An Atypical Tourist

Matilda, based on the book by Roald Dahl

I love to travel and I love to do the touristy things but what I really love is getting off the beaten path and doing non-touristy things.  Which is why, on my first full day in London, I was taking the Tube out to Leytonstone for a voice lesson with Jane Streeton.  Who goes to another country for a voice lesson?  I do, apparently.

And it was on Jane's recommendation that I bought a ticket for a West End musical, "Matilda."  West End musicals, those are typical for tourists in London, yes?  Of course, part of what really excited me about going was that the theatre was at the Seven Dials.  What's the Seven Dials, you ask?  It's an intersection of seven streets and the reason I wanted to see it was that the area was mentioned in an Agatha Christie mystery (I have a little bit of a thing with Agatha Christie mysteries; as a teenager, I collected them and I still have quite a few).

The Seven Dials

 

 

Apparently, I'm also the kind of tourist who will seek out a location mentioned in a book, even if there is nothing else to recommend the location.  No historical fact, no great happening.  It was in a book, that's good enough for me.  When I was still in Bath, I reveled in walking down streets that had been mentioned in an Austen novel.  Milsom Street, Westgate Buildings; part of the reason I chose my hotel was because it was off of Laura Place.  Later in my stay in London, I sought out Gracechurch Street and Cheapside, because Elizabeth Bennet's aunt and uncle had lived there.  I like knowing that these places existed and are real.  It makes the stories and novels seem true, as if they really happened or, at least, could have happened.

Even Matilda could not escape this peculiar facet of my tourist persona.  Sure, I heard about it from Jane (Streeton, not Austen) and she recommended it based on the press reviews, but the other reason I was excited to see it (aside from the theatre being in the Seven Dials) was that it was based on one of my favorite childhood books, "Matilda" by Roald Dahl.  If you haven't guessed by now, I'm a bit of a bookworm.

The Borough Market

Well, after my waxing eloquent on literary locations, I'm almost rather embarrassed to say, later that day, I went to the Borough Market in Southwark 'cause I saw it on TV, well, Netflix.  Yep, it's mentioned several times on a Jamie Oliver show and since I like farmers markets and buying locally, I felt I just had to check it out.  It was bustling and lovely and I wish I could go every week.  I actually spent an inordinate amount of time in the Market, trying to get my bearings.  I kept getting turned around and coming out of where I didn't want to be.  Looking back on it, it was a little like The Maze (another book!), except with food.

Speaking of food, I found the best pie stall (http://www.pieminister.co.uk/) and the cutest, most delicious shortbread owls you have ever eaten.  Mmmm... so tasty!  I think I need to start making pot pies at home.  Especially if I can recreate the Heidi (goat cheese, spinach and sweet potato); I definitely want a copy of their cookbook.  Both of the stalls sell online and deliver but not overseas (pout), unless you are David Beckham, in which case, Pieminister will deliver to the US (then again, if you are David Beckham, you can pretty much get anything you want, anywhere you want).  There was also a nice little stall selling chai tea but I can't remember the stall's name.  It might have something to do with my spilling my chai all over their table and, after helping them clean it up, fleeing in embarrassment.  Or not.

Southwark Cathedral

Before I left Southwark, I spent some time at the Southwark Cathedral, first sitting outside, listening to the bells peal, and then stepping inside the cathedral for a quick walk around the sanctuary.  Incidentally, Southwark Cathedral, though not mentioned in any book I've read, still has numerous literary connections, associated with Chaucer, Dickens, Jonson, Harvard and Shakespeare, to name a few.

It's not an optical illusion - the church is crooked.

Southwark Cathedral was the first church I visited in England.  A graduation ceremony had just ended so the sanctuary was filled with chairs and people lingered here and there, chatting, taking photos.  I did my best not to get in anyone's way, while taking a few photos of my own.  The cathedral has a unique feature.  Most churches and cathedrals built with a traditional or medieval floor plan, are built in the shape of a cross with the entrance at or near the base of the cross.  Though Southwark also follows this model, the cathedral is slightly crooked.  When you stand in the nave, looking towards the altar, or along one of the side aisles, you can clearly see the sanctuary turning ever so slightly to your left.  It's not a mistake, the building hasn't settled and although it was heavily damaged in the Blitz, that's not the reason either.  No, the building was deliberately built crooked to remind us of Christ's body, broken on the cross.  To me, this is yet one more example of how cathedral and church architecture was used to aid worship.  I know any place can be a sacred space but there is something about the lofty space of a well-built cathedral, the arches drawing my eyes up, the very shape of the space, that seems to speak to my soul.

And so it was, after taking a moment to pray and light a candle, that I left the cathedral feeling refreshed after my long day traversing London and went home, to feed my soul in another way.

 I ate my Heidi pie.

My first view of St. Paul's, across the river from Southwark.

An American Thanksgiving in England

I celebrated American Thanksgiving last November by eating a full English breakfast.  I even ate some of the mushrooms.  My family will know how amazing it was that I even let a mushroom touch my lips (the mushrooms were somewhere between meh and all right; I still don't really care for them).

On the train to London

After breakfast, I packed my bags, did some last-minute wandering and shopping (souvenirs and Christmas; killed two birds with one stone) and hopped on a train bound for Paddington Station.  My time in Bath had been refreshing, a good stop-over as I acclimated to the time and vacation mind-set.  I look forward to going back and maybe spending a few days in the archives at the Fashion Museum or taking a picnic lunch on the full Skyline walk.  I'd be happy just to wander the streets again.

But, onward to London!  I had booked a "cheap and cheerful" (translation: budget) studio flat just north of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park.  The flat was located on the fourth floor of a rather ugly modern building with a narrow closet of a lift.  I have vague memories of getting momentarily stuck in a lift the same size while in Rome.  I chose to take the stairs.   Besides, since I didn't bring my running gear, I had to get my exercise in somehow.

The flat itself was cozy and simply decorated.  There was a kitchenette if I wanted to make my own meals although I'll admit, other than cheese sandwiches for picnic lunches and cereal in the mornings, I didn't do any cooking.  The bathroom was small but not as small as some I've seen and it had a nice deep tub.  All in all, the flat was nice enough that I was comfortable and felt safe on my own but not so nice that I felt obligated to spend more time in the flat to get my money's worth.

Passing under the Carriage Drive
on the Hyde Park side.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived but at that latitude, the sun was already low in the sky.  I had nothing planned for the evening so I just decided to go for a stroll through the Park and see where my feet led me.  They led me through Hyde Park, under the Carriage Drive, along the Long Water, with ducks and geese and swans and birds I don't know the names of galore.  I walked through the Winter Wonderland fair (heard a lot of Bing Crosby crooning over crowds) and past a beautiful steam engine on display.

My family has a thing for trains and though I may not know all the details about how a steam engine works, I still find them beautiful.  So, when I saw this beauty, I took a couple of pictures.  I didn't know why it was on display, if it was a permanent exhibit or part of the Winter Wonderland.  It was my dad who actually Googled the engine number later and found that it had a long history, built in the 1930s but gained stardom in the last decade as none other than the "Hogwarts Express".  That's right, even without meaning to, I visited a Harry Potter artifact.  I only wish that I had known what it was at the time. 

All aboard the Hogwarts Express!

By the time I exited the Park, the sun had set and  it was beginning to get dark.  My feet continued down Constitution Hill, past Buckingham Palace (hello, your majesty) and onward to Westminster and that iconic landmark, Big Ben.

Not the clock,
Nor the tower,
But the bell that tolls the hour.

Standing on Westminster Bridge

So the rhyme goes.  I didn't hear it toll that night as I was getting hungry (a full English breakfast will last you a long time but eventually, you do get hungry again) and I didn't stick around long enough to hear the bell toll.  I did mug for my camera in front of the famed clock tower and was asked to take someone's photo with their camera.  I chickened out on asking anyone to take mine.  Good thing I have long arms; I ended up taking most of my pictures of me myself.  I really need to work on that whole asking thing for my next trip.

I followed Whitehall to Trafalgar Square with the idea of finding someplace to eat.  I settled on the Cafe in the Crypt at St. Martin in the Fields where I had more non-traditional Thanksgiving fare in a very non-traditional setting.   Porkchops and veggies, cream of broccoli soup and apple crumble with custard (Porkchops, huh?), eaten over someone's gravestone.  It's not called Cafe in the Crypt for nothing. 

Have to say, it was both cool and disconcerting.  I felt disrespectful scooting my chair in as it scraped across a stone set in the floor (pardon me, so-and-so, didn't see your gravestone there).  At the same time, it intrigued me and I wondered about the nameless people (the names and dates were almost completely illegible due to time and wear) who were buried below me.  I wondered what their stories were; this was the closest thing to a monument they got.  It's a puzzlement.

OK, off-topic confession: I seriously fell in love with the apple crumble and custard.  More than once, I went to the Cafe during the week, just to have the custard.  Don't ask me why; I wouldn't be able to tell you.  Something about the sweet custardy-goodness over crispy crumbley crust and apples... yum.

Not a bad view, even if it was a choral concert
 and not an organ recital.

As I had entered the Cafe, I had seen adverts for a performance for that evening of Mozart's Requiem at St. Martin in the Fields and after stuffing myself silly, I went to the ticket counter to inquire about tickets.  They still had tickets available, though only for seats with obstructed views and/or no views.  My response? I don't need to see as long as I can hear.  And boy, did I hear.  It was a perfect way to end my first night in London, listening to the beautiful choral strains of Mozart.

A Year Later

It's been a year since Northern Japan was struck with one of the largest earthquakes ever recorded.  It's been a year since a devastating tsunami swept inland and wiped towns and villages off the map.  It's been a year since the Fukushima Dai-Ichi nuclear plant went into melt-down and sparked the worst nuclear disaster in history.

I remember watching video after video last year, unable to turn away, my heart in my throat.  I remember thinking, it all looked so unreal.  We watch movies and marvel at special effects that look real; here I was, watching something so horrifyingly real, I couldn't comprehend.

Watching the videos of the tsunami last year, I was struck, not only by the horrific scenes being carried out before my eyes, but also the sounds.  Cars scraping and crunching together; houses and buildings sliding away and the constant sound of rushing, black water.  I had never imagined the sounds that would accompany such destruction.  These were not videos shot from a safe distance, high above; these were in the thick of it, to the point that you wondered how the person filming it even survived and you watched, worrying that the witness would get swept away.

The images that followed, the mountains of debris, the crumpled houses, the boats left on dry land or even on top of buildings defied belief.  I got constant email and Facebook updates from friends and family in Japan, describing in chilling detail how awful it was and yet saying that it was even worse, that it couldn't be described, it had to be seen to believed.  Well, we did see and we still couldn't believe.  We saw an apocalyptic landscape beyond anything anyone could have imagined and we couldn't comprehend.

In recent days, newspapers have been publishing photos showing how far the clean-up has come.  The more recent photos of cleaned up areas only seem to emphasize how total, how complete, the destruction was.  What had once been neighborhoods, with tidy houses and postage-sized gardens, you first saw piles of debris filling the screen; the next shot, the debris cleared, you could see for miles, as if the neighborhoods had never been.

There were scenes of hope as well.  A woman, looking dazed and shell-shocked in one photo, reunited with her little boy in another.  A road, sunken and broken, remade.  Children going back to school.  There are signs of life, signs of rebuilding, but they are small and quiet.

Silence, where once there was sound, is deafening.  Vast space, where once there was life, is crushing.  I imagine the silent emptiness and my heart still breaks for this country and its people.  I dream of seeing Japan rebuilt and thriving again but, like so many of those who are still living this triple-disaster, I wonder how long it will take.  The only thing I know for sure, it may take longer than the world is willing to remember but, I can promise the people of Japan, some of us will never, ever forget.

My thoughts and prayers will always be with you, people of Tohoku.  I believe you will prevail.  Ganbare!

P.S. I'm still making pins in support of the rebuilding efforts in Japan.  If you would like a pin, please click on the link below to donate to MercyCorps.

https://www.mercycorps.org/fundraising/lynelletarter

ありがとうございます。(Thank you very much).

Finishing Bath - Day 3, part 2

Bath was my "pillow" city, the place where I got my bearings as I adjusted to the time difference.  My long walk on the Skyline Path the day before meant I missed breakfast at the hotel.  Instead, I had breakfast at a lovely little cafe, tucked underneath the Pulteney Bridge, down the stairs I had explored my first night, and spent the rest of the day basking in the beauty of Bath and enjoying the excellent Fashion Museum.  I spent nearly as much time in the gift shop as I did in the museum, trying to restrain myself from buying the entire shop (I was good, I only bought two books).

The Assembly Rooms (current home of the Fashion Museum)

For a few minutes, while I poked my head in the Assembly Rooms above the Fashion Museum, I imagined ladies dressed in long white gowns (for white muslin was the thing in Jane's time) and men in evening dress, everything all politeness.  But it was too nice a day to stay indoors and I followed my feet back outside to wander some more.

For most of the day, I just wandered.  It was relaxing to have no plans, no schedule to keep, no work to do.  My autumn was a stressful one, filled with lots of things, constantly going from one thing to the next.  This was my chance to just be and I grabbed it with both hands.

The elegant facade of the Royal Circus...

 I ambled through the Circus and around the Royal Crescent.  The Royal Crescent makes me think of Jane Austen novels.  The Crescent was never mentioned in any of her novels, as near as I can tell, but the idea of them seems the epitome of a Jane Austen novel.  So elegant, genteel and refined on the face of it, with class and breeding on display.  All the while, what lies behind is cluttered, angles and rooms and walls going every which way.  Looking at the Crescent from behind, I was struck by how gossipy it looked, as if an elegant lady was hiding her giggles behind her hand or fan.

... the less elegant, but just as interesting, rear.

For the rest of my trip, I found myself fascinated with the "behind" as well as the "front".  Oh, as an aside, that was my one complaint with the Fashion Museum.  Too often, the aspect or detail of a garment that intrigued me was the part that was hidden from view.  I have to get back there and actually book a study table so I can really examine the beautiful garments they have.

Finally, I ended my day with tea at the Regency Tea Room.  Located above the Jane Austen Center, the tea room was the perfect ending to a lovely day.  A couple of scones, some rhubarb-ginger jam, a cup of tea and...

... Colin Firth.

Following the Breezy Call - Day Three

"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers..." ~Thomas Gray

I had little planned for my time in Bath.  Sure, as a Jane Austen fan, I could go to the Jane Austen Center but I'm also a Rick Steves fan and his book didn't rate the Jane Austen Center as a must see.  Anyway, I'd heard or read that Jane didn't particularly liked Bath so I wasn't really there for her.

Now, a friend who has been to Bath (and knows me really well) did recommend the Fashion Museum and that I did see.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I found a unique benefit to traveling to England in November.  Sure, the daylight hours are more limited but that also means, you don't have to get up before 5 am to watch the sun rise.  And watching the sun rise over the "antique towers" of Bath (yes, I know Gray was talking about Eton College but I think the terms apply here) was amazing.

I woke about 6:30 and slipped out of the hotel a little after 7.  Before I left the States, I had thoughts of running while on vacation.  Sadly, my running gear didn't fit in my suitcase (I was determined to stick to carry-on size) but I had done some research into where I would have run and in my research, I found something called the Bath Skyline Walk.

The Bath Skyline Walk is a walk of about 6 miles that meanders across various fields, by-ways and hidden places.  It shows you expansive views of Bath and narrow paths.  You'll be joined by locals, walking their dogs, and, maybe even a cow or two (make sure you wear boots, I was really glad I did).

I wanted to get back to the hotel in time for breakfast so I chose to follow the shorter route 3 milr route as opposed to the longer 6 mile route.  It took a little bit of switching back and forth between GoogleMaps and the National Trust map of the walk to get my bearings but just when I was about to despair that I wouldn't find the the trail, there it was.  A tiny little National Trust plaque with an equally small arrow by a kissing gate on Bathwick Hill, just opposite Cleveland Walk.  Now secure, I made my way through the gate.  And found two different paths going in slightly different directions.

I chose the path that seemed to go in the direction I wanted; I needn't have worried.  The paths converged at the next gate.  The path then led through several fields and gates, each with its own view of Bath glowing in the rising sun, its own view of neon pink clouds set against a slowly brightening violet sky.  I found a small farmhouse tucked away in a narrow little valley, never mind that it's on the map.  I still feel as if I discovered it.

I kept my eyes open wide so as to see anything and everything.  I took pictures left and right, up and down.  Whatever caught my eye, I captured, as a photograph, as a memory, no matter if it was lofty or ordinary.  It all seemed extraordinary to me.  A bright red mailbox, set in stone.  The engineering required to build a stone wall with no mortar.  Cables radiating from a pole, against a crystal blue sky.  It was all beautiful to me.

Once past the fields and downs, I was joined by commuters and school children on the paths.  Can't say I would mind walking that route to work everyday.  The path led to narrow backstreets and then I walked past the University and the golf club.

There I found the last main sight on the Skyline walk before descending back into Bath, Sham Castle.  Sham Castle is literally a fake castle, a folly.  And folly is the perfect word to describe Sham Castle.  A single turreted wall, set in a field, reportedly built to "improve the prospect" of a wealthy Bath homeowner.  It just seemed silly.

However, as I stood there, looking at this wall, in a field, no real castle to be seen, I was struck by a sense of whimsy.  The sun seemed to be shining on one side of the wall but not on the other.  The grass really seemed to glow a brighter green on the other side.  It made me think of Narnia and all the gates to other worlds that existed in the Narnia books and for a second, I wondered a couple of things.

One, did C. S. Lewis ever walk the Skyline path?

Two, what would happen if I walked through the gate?  Would I still be in Bath?  Or would I be transported to another, magical world?  Or even worse, what if I wasn't and the magic spell was broken?

I chose not to break the spell, I didn't want to lose the magic.  Besides, I had already walked through the magical door, that morning when I followed "the breezy call of incense-breathing morn, the swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed" (Thomas Gray, Elegy) and found myself tracing steps that dreamers have followed for years.