London, full day
Today we got our bearings a bit. We started with a £5 breakfast that was not included in the price of our room and I’m not sorry about that because it means I don’t have to eat it. For my money, I got to choose from baskets of packaged snacks – yogurt, a granola bar, juice, packaged muffin, cookies – a veritable chemical feast of inert ingredients, designed to keep my flesh from rotting should I keel over. Our reaction was “bleagh” followed by “eeeeuuuuwww” when we peeked into the electric kettle and saw chunks of corrosion floating in the water.
After showers in the tiny bathroom, we eat a decent breakfast at Le Pan Quotidien in the San Pancras station. Well worth the expense.
From there we tube it to the V&A Museum, wearing our masks because we are paranoid Americans. We did not exit at street level but followed signs along a lengthy tunnel that rang with the cries and shrieks of a group of schoolchildren on an outing. Silently I prayed that they were headed for the Science Museum (they were) and we were the only two to traipse to the end of the line. This exit took us into a quietly beautiful gallery filled with sculptures and light.
The museum is dedicated to decorative art and craft in the highest sense. Statuary galore – greco-roman, medieval, religious – silent and cool, inviting the curious gaze. There are a few floors dedicated to Asia and Islam. We follow the maps and head to the top floor to see the pottery and it is….it’s…..cabinets?
Yep. Floor to almost ceiling glass cabinets crammed with pottery of every ilk. The cabinets and shelves are numbered but there’s no signage to tell us what we’re looking at. Imagine a giant antiques mart without the dust. It’s overwhelming. It’s uninteresting. It’s….a warehouse.
The warehouse analogy gives me some context and soothes my feelings. I’m able to hone in on a few details. I see a grotesque figure of a woman/beast reclining on a platform. There are many devil-faces. Some strikingly modern place settings. A full shelf of Royal Albert China. It’s mind blowing and worthless. Les remarks that it’s like someone just dumped a box of grandmother’s china, and it’s on display with no finesse.
The computer catalog is accessed with an industrial keyboard and I am a highly trained research librarian. But after a few minutes of trying keyword searches and cabinet/shelf combinations, I give up. We are not meant to learn from where the delicate pieceworked cup came. Perhaps that is intentional.
There are two special exhibits on tap – one is Beatrix Potter and we’re scheduled to visit her farm late in the trip – so we buy tickets and wander through a gallery of prints, letters, sketchbooks and first editions. Because we’ll be visiting her home later, this seems like the thing to do. I find a quiet bench and listen to a mother read The Story of Jemima Puddleduck in strongly accented english to her child while she nurses. It’s soothing.
Even with a map it’s easy to get lost at this museum. There are mysterious stairways that lead to obscure halls and you know you’re on the right floor but somehow you can’t get to the right gallery. The helpful volunteers are hanging out by the entrance and not the galleries. It’s exhausting.
We march through a gallery of impressive ironwork and admire a flying crucifix from above. Finally we find a working lift and emerge on the ground floor (aka ‘0’). We pick up wraps from a food stall and settle in on steps near the fountain. Toddlers are wading in and locals are sipping beverages from thermoses and reading on their lunch break. I would totally do this if I worked near here.
It’s weird how a mystery sandwich that I would never eat at home can taste so good on vacation. The Mediterranean wrap is edible, with some spice, and I think it’s a fine light lunch snack for a sunny interlude at the V&A.
We leave the museum feeling happy and board a tube for Liberty of London. Unfortunately, our directions are off and we disembark in Islington. By this time, my knee is inflamed and sore and I’m gimping quite a bit. After a lengthy walk we realize our error, find a bus and ride overground to San Pancras. We fall on the bed and collapse. Jet lag overcomes us and we sleep.
Around 5 we rouse and set out again, back on the Victoria Line to Oxford Circle. We arise from the underworld into light and noise and chaos and a million Union Jacks flapping in the breeze. As we try to get our bearings, I spy the timbered facade of Liberty and, tendonitis be damned, I dance down the street to nirvana.
Liberty is history. It is craft. It is a full on brand experience. Things cost way more than we are willing to spend. In 1990 the store sold beautiful accessories at an affordable price. The accessories are no more and a scarf starts at £175. I can’t. I could? I won’t. We slowly explore the fabric floor and I feast upon tana lawn and cotton challis fabrics. They glide under my fingertips and beg to come to America. It’s only £40 a yard! (a meter?) With my meager sewing skills, I can’t justify the cost. I leave with empty hands.
We are at the top of Carnaby Street – fabled for the trendiest of fashions in the swinging 60’s. There are high end shops and lots of tourists. A line of people are queued up at Birkenstock. I leave Les to capture a photo of a psychadelic mural high on a building and peer up and down the block at the Rolling Stone store (large red glitter tongue), Fendi, Swatch (corgi at attention) and more. We decide to find Whittard’s of Chelsea for gift tea and head down Regency Street which is awash in flags and bunting and lined with high end shops: Gucci, Versace, Burberry, Kate Spade – you name it, it’s here. It’s aspirational? The opulence is wasted on me, I’m not that fashionable and I’m unwilling to throw money at goods that will depreciate as soon as I touch them. Several blocks later we find Whittards, about to close, and pick up a tin of English Rose tea for a work friend.
Then it’s time to figure out dinner. Most places are hopping and we’re offered wait times of 45-90 minutes. Wearily, we board the tube and exit at San P. We trudge up the hill behind the station where we’ve been told there are many many restaurants and options. It’s a newly built mixed use area of offices, shops, restaurants, greenscapes, fountains…reservations only. This is an area designed for the new tech workers of Google and Warner Music, both of which have high profile digs on the mall. These restaurants are all booked and have zero room for tourists who didn’t make a reservation. We reverse our journey and walk into an Italian joint inside San Pancras. I don’t care what the price is. I just want to eat and have someone bring me food.
Dinner exceeds my expectations. I have a solid piece of seared cod on a bed of mussels and Les has a seafood pasta. We enjoy bitter Italian beer and slowly start to unwind. It is a good end to the day.
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 