Henry's Shack

Sorry. I've been away for a few days. I brought home a little something from London besides Guides and Souvenirs. I brought back strep throat. And then the antibiotic I was taking to inhibit it, inhibited me with a grand case of nausea which rendered me a porcelain princess for several days.

So, where were we in London's environs?  Just so you know, I'm getting confused on when I did things. I've already written about Peter and Alice, the play we saw, but that was actually a day later than the events of this entry.  Oh well. I've been sick. Too exhausted to regroup.

Heather and I were off to Hampton Court. From something around 1509 to 1547, it was one of the hunting, jousting, resting after jousting residences of the Tudors. Later it would see other kings and queens, including William and Mary who began to rebuild something in a Georgian style but ran out of money, and then frankly their lives, so it would not be completed. There are therefore two distinct styles in one large palace. Oh, dear, my very first palace!  Stepping into history in a big way, with the Thames still nearby. It's about a hour or two drive from London proper. We took the metro to Richmond, and then a bus the rest of the way.

So, first cool thing, for you New Yorkers.

 This is Kew Gardens. Nope. Not the one in Queens, New York, of the same name, but the one in the outskirts of London. I loved this.  I loved the commonality.  But this is clearly the "Underground" of London by virtue of the sign's logo. Now, then, "Mind the Gap."  Those of you who have been in the area, know what that means!

Once off the bus at the entry way of the lavish Hampton Court, I could see why it was so prized an environment, by the kinds of old and in the 20th century by the folks who had apartments there, usually relations of royalty.

In an even grander way than the many parks I had already seen in London, this was bucolic, peaceful, a place where deep breaths could be taken and nature absorbed fully. And then there was the grand courtyard and the gravel on which my feet crunched, where princes and kings and queens paced and pranced.

 

 

That clock, that's not a recent creation, and it's based on the idea that the sun circles the earth, not the other way around. Cool, huh? 

 

 

Turrets, lots of Turrets

 

Prisoner of Zenda anywhere to be seen?

 

This ISN'T the real Henry, but a facsimile backed by another young fake royal. They were running around the castle talking about some unwanted visitor, like Jane Seymour or something. And the king was looking to marry Cathryn Parr,

 



 

This coat of arms was outside the castle and if I read it right had been obscured by Henry as it is the coat of arms for Cardinal Wolsey, he who fell very far from Grace, and his grace (meaning the king's). Because it had initially been built for Wolsey, not big on humility nor apparently did he take the remotest vow of poverty, there is a cloister and church size chapel within.  The chapel was one of the spaces in which we were not allowed to take photographs, and frankly it was one of those places where one was most tempted to do just that. Indeed it was here that Edward, Henry's son by one of his wives was baptized; here he married his last wife who outlived him (lucky girl). As in all ancient places, there have been many changes over the years; for example, what had once been a great stained glass window was covered over by heavy wood, just as impressive for my speculative money. But parts of the original ceiling, under which these separated (by Henry's self deluded hand) prayed, remain. The essence remains.

No movie nor created set (as much as I realize some things were recreated here), could possibly compete with this real thing.

Trivia:  Did you know that there was a really great job back in those royal flush days?  He was the Groom of the Stool.  Guess what that was. And it really got you about as close to a king as one could ever imagine.

We are not talking about furniture here. Well, we sort of are. They did show us a 17th century chamber pot, which was like this plush chair with a hole over the pot.   So, getting a sense of what the Groom did? 

So, after halls and paintings and stained glass,

 

 

I was in the "back yard",  mostly created from hunting land into the gardens for walking and whispering state secrets, in the 18th century. If the inside was exceptional, the outside was a marvel.

 

And I got to take a ride around the entire perimeter thanks to a couple of Clydesdale's.

 

Heather had the idea of our taking a boat back to London, on the Thames. As you can see the weather was getting pristine. And for the English after a most rainy winter, this day was like unto summer for them. As we rode back up to London proper for a three hour trip (and it really ended up that way, no Gilligan Island wash ups) in a boat that had in fact been one of the evacuating vehicles at Dunkirk, it was a little cool, but I felt a sense of utter joy at having finally made a trip to Europe after 22 years. People lined the edges of the water, picnicking, or eating at the many built up, umbrellas nearly glistening in the sun. In places the Thames was wide and calm; in other places, wild and narrow, or vice verse. There were even a couple of locks, something I had never experienced in my life.

 

There was the Teddington Lock, and the Richmond Lock. I actually forget which one this is. Kids and their parents watched as the water level dropped along with the boat. At this point, we were completely surrounded by the lock walls, feet, before the gates were opened and we could proceed.

 

And then we were back approaching Westminster. 

 

 

 

Oh, Britannia, I was falling in love with you. And I am currently reading the history of the Tudrs. Quite the fractured family who fractured history.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lunch, A Show and Dinner

By Thursday, June 1, the rain was, wonder of wonders, dissipating and there were extended "Sunny Spells", with promises by the weather folks of more to come. I was happy taking one day at a time on that score, and on every other one for that matter. But this day was a scheduled one,to be centered around a play, "Peter and Alice". 

Until the day before, I had no idea what the play was about and I didn't care, as it starred Judi Dench. Dame Judi is a legend I wouldn't miss, regardless of in what she appeared. Aside from that, there have been more and more confirmed rumors that because of her macular degeneration, this long time actress was going to limit, if not curtail her continued appearances on stage and screen. Those of you who saw the last Bond movie know that her "M" was killed off after many years of her heading MI6 on screen.

As I sat with Denise, Heather and her husband Chris in a converted alley full of restaurants having a mimosa and watching the stage door of the theatre (we wanted to be close) filled with autograph seekers, a young man came out, friendly and content with being sought after. He was slightly bearded, and lightly handsome, but I did not recognize him. I asked the people next to us who he was. He is, I was told with a concomitant lilting excitement that it was Ben Whishaw.  "What's he been in", I asked, oblivious to the fact I had indeed seen him, and recently, in that selfsame Bond film, "Skyfall".  He is the fresh new "Q", wet behind the ears computer genius.  He clearly already has significant fame on the Isle, judging by the hugs and waving pens. Ah, I would soon find out, this was a bit of a Bond reunion engagement, as the writer of the play was the writer of the last Bond film and at least one to come, John Logan.

I still did not know what the relationship of Peter and Alice would be, or who these characters were in the first place. Ir was as it happened the penultimate performance. The play closed that night after a multi month limited run.

Presumably, Alice Hargreaves and Peter Davies really did meet once in the 1930s. She was elderly. He was about 35.  In this imagining of what their conversation (and experience) might have been, the model for Alice in Wonderland meeting the model for Peter Pan, there is little happiness, or joy in fantasy. Whether the models were happy children, whether in either a physical or emotional sense they were abused, whether there is any real pleasure in childhood, or adulthood, these seem to be the themes around which Peter and Alice encounter one another, as well as their alter egos and the men, both lonely strange men, it appears, who created them, J.M. Barrie, and Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson).

In the beginning, it seems that Alice is the bitter one and Peter is at peace with his after Pan life. But by the end of the play, it is Alice who seems to have accepted her shadow fame (and real life loss of children in the war) while Peter's troubled family life (early loss of a father who is represented in his dying cancerous days) and inability to find an adult niche (he started the book store in which the two of them meet I believe), leads to his ultimate suicide, as we are told.

I thought it was all done better in the movie with Coral Browne, "Dreamchild", without Peter's involvement. But I didn't hate it, and it was worth everything to find myself sitting in a West End London theatre, applauding the probable last stage work of a great Dame. She received a standing ovation, likely more in appreciation of the body of her work, than for this vehicle. I stood too.

I wish I had taken more time to absorb the surroundings. As is true in many older New York theatres, this one was ornate and small. It has had several incarnations.

 But that I was there, walking with the adoring crowds (many of them in costume trying to get last minute tickets for the last show), in the cacophony that is London, was almost a surprise to me, a kind of personal cheerful fantasy.

And then we were off to a local Bar/Pub, where I sampled a dark beer that I'd call "interesting", and shared a congenial meal with Denise, an old friend, and Heather and Chris, new ones, kind to me in every way, as if we had known each other forever.

Another delightful day in my own kind of wonderland.

Of Oyster Cards, Big Buses, Cathedrals, History and Meeting Up With a Friend

It was still raining, and threatening to some more, when I woke up early again the next morning. This time, I was not so early as to miss the Continental Breakfast in the dining room. This was a Club, a religiously founded one, and its idea was that quiet was provided, but if people wanted to speak and meet up, they were encouraged to do so. So, there were tables that were solo and those that allowed for "can I join you". 

Although at heart (I know some of you are laughing, but it remains true) I am a loner, when I am in these environments, I feel it incumbent upon me to be social. And so I found myself saying hello to various people, as I ate my cooked scrambled eggs and bacon and hash browns. This was more than the average continental breakfast, even though the bacon was a rounded affair, and the hash browns were a single knish like item. Still it all tasted good and I was fortified for my next outing.

The first thing, I needed to get an Oyster Card. You pay for what is essentially a pass for the metro and the buses. I was a little intimidated as I went into the station at High Holborn because it was faster paced than even New York as people got their fares and pushed through the access gates. I knew that I was the kind of individual in the facility that I as a New Yorker, hated, slow and unsure and in the way of people trying to get hither and fro.  So rather than stand at the machine trying to figure out the directions, I went to the information window for a live person who could hear my tale and get me the right thing.

And now, I was ready. Except now also I decided to go to a kiosk on Southampton Row to buy a ticket for the "Big Bus" which, like in Los Angeles, and other cities, is a type of tourist transportation that allows you to "hop on, hop off" when you see a site that you wish to spend more time exploring. 

I had to go to the top of the bus for a full view of the sights of London, which was some doing with the continuing rain (and may be the reason looking back that I am now fighting sore throat and cold back here in LA). I had an English style cap and that seemed mostly enough. You could get this plastic parka, but it looked too unwieldy. 

Happily though, I found my first spot of interest almost immediately, St. Paul's Cathedral, its rounded dome a bold invitation. This edifice, like so many, damaged during World War II but managing still to survive mostly intact. As the days passed during the trip, I was more and more in awe of the British, so close to the tyranny and destruction of those days, and yet managing not only to survive, but after years of ration and dreariness and danger, to thrive.

Here you are looking up at the "Whispering Gallery".  When I was told that once up there you could not turn back, my fear of heights announced, "You can see it from here."

The Pantocrator. I love this and printed it out to frame for my room.

I was actually not supposed to be taking pictures inside St. Paul's and stopped after I saw the prohibition sign. Some places allow it, if you don't use flash. This one, did not. Still I had my innocently taken inside pictures, and they were going to stay.

It is here in St. Paul's that you will find the tombs of two amazing historical figures, among the many in the Isle, the Duke of Wellington (whose painting by Holbein, I think, I would later see at the National Gallery) and Admiral Horatio Nelson, the hero of Trafalgar, who died of his wounds on the HMS Victory (which I would later see at Portsmouth). 

Let me digress here, just a bit. The thing this trip did for me, whether a lasting impression or not, was to remind me of the sheer number of us alive and dead, all vying for making our places in the world. I know, it's a theme that seems to preoccupy me in this blog, and on other entries about this trip--that no matter how famous, if famous, we become, no matter how accomplished , no matter how big the tombs and cenotaphs, our end is precisely the same. And we are either resigned to there being nothing after that equalizing end, or we see that it all pales in comparison with the Reality to come. And for that we have no evidence sufficient to our human reason.  So here we were modern dayers walking all over the graves, on the floor below us, of people with long epitaphs merely curiosities to us today, who hoped that the words would make them more known down time. But even if known, only a footnote in history. When I was in the National Gallery, one of the paintings I saw and listened to the description of, was this one:

 

 

It is another Holbein, and it is called, "The Ambassadors". The two young men are wealthy and happy, but there hovers below them an almost hidden, elliptical insert, a skull. The point is to note, according to the audio lecture, that all we collect endlessly and greedily, is ultimately for naught. It is all transitory. Sorry. Maybe that's what art is, a freezing of moments of time and people, long since gone. It is not really a morbid thing. Just a reality that may or may not direct our lives to more philosophical climes.

 

Ah, well. As with the British Museum, there was no way to take it all in, but only the overall majestic feel of the place and its effort at immortality. And then I hopped back on the Big Bus and was off, to stop at another amazing piece of history, begun when in the 10th century by Benedictines and the site of coronations, weddings and funerals of figure after figure, Westminster Abbey.

This time, seeing Big Ben in the immediate background of this astounding ancient church, I felt somehow that I had stepped into an old English movie. I have to admit that once I came back I watched several of my favorites, having now trod in some of the tracks of the actors and producers, nay the historical figures. But the Abbey, which I wistfully wished remained a part of the Catholic tapestry, rather than an annex of a very piqued Henry VIII, met every and any expectation of prayerful grandeur I could have had. I wanted to, but knew I could not memorize its great spaces and cloistered ones. The oldest door (sometime in the 10th or 11th century), the many amazing beings long laid to rest, including Queen Elizabeth and her half sister, Mary, Anglican and Catholic, Elizabeth on top, and Mary, below her, with a prayer for the resurrection for both of them.  John Donne preached at St. Paul's. Edward the Confessor, a saint, is he not, is in a fragile tomb that we could not get close to for fear of its deterioration.

 

 

 

,

The last of my views was of Poet's Corner where Chaucer and endless other wordsmiths lay.

 

To say I was exhausted after winding my way through the halls of two massive Churches is an understatement. I had not even eaten for wanting to absorb the sights and echoes. 

 

When I got back to the Penn Club, Heather had arrived and rested a bit and was ready for dinner. I had seen two or three enticing Indian Restaurants along Southampton Row and we picked one that seemed the most inviting, the door opened by one of the proprietors.

 

 

The Chambeli. I love Indian food, but in Los Angeles, too often, the fare of a country is not prepared by its countrymen, but here, it was so clearly a family place and the several dishes we tried, curries, both meat and vegetable and the accompanying garlic naan, was, well, earthly nirvana. Bravo The Chambeli, the first of my dining experiences in London. Which brings me tot the second myth, that the food in England is bad. Whether you approve of the EU or not, the fact is that London is a multicultural phenomenon, and you can eat anything from anywhere, and the old time English food, I sampled that as well, Ploughman's Lunch, Sunday Lunch, a big slab of roast beef and fixings that was comfort food personified, it was a feast in each and every place I or we chose spontaneously.

 

Oh, yes, by day two and a half, I was falling in love with London, despite the rain. And then, I got even luckier. For the rest of my trip there were clear spells, sunny spells (as they call them) and outright sun to accompany each of my sojourns in each of the museums, churches and parks.

 

 

  

 

A Rainy First Day in London Town

I woke up very early that first morning in London, five a.m.  It does not, as I mentioned, get dark early during spring and summer, so also it is that it gets light very early. It was raining. A lot. I was not surprised or disappointed despite my constant need (hence the move from New York to Los Angeles all those years ago) for sunshine. A rainy day in England, well, I knew well that precipitation is the way of things in that clime and the reason for all those lovely gardens bespeaking Paradise, with angelic bird voices.

So, I looked out the window, feeling the bracing morning air and was accepting of whatever was to come, wherever I ended up going. My friend Heather was not going to be arriving at the club for another day or so, and my travel companion, Denise, had advised me she would be incommunicado for several days recovering from jet lag (she could afford the time as she would be there longer than I). I was on my own.

It was too early for the continental breakfast in the dining room. And I was, no surprise to anyone who knows me, antsy. I showered in the tiny bathroom, with the even more tiny shower, a later inclusion into the narrow rooms of this 18th century building, but the spray was warm and intense. I felt refreshed and ready to don my raincoat (the same on I wore in Italy 22 years ago, a sturdy Eddie Bauer) and cap unable though unable to find the small umbrella that Heather had given to me when she met us at the airport. Oh, well, I said to myself. It's only a little water.

And so, before six a.m. I  made my way down the long stair case from my room,




stepped onto Bedford Place and wended my say to Southampton Row and then High Holborn street in search of I knew not what, except that when the stores opened I'd need one thing I had failed to bring with me, a toothbrush.

Along Bedford Place there are a number of small hotels of greater and lesser expense. You are looking toward the small Bloomsbury Park. Perhaps you can see my wet footsteps along the way!

 

I had converted about 500 dollars of American cash to 300 and change in British pounds (yes, the exchange rate is that bad) before I arrived so I'd have money for taxi's and immediate needs. But I wanted to find a bank ATM to try, having twice told my bank that I would be out of the country and please oh, please, make sure that my selected cards would work.

 

I found the right bank quickly and my card did work. I was positively triumphant. In my prior European trip, all those years before, there were no ATMS and only the unwieldy American Express Checks. The rain was increasing. I found myself hungry at 6 thirty a.m., my body clock eight hours of time difference and 10 hours of travelling, off. 

 

There are certain myths about England, and one of them is that the inhabitants don't drink coffee.  The other myth I shall address in later entries.  Drink coffee they do, in an abundance of coffee shops that do of course sell tea in a lovely pot as well. Costa, Caffe Nero, and our Starbucks probably in my mind, coming in at number three in its ubiquitous presence.

 

I picked a corner Costa, so I could eat a terrific and properly thin panini of ham and cheese and a mocha in a proper cup filled with whipped cream the amount of which would be considered too profligate in America (and a waste of money). As it was getting later in the morning, the pedestrians increased in number and pace on their way to work. I could have been in New York and as I sat there I reminisced a little about my days walking in the rain in lower Manhattan after getting an extra sugared coffee in one of those greek decorated coffee cups, you know, the white columns against blue background.

 

I had no idea what I would do next. I just got the bug to walk and I did not care it drizzled, mizzled or poured. I kept track of my turns and landmarks so I'd find my way back. I did not on this trip take a map. I did not expect to go so far that I'd get lost. And there was always a cab if I did.

 

I walked up one street after another, and ended up in a quaint set of streets, identified collectively as Seven Dials.

 

I

I don't know how long I walked, but I realized that I was being somewhat aimless and I needed as the morning something more organized. And so, I walked back the other way, toward my club and the British Museum, only about a block and a half away from one another. The museum would be open by now.

 





 

I always intended that museum to be the first of my visits because it was likely to be a day of jet lag and I could do something meaningful but not over exhaust myself and if exhausted, take to my comfortable bed.

 

I came upon its large entry and damp stone and felt elated that I had finally taken another trip to Europe (although the Brits tend to talk about "Europe" as if they are not part of it) despite my terror of flying.

 

 



 

I am told that this museum has the largest collection of antiquities, including Greek. In modern times this reality has caused a bit of friction among nations--not yet enough to go to war, but in human reality, who knows---because one nation is accused of stealing the other nation's treasures. The reality I imagine is much more complicated, and were it not for the way things did unfold, much of our human history might be lost to us. I met a woman having this conversation with her 8 year old son--which itself seemed amazing, and when she asked me what I thought, I concluded that while I understood the argument, it seemed to me that the ship had already sailed. If all the museums of the world were giving back everything they got because of the controversy, somehow it would not benefit those of us who wandered into a place like this to see the artifacts in the first place. It seems to me they belong to all of us, not to any one nation.

I learned that day that there was no way to see everything, or even a small portion of everything. And so, I'd get the little audio equipment and wander around and stop at whatever beckoned and spoke to my heart.

The sheer size and brightness of the interior was almost overwhelming enough.

 

 

 

Anything I saw was something miraculous I had never seen before, and so, it was pleasure enough.  One of my favorite movies is 84 Charing Cross Road, with Anne Bancroft.  It is about a New York woman in the late 1940s, who buys books from a little English bookshop on Charing Cross Road, and has an entire relationship with the man with whom she deals, a platonic, but intimate one, simply by letter. She only finally visits England after he dies, but merely stepping into the shop, the connection with that man she loved from afar and the place he lived, is sufficient. She is told, when you go to England, you find whatever it is you are looking for. If you are looking for art, you'll find that; history, you'll find that; religion, you'll find that.

 



As I wandered around the British Museum, I knew I had found it all. And every such adventure would be full enough.

And so I spied the great and the small of human history, and all of it was awesome.

The first, some would say best, an item much discussed in our grammar school educations, was the Rosetta Stone. It hails from the Ptolemaic periid, 196 B.C. That's B.C.!  The deciphering of the hieroglyphs was a landmark in human history to match perhaps its very existence.

 

Such historical manifestations tend to loom large in a child's mind, and in the mind of the adult she becomes. It was the very first thing I saw at the Museum. I knew it was important. And yet, I was somehow rather banally sad that it was so small and the writing so apparently tight and faint. And yet, Djinn, there you were standing in front of the Rosetta Stone!  You have to be, I was, mesmerized.

 

 

Why did I take a picture of the things I did? I don't know. They spoke to me. Look at this statue. I am reminded of the poem Ozymandias, by Shelley, and the proud voice of a pharaoh, who expected to be remembered for all time, but whose memorial was covered over by the sands of the desert so that he was forgotten.  One can build all the monuments one wants, but we remain fragile and mortal. The things we build may speak to other generations of greatness even as the names of the builders resonate not at all. An interesting irony.

 

And yet, whether I know the builder or not, I feel a connection to him, to them. And in there is a legacy of sorts. An immortality on earth whether you believe in one elsewhere.

 

For me, though, the artifacts of Christianity, strengthened my faith. Things so close to the beginning of that faith as to make it seem impossible to me that it could not be true.

  

 

 

This is a fourth century (300 something) representation of a clean shaven Christ, which makes it interesting enough. But this was a time when the Church Fathers were writing of a faith that was sweeping the known world. That which has lasted two thousand years despite human and superhuman (you know, le diablo) efforts to destroy it.

Here is something that intrigued me. What does it look like to you?

A primitive ironing board? A divan? No, if I read it right, it is an 11,000 year old item that changed mankind from a nomadic life to a settled farming one. It grinds wheat into flour. The longer side (left) was braced against the knee of the woman (yes, always a woman) who used a stone like the one on top of it to move her hand up and down until the wheat was a powder. You can see the indentation in the center. Something so ordinary and something so dramatic.

There were crucifixes and crosses of gold.

 

Royal cups.

 

No, this isn't Shakespeare.  Looks like him though.

 

Bronze or something heads of emperors, this one Claudius.

 And of course, what would ancient times be without a cat, or modern times for that matter.

When I was a child, my Aunt Kathleen used to take me and my cousins to various New York museums. She loved to walk. At the time, I didn't. By the time we got to the museums, my feet would always be hurting--or maybe my shoes weren't made for the exertion. I was reminded of those times after my rambling through the British Museum. Oh, now I like to walk. But still my feet were hurting from all the standing and looking. 

I was ready for a little something, something of a drink and lunch. Happily, on the top floor of the Museum, there was a lovely indoor cafe that had the light and air of an outdoor one.

 

 

 

And nibble I did, on a platter of Devon Blue Cheese and marinated artichokes, and of course, a nice glass of white wine.

 

 

There was the search for souvenirs to top off the first full day of my visit to London and its environs. And when I walked back to my room, I realized that I had been out for hours and hours, although it was still afternoon. The lag had caught up to me and I fell to my bed, grateful for my first day.