity one they had was 8 kg or roughly 17 pounds, while the smallest held only 3 kg or 8 lbs. Dad chose one at 6 kg but with a sensor that will shut it off automatically when the clothes are dry , a totally new concept to him. His current machine has only a timer and no way to control temperature, drying jeans runs about 90 minutes and underwear about 30. Don't let me get up on my soap box about just how spoiled we are, and I haven't told you about his heating/hot water system yet! So yes the dryer has been installed and works like a champ but the weather has been so fine we actually strung up a “solar” dryer. Clothes sure do smell good when dried on a line.

I particularly like the setting on the new dryer . . . Iron Dry, Cupboard Dry, Extra Dry and Bone Dry. Well iron dry, can probably guess what that one means though I have no intent of ever using the setting or the implement. Cupboard Dry a uniquely British invention. Most home have what is termed an airing cupboard and it is where the water heater lives. Water heaters are small devices probably half the size of what we are accustomed to and so the cupboard or closet, if you will, has slatted shelves for placing folded laundry that is mostly dry but can be finished off in the cupboard.

So another of my adventures has been to deal with the “creeping crud” on my legs with a visit to the National Health Service. Uncertain as to what is the best approach we contact our insurer in the US, no problem says they, get treatment and submit the bills. Okay, grand, I know the locals get steamed at all the foreigners coming here and immediately getting every benefit they offer, and believe me there is a grant or benefit for any imaginable situation. So being wary of alienating the natives I go to my ever faithful resource, Google, and type in private doctor, private healthcare and dermatologist. It soon becomes obvious that if you are looking for a private doctor, who is a dermatologist you are looking for someone who will give you a whole new you. Wonder what the cost of botox is and if my insurer might baulk, perhaps they call it something else. I plunge ahead, make a phone call, get put on hold for probably five minutes only to be told I have to go through the local GP. I won't bore you with the additional phone calls it took to convince Dr. Gajibasia's front office that they should see me, but see me they did. So here's the deal, if you need a doctor you must go to the one that is assigned to you by virtue of where you live. Think I probably knew this once upon a time in a land long ago and far away. Dr Gajibasia, a Sikh, with a turban and all is the doctor for Groby. They refer to their offices as “surgeries”, not a very comforting phrase when all you want is something to clear up a rash. BTW. Dental offices are surgeries as well.

I get Mick to drop me off and I plan on walking back to the bungalow when all is finished. We pull up on Rookery Lane in front of one of those black and white buildings that make you think Shakespeare and Tudor and once I get inside it is most definitely a Tudor building that has been renovated. Big beams, fairly low ceilings and a rabbit warren of rooms. Kinda spartan, whitewashed walls, concrete floors but definitely not what one would call clinical. I check in with the receptionist who hands me some forms and says “fill them out and give them to the doctor”. No clipboard, no pen and no history, just who I am.

I take a seat in a black plastic chair, the kind that give you a shock when you get up and wait for my name to appear on the reader board above the receptionist's window. Gayle Church Room 1. I let myself in, the first door I come to says “eye exams”, the next says something about a nurse and the third say Exam Room 1. I push it open , step in to a narrow hallway that leads to room of perhaps 10 x10. There are NHS posters on one whitewashed wall, the other is blank and under the window, seated at an old blonde wood desk, circa 1960, sits Dr. Gajibasia. Spiffy pinstripe suit, Saville Row perhaps? Mind you it's that pinstripe I intensely dislike with the wide white stripes in a deep grey background. French cuffs extend from his sleeves with beautiful silver cuff links. His tie is a deep burgundy which precisely matches his turban. The desk is pretty much empty except for a computer monitor. What kind of a time warp have I just walked in to.

In the end I came away with prescription for a cortisol steroid and a request to return in three weeks. I wandered down to the bottom of the hill and the Chemist to have my prescription filled. The Chemist, Druggist, Pharmacist, Drug store whatever it is you may want to call it has a store front on the Ratby Road around the corner from the Green Grocer, next to the Chinese take-out and just a step or two away from the newsagent. I step in to a waiting area about 4 X 6 with a single plastic chair, is there a theme here? There is nothing to buy if you don't need some sort of treatment, no cards, not candy, no knick-knacks. I had over my piece of paper, they confirm my age and less than five minutes later I have a little tube of white ointment. Thus far no money has changed hands nor do I think it will. Small wonder people get distressed by all the “foreigners” getting medical treatment.

I thought I was pretty aware of just how multi-cultural Britain was until I saw a NHS (National Health Service) pamphlet where they listed all of the languages that they were using for surveys. Albanian, Arabic, Bangla, Cantonese, Mandarin, Farsi, French German, Greek, Gujarati, Hindi, Italian, Kurdish, Polish, Russian, Punjabi, Portuguese, Somali, Spanish, Tamil, Turkish, Urdu, Vietnamese, and Yoruba. This entailed about 15 different scripts (as in alphabets) never mind the languages. Guess that's what comes of being a commonwealth, never mind a member of the EU. This doesn't even address the Caribbean countries, though I suppose they generally speak English, or Belgium, Norway, Sweden, or the like.