The Last Few Days in England

I have been away from writing. The reason will be the subject of an entry soon, I hope. But, in the meantime, I wish to complete the tale of my early summer sojourn in the land of Will, Shakespeare that is.

Where was I? Just finishing out my trip to Oxford, and Littlemore. And on to Portsmouth, by bus again, through that town in which the Titanic berthed before her fateful encounter with an iceberg. Southampton. Portsmouth reminded me of any port in New York Harbor, but this one had its special attractions, the HMS Victory upon which Horatio Nelson died in great honor, and the once flagship of Henry the VIII which sank in 1545, the Mary Rose.

I have been on the USS Missouri and been amazed, but to be on a ship that sailed in the early 19th century, to see what men endured on the high seas, in sheer size and endless cannon, was astonishing. Even in the sick bay, there were cannon poking out the square holes aimed at enemies of the state and marauders of the ocean. To stand on the upper deck, next to the rigging was a pleasure and an honor.

And next door, the newly opened exhibit of the Mary Rose. Only half the ship survived the hundreds of years. A ship that Henry saw sink, no doubt, from the shore. And a few bones, literally. Of several men and a dog named given the name of Hatch by those who brought the rig up. Why did the men die? They died because the same rope and material used to keep enemies off the ship prevented those on the ship from escaping as the Mary Rose sank. That's what they think, at least, speculate. The Mary Rose, like perhaps the later Victory, was a mini-city (but no cruiseship). Animals, clothes, mugs, arrows, cannon, musket, and men, all men, men with bad teeth, and brittle bones from too much backbreaking work, old at 30, serving his Majesty, The King.

 This is a section of the Mary Rose. For 17 years, the hull has been sprayed with a kind of polymer to keep it from crumbling. For another few, it will be dried out and then the piping will be removed so people can see the hull close up.

The figure just above was forensically created from the skeleton above it. This was a tall man, unusual for the time, at 6 foot 2. An archer we are told. To stand in front of him is to feel a chill of the past and a sense of sadness for the loss of such a young man.

The carving is they think the name of the cook.

Again, so much to see and only a quick if still amazing surveying. I was exhausted and Heather and I retired to a pub, after a newly restored B-52 or something flew low above us, for a snack.  I had a salad and a pint; she had a burrito, which amused me as we were about as far from the home of the burrito as could be possible here on the seaside of Portsmouth.

Then we took a train back to London--a cleaner version of Amtrak, with nice tables upon which to read the Guardian, or some such paper. I spent the time looking out the window at the suburbs, many of them not unlike places along the Hudson. Big houses and restaurants.  It was after 8 thirty when we got back to the station and we were grateful for the cab to take us back to the Penn Club.

I had only one more full day in this astounding town in which I found myself so comfortable, and I would spend much of it walking and meeting up with Denise at her club, eating a lovely early dinner and then attending Mass at the Farm Street Catholic Church nearby, not far from Berkeley Square. And then we, she the lady of a certain age and me a somewhat younger lady of a certain age, joined the young English up and comers at a nearby pub. I had two pints, while she drank ginger ale, and realized that the English Beer is far more with alcoholic content than the average American beer.

The next day I would arrive at British Airways to find that they were overbooked, but somehow I managed to get on the flight, and on a bulkhead, tasking two Lorazepams and not being slightly calm as a result. Hypervigilant though I remained for 10 plus hours, it was a lovely quiet flight.

I was delighted to arrive home safely so I could share a few of the moments which so entranced me. It has taken me nearly the whole summer to write of the trip, and now, somehow, it seems so long ago.

I shall go back, I believe and this time, branch out to other places, like Ireland and France. Ireland first, I should think, where there are some members of my mother's family, we unknown to each other for now. I had the chance to go just this month, but there were many other things which made that difficult, and so I did not. The loss of a good friend and mentor, which was sad. And a new pair of 20 20 eyes (mine) which was a great revelation.

More to come from Los Angeles. . . .by way of Djinn from the Bronx!