When I signed up for the tour, I saw that we had “several hours” in Liverpool between Wales and Cumberland and I immediate hit the travel sites to see what we would do with our unprogrammed time.
The Beatles, obviously. Or the Tate Museum. Or the International Slavery Museum….as I read those words a chill went up my spine. Of course I had to visit that exhibit. Every fiber of my being said I had to visit it. Fortunately my progressive husband (who also likes the Beatles) didn’t argue; he was all for it, even as I second guessed myself and wondered why on earth would I want to see such a place while on vacation.
My world perspective was rocked. First, by the accounts of modern people, from every race and country, who had been sold or trafficked into slavery.
Second, by the well documented section on the historical global slave trade, which for the first time made me realize the economic impact of the practice. The untold wealth generated by unpaid humans who were ripped from their homes and bred to provide an unending supply of more workers.
The last few years have brought media attention to economic injustice and the racist institutions that perpetuate generational poverty – I’m not an expert nor am I personally affected by this. But I know that it exists, and the exhibit at this museum brought home the truth.
I’ve heard a lot of people dismiss U.S. Slavery by saying “well, slavery still happens today” like that cancels out the past. It doesn’t. It can’t be swept aside like it’s history with no lasting impact.
It’s a big issue and I have no answers for fixing it, but I am learning. I appreciate the opportunity to learn. It was so important for me to know this.
And when I was shaking with rage and horror, I went to second floor to the Titanic exhibit to cheer up. It was that impactful.
Our local guide is charming and knowledgeable with a great storyteller’s vibe. He mixes Welsh and English and gives us a “potted history” of the country peppered with side comments about how it has been portrayed in film. Note: I hadn’t heard of a “potted history” and thought it had to do with alcohol. It refers to a shortened version of the whole story. More than a summary, less than a chapter. I like my definition better.
Castle Conwy is well preserved by the National Trust and Unesco and it’s fascinating to walk where King Edward surveyed his perimeter. Lots of twists and turns and it must have been cold back in the day. We recognize the “ringed defense” architecture that we saw at Windsor and admire the defensible walls. The day is sunny and clear and it’s all very satisfying. We get the overview and a lot of history and then have time to explore. Les checks out the tower and I pick my away along the stone walls, leaning on my cane to stay upright. Fire knee is well braced and the cane is a necessity. I’m able to move about quite freely without pain so I’m a happy girl.
Conwy Castle – defended by fewer than 25 men
The vistas are marvelous and the site isn’t crowded and there are windy stone stairs and hidden chapels and a few unexpected sculptures. It is all good.
We scatter for lunch and Les and I decide on a tea room close to our next destination. The proprietor is on her own thanks to Covid and labor issues but she welcomes us in and feeds us in good time to make our next stop. Les and I try the Welsh Rarebit which is not what I thought it would be, but delicious nonetheless. (It’s a cheese sauce on brown toast. A bit soggy) We’re table sharing with a couple from our tour and they are slugging down massive milkshakes and cheese and pickle sandwiches. I’m maybe a bit envious.
Our next stop is the “Tudor House” which was, you guessed it, built in Tudor times by a gentleman who worked for the court and accepted a lot of coin for access to the people in power (okay, it wasn’t said quite like that, but that’s the gist). He also went to the continent for soldier duties and had seen the glories of Rome and Greece. When he retired to Wales, he built a substantial home for his sweetheart and eventual family. Alas, she died, but he found a new wife with the same initial (he had worked her initial into the decorative plaster walls) and it all worked out. The house was completed in 1577 or thereabouts.
My initial! That could have been ME
It is airy and prosperous, lots of rooms, and I am quite taken with the plaster motifs and decorations. The owner really liked the caryatids in Rome and sketched out the general idea for his Welsh craftsmen. The result is a primitive homage. Paint choices take it up several notches and it’s a bit grotesque….a lot groteseque….but very lively. I take a number of pictures and hope that the owner lived a long and happy life.
TBH these were shocking at first sight, then I decided to be charmed
Check out the Welsh Baker to try these in the U.S.
After the tour we pause at a local bakery where I snag a few Welsh Cakes – there’s a place in Southern California that bakes and sells them and I want to compare. I also grab an “Eccles cake” because I’ve never had one.
The evening is capped with a concert by a talented Welsh harpist who entertains with a wide range of medieval songs, classical tunes and jazz. Our guide cajoles us into buying her CDs and we are happy to oblige. Les mentions to her that her style reminds us of Rodrigo y Gabriela and she knows of them! She says she’s tried to blend their percussion into her more modern pieces and we part with the glow of mutual appreciation.
Wales rocks.
View from the interiorUndated but so beautiful; it certainly could be a Tudor era embroideryI was quite taken with the plasterworkThe knee says “no” (sigh)Back at the hotel….the most elegant set up
Food on the road is very inflammatory and my joints are feeling it. Lots of bread and potatoes, tons of sweets, the milk that makes the tea palatable, the two sugars that do the same….my knees ache and the deep gnaw of arthritis has begun. Sigh.
Yesterday we boarded our motorcoach for a long trek to Wales. Our driver had been on the job six months and lacked confidence. I heard him muttering about Google maps and sent a brief prayer that we would arrive in grace and good health.
The bus was quiet as 22 seniors caught up on sleep.
I was out for about 90 minutes and then my body rebelled against constriction and I had to get that seatbelt off and I felt a bit queasy and and…I wriggled in my tight window seat searching for a comfortable position but was unsuccessful.
Fortunately I had listened to my inner voice and picked up an extra croissant at breakfast. That distracted me and helped settle my stomach. A sip of water helped as well and then I tuned into the sad story of Tim the driver. He felt like he was doing a terrible job and not representing his company very well and perhaps he should just chuck it all. Our leader spoke to him in bracing terms, saying that the job would get easier and she was certain he’d get the hang of it. “Just project confidence” she told him. Tim was unconvinced.
A foreseen consequence of Brexit was that foreign workers found it difficult to get through the paperwork et al in order to stay employed in the UK. Covid drove many of them home and they weren’t flocking back. It’s fine to complain about “foreigners taking our jobs” but the locals aren’t picking up the slack. Restaurants are short staffed. Tube stations are shut down. Shops can’t stay open. The effects are everywhere.
Tim drops us off in Chester, which is an ancient town noted for its splendid cathedral and many historical sites. It is a walled city that served as a border town between the Brits and the Welsh. I’m a big fan of the Romans and I am thrilled to be in proximity of Roman Ruins – an ampitheater, some walls, a few mosaics. So much history! It is deeply satisfying.
The city is a blend of old and new. There are actual Tudor-era buildings and the town was a popular tourist destination during the Victorian era. The cathedral is vast and highly ornamented. The streets are a mixture of ancient and Victorian cobblestones. My eyes can’t settle but I know Les is capturing it all, from multiple angles and exposures.
There is a famous Chester clock atop the West Gate but another imposing clock has a humorous story. I am told that the square clock tower has three clock faces – one to Ireland, one to Scotland, one to Britain and none to Wales because “we don’t give them the time of day.”
We have a delightful ploughman’s lunch in a pub before exploring the cathedral interior. Then we find our group and tour bus and continue into Wales. Tim has been replaced by another, more confident driver and a new motorcoach. Adventures!!
Our hotel is on the water and it feels like a holiday beach town, with older and fancier buildings. After dinner, Les and I cross the street and enjoy the final moments of an outdoor concert. The sun is setting and the water sparkles – it’s beautiful and reminds me a bit of summer in Seattle. The evening lasts longer, the sun shimmers and bed is impossible. We trek along the bay and enjoy the fresh air and the snap of flags in the evening breeze. Wales is great!
Chester CathedralRoman mosaic – the lighter grey is the restored sectionChester was a walled city (and now I’ve seen a weir!)I am partial to mosaicsA “ploughman’s lunch” Public ArtWales – the viewThe hotelAfter the concert
Her legacy is three very different children on wildly divergent paths.
A woman who was ahead of her time yet very much part of her time left:
A daughter who is self-reliant, ruthlessly pragmatic, a veritable mama bear with her children. She left home at an early age and carved her own path
A daughter who stayed home, went to school, got the degree Mary wanted*, married a man who was definitely not what her parents had in mind, and who did not provide grandchildren
*”I wanted to be a librarian but my mom wouldn’t let me. You know, old maids and their cats”
A son whom no one understood, under-loved, determined to do his own thing while shouting loudly for a place to belong
She said in an interview that she was most proud of her children, which suprised at least one of us. I never thought she noticed.
My mom was born with cataracts in both eyes and curly untameable hair. She had a go for broke attitude and was quite matter of fact that “Dad didn’t want kids”. (This shaped her response to her own children and was really difficult for her youngest)
She and her sister worked from a young age; a notable job was in a vitamin factory. “Mom made us change clothes on the porch because we smelled so bad.” There was an extended Italian family that made wine in the bathtub and a step-grandfather who resigned from the Los Angeles City Council after accepting bribes. (He was exiled to the midwest for a few years since my grandmother worked for the head of the IRS in LA and her parent’s disgrace was a little too much).
Mom was visiting her grandmother in North Hollywood on December 7, 1941 and her parents had her return home because of fears that the southland would be under attack too. She swears that Long Beach was bombed and that it was covered up so as not to scare the populace. I think her immediate family was safe from being sent overseas and she remembers her Italian grandparents visiting the Italian POWs at Santa Anita. “They didn’t just put the Japanese in camps” This is the kind of detail you don’t learn about in school.
Post-War, she and her sister entered the Southern California Catholic Youth Marriage Mart (aka the Claret Club) where they met their first and only husbands. My mom served as secretary and fell in love with the club president. The Claret Club is also notable for the lasting friendships formed there – in Mary’s circle there were Pat and Bob and Carol and Larry and Barbara and Paul and the Dupuis….lasting friendships, and the Swift-Sands-Rizzi trio lasted until death.
Mary and Fran lived in numerous houses as Fran pursued a real estate career. Mary worked as a secretary and started her family. First up was Linda Ann Swift, a Valentine’s baby. In the Catholic tradition, she was joined by Deborah Jean Swift a year later (on Pearl Harbor Day) and as far as Mary was concerned, the family was complete. God had other plans, and sent Jonathan Moor Swift (Thanksgiving) as the heir and son. After that, Mary defied the church and went on birth control – she knew her emotional and economic limits and three children were enough!
Fran became a teacher and Mary continued to work. They formed a tight knit group with the Sands and the Rizzis and there were many barbecues and beach days and backyard gatherings with all the kids. The post war baby boom was ON but all the turmoil and social changes seemed to happen outside our bubble. Vietnam, riots, hippies and Japanese cars were present in the news but not in our home.
Mary’s career: you might think that being a secretary is a low key, boring, administrative position. But Mary was in the right place at the right time and she wanted stimulation and challenges. She learned how to send overseas documents using the “TWX” and “Telex” machines, was trained on a Wang Word Processor, had ownership of the company FAX machine, and treated her bosses like kings. Every Christmas she brought huge Tupperware bowls of guacamole made with our home grown avocados and every year the bowls were empty by lunchtime. She adored the attention. She was one of the youngest people to get cataract surgery in the 70’s and it changed her life because now she could drive Heady times.
She decided to learn how to make new friends before she retired and volunteered on the Monrovia Days committee. She moved Dad to Green Valley Arizona where his childhood friend had retired and her sister and a few friends followed. She learned to use the Internet and email and persuaded Dad to join the Elks club so she’d have a place to play Bingo. They built a new home in a new development that was filled with light inside and an eclectic fruit/vegetable/cactus garden outside. They explored Southern Arizona and fell in love with the desert. No visit was complete without a trip to Tubac or Tohono Chul or Madera Canyon.
Dad passed away in 2002 and, as she predicted, mom’s friends rallied around to support her. “I want to move to a place where they know what to do when your husband dies” she told me. And they did.
At this point, her children learned that mom was quite impulsive and just how much of a calming influence dad had been. Within six months she bought a smaller house with a tiny yard that she felt she could manage. It was the first time she’d ever lived on her own and she was determined to do so on her own terms.
Mom continued to be active with the Elks and her church. She visited her friends and family in California and supported Carol and Pat when their husbands died. She loved and was proud of her grandchildren. Linda would visit and they’d do road trips and attractions, Debbie visited and went shopping and read, Jon visited and fixed things around the house. It was a good life.
We are very grateful to Pat Rizzi who, in her last days, encouraged Mom to move back to California to be closer to her children. It was a whirlwind declaration – “I’m selling the house, oh, the house sold and I need to move out in a few weeks” – but the family rallied and got her to California. (There are stories, but they probably won’t be funny for another decade or so.)
She settled into an assisted living facility near Linda who took on the yeoman role of managing her life. Linda balanced oversight and interference masterfully and got Mom on track with finances and health.
Mom died a few years ago – she had a heart attack, called the paramedics and coded on the way to the hospital. They revived her and put her on track for a lingering, managed death. Linda fought with the doctors to change the situation and with the help of Patricia Sands, got her into a rehabilitation center where she started to mend.
I honestly think that episode was a gift because it forced her children to work together and broke down the walls that develop between siblings when they grow up. I made a vow that I would stand with my big sister and support her however I could. Mom had a tendency to play her children against each other and we decided there would be no more secrets, no hurt feelings and no brokered communication. I am so happy we came together. It’s made the last few years so much easier.
This final journey isn’t my journey. It’s not Linda’s journey, or Jon’s. The final days in your life belong to you alone as your body winds down and your soul journeys toward God. As her daughter, my role is to ensure she has the medical support she needs and that she knows how much I love, appreciate and honor her – she gave me life and I would not be Debbie without her influence.
Mary, Mom, Mumsy, Mamacita, Mi Madre, Tu Madre, Maritza, Mary. Go swiftly and easily to your home. Say hi to the gang.
(Santa is still our tour guide, so a bit light on facts).
Gentle rolling hills carpeted with lush green grass, bisected by hedgerows and low stone walls.
Honey colored limestone buildings that proclaim “you are in the Cotswolds” (There is a cozy mystery series set in the Cotswolds and the protagonist always describes herself as living in the ‘honey colored cottage my aunt left me’ so this is imprinted on my brain now.)
The area was settled by the Conqueror. It is bucolic, prosperous and the site of a million British cozies. (One of the sisters thinks I’m referring to tea cozies and I’m not going to correct her).
There are spare angular Norman buildings with implacable flat facades.
And beautifully curved arches and saints and noblemen gazing down.
At some point the Victorians moved in and decorated the place.
Artists, craftspeople, poets descended and drew inspiration from the beauty of the English countryside. My soul is stretching and loosening under its aspect.
Such a beautiful corner of the world.
And dogs, so many dogs.
They outnumber children and shops offer dog incentives – a favorite seems to be a scoop of puppy ice cream. The Brits love their dogs.
Chipping Camden, Broad Way and Stow-in-Wye – charming villages with little to see but so much to discover.
A restful day. Tonight we do laundry and tomorrow…..Wales!
VERY Smart WaterAnd if you don’t obey, the Smart Water will come for youThis is for sale but out of my range
Straight talk: Stratford on Avon is less amazeballs than I expected. It’s a tourist town filled with postcards and bric a brac and tea shoppes all up and down the streets. There are Shakespearean quotes everywhere and street performers busking for a quid or two. The damp weather doesn’t help and I feel a bit steamy in my triple layers.
Me and Les and the Bard himself
Shakespeare’s birthplace is interesting as his rise to fame and fortune. He was from a solidly middle class family. Married a woman 6 years older. Had multiple children, most of whom died young. The rooms are low and small and yet were undoubtably comfortable for the period. Once again I skim, admire, move on. My husband reads every caption and dutifully photographs objects in low light.
The garden is enchanting – a beautifully layered mix of grasses and flowers. Roses climb the building walls – flat, single blooms in pink and deep red. It’s envy-inducing. California doesn’t grow like this.
I see wattle and daub and learn what a “tester bed” is – more phrases from my reading.
The “new home” on the site of the “original home” is well documented, much treasured and a fitting tribute to the town’s favorite son. It is artistic and literary and as rain begins falling, very atmospheric.
The “knot garden”
Our group is mostly docile, dripping, milling about. We have finished the new home and are waiting for an on-off bus in the mizzle. Our tour escort leaves us with Santa as she has food poisoning and needs to sort that out with a chemist. Santa is not so good with logistics or planning and he’s got 20 tourists hanging out waiting for something to happen. His anecdotes are no substitute for actual facts and the group is getting restless. Some of the ladies smell blood in the water and are attacking him with pointed questions about the bard.
After a lengthy wait we board a bus and are commanded by the operator to put on special headphones so we can hear the commentary. She’s not taking no for an answer and she’s not sharing personal information. We learn about commerce, the plague and how people handled illness in those days. (They tended to die) We are learning about Elizabethan life and it’s grim, let me tell you. My tour companions are delighted. I nap against Les’ shoulder.
Mrs. Shakespeare’s family home
Our group disembarks at Anne Hathaway’s cottage which is beautifully landscaped and very well preserved. The house has low doorways and period furniture and knowledgeable docents. It’s an interesting 20 minute tour and then we are ready to return to town for promised free time. Unfortunately we don’t have individual bus tickets to get back. Also unfortunately the next bus driver doesn’t know Santa and won’t let anyone on without a ticket. Our group reassembles at the bus stop and waits grumpily for Santa to join us and get us on the next bus, which is about a 30 minute wait. It’s raining again and no one wants to walk a mile back to town. We are hungry and damp and a bit mutinous but there aren’t a lot of options.
Finally our chariot arrives and we slog into seats and doze back to the town. Everyone hares off in different directions. The Connecticut faction is looking for the oldest pub in town. The sisters meander off the main drag. I drag Les in the opposite direction because my mood isn’t great and I need food and no distractions. We duck into a café that luckily serves “afternoon tea for one” with a nice selection of sandwiches and meat pies for those otherwise inclined. Hot milky tea and a ginormous scone with Devonshire cream and jam go a long way to lifting my mood. In good spirits we return to our lodging.
Very satisfying and much needed!
Dinner is early and on the far side of town at the Royal Shakespeare Company. The good news is they are willing to open up and serve us dinner. The bad news is that the company is on break and there will be no behind the scenes tour or performance. The weather, which has been mizzling on and off all day, morphs into a driving rain. We huddle in the doorway and await admittance. Santa entertains us with more stories, namedrops Judi Dench and does a little soft shoe to accompany a vaudeville song. The mutinous spirit returns but just in time we are let in, ushered past the gift shop which remains closed, and seated upstairs in a nice restaurant with a great view of the river being bombarded with buckets of rain. Dinner is not amazing:
The starter is a “fish cake” topped with a poached egg and hollandaise sauce over a frisee. It’s fried, crunchy and not terrible.
The entrée is pasta primavera. Long fettucine noodles, a few overcooked vegetables, greasy cream sauce, unspiced and very little flavor. These people don’t use garlic.
Dessert is a big finish – coffee mousse in a bitter chocolate cup topped with a baked merengue and a chocolate straw. There is unidentified greenery draped artistically over the plate. But it’s very tasty and coma inducing and almost makes up for the pasta.
I finish my meal with a cup of terrible tea that’s been polluted with coffee. Blech.
Stratford, I expected better.
We set off into the downpour to a local theater and see a well reviewed (but not very uplifting) play. (Neville’s Island if you are interested; there is a movie; I don’t recommend) The sky is clear when we leave and the walk back to the hotel is uneventful. We sleep.
A modern addition to Anne Hathaway’s cottageShakespeare’s birthplaceAn herbaceous border (another literary mystery solved!)Obligatory library snapshot
Today we boarded a coach and headed to Oxford. I’ve heard so much about Oxford. Dorothy Sayers, some television shows, a few movies….the phrase “the dreaming spires of Oxford” floats in my brain. Turns out it’s a town, a market city, and a bunch of colleges. There is no “Oxford College” There is Magdalen and Balliol and Bracenose and a whole host of others.
Oxford’s “dreaming spires”
We admire stone buildings, manicured lawns, many gargoyles and statues. There are gangs of students in academic dress because it’s exams week. Exams are given to freshmen and seniors and I guess the middle years are taken on faith that you’re learning something. The students are garbed in “sub-fusc” (I’ve read that phrase and now I’ve seen it!). There are lots of bicycles and deadly silent electrical scooters. It’s all very dense and very busy.
The streets are actual cobblestone – river rock laid out in a slippery pattern that would be lethal in heels. Other areas have “Victorian commercial cobbles” which are more like what I’ve seen in America. In any event, walking is a bit tricky – you have to watch for traffic and try not to turn an ankle at the same time.
Our guide looks like Santa Claus and is filled with anecdotes about his life at Oxford as a student and his adventures as a Morris dancer and his various odd jobs involving coeds and film stars. He sounds like a Person of Great Importance, but I’m not yet convinced that he is. He IS entertaining, which is helpful in a guide, but light on facts, which is not.
Arch designed by Christopher Wrenn; me in my mathematical hat (wait for it)
The Bodleian Library is beautiful and historical and shut down because of exams. It seems to function a bit like the Library of Congress – it receives copies of all published books. I wish I had looked up the cataloging scheme for the British Library System – surely they don’t use LoC? I can’t get to the stacks to find out. (Post trip note – they switched over to LoC recently. Would love to know more about that.)
The tour people are sorting out. There is one who told me that without a hair dryer in her room her hair “dries like yours” which I’m pretty sure is not a compliment. I quite like the sisters – one is a retired science teacher and the other a retired nurse. One lives in Seattle and the other in Phoenix. They are liberal of mind and quite entertaining.
We have a cluster from Connecticut and two ladies from Fresno. Hair comment lady told me there were too many people from California for her taste and that her home city of Pittsburgh has quite temperate weather and it’s one of the best places to live in the U.S. I’m not going to challenge her belief. We Californians know temperate weather and Pittsburgh ain’t it.
It is hot, SO HOT and we weren’t expecting this heat. Santa leads us on a forced march through covered markets, down narrow roads, up the main drag and barely stops for a breath. We end up at Magadelen college and I see actual punters on the river. Cross off another literary reference for Debbie.
The college is a feast for the eyes and it’s not hard to imagine legions of students laying out on the grass, drinking lemonade in the canteen, checking in at the gate. If only I had some water, it would be perfect.
The group splits up at that point for an hour or so of Oxford exploration. I really wish I could visit the Ashmoleon Museum which has a pre-Raphaelite exhibit going on, but the thought of trekking all the way across town in the heat for a quick in and out defeats me. We follow our tour guide back up the main road and I am distracted by an air conditioned gift shop. And here’s where some Oxford magic takes place. As I’m checking out, the sales clerk is squinting and peering at me. She abruptly asks me:
“What is ‘B’”
“B?”
“B”
I realize she is referring to my hat.
“’B’ means ‘Be’”
“What does it refer to?”
“Be better than average” – I point to the explanation printed under the mathematical equation (take THAT V&A)
“OH!” she explodes into laughter “It’s a meme!! I’m a maths student and I was trying to work it out!!”
Only in Oxford.
“Bridge of Sighs”But why?Magdalen CollegePUNTS!!!Oxford University PressStudents in “sub fusc”Inside the covered market
We have been away from home for five days but it’s Day 2 of our Road Scholar experience. Does that make sense to anyone but me?
It seemed like the best choice of some terrible options
I will begin with last night’s dinner – which was honestly appalling. It’s my own fault for ordering it, but I so wanted flavor don’t you know….
The item in question was a “Korean Chicken Burger” – and it consisted of a chilly whole wheat bun (I promptly discarded the top half), a cascade of brown gravy with a mild brown curry tang, some cooked onion strips, some chilli jam and a lightly breaded chicken breast.
The chicken was oh so dry which maybe explained the curry flood. The flavors….well, point 1 is that there were flavors. Point 2 for the not unpleasant presence of cooked onions. Minus 1 for a very dull butter knife that sent chunks of chicken and bun skittering across the plate. Plus 3 for actual American catsup for the chips. Plus 1 that I didn’t get terrible indigestion. Plus 1 more for the entertainment value.
In all fairness I wanted fish and chips but the pub was out (Royal Ascot week). My sandwich was weird. It was fusion. I was an American eating a millenial brown gooey mess with a knife and fork.
Travel broadens the palate.
We say castle, the Queen says home
I’ve read a lot of Britain-set mysteries and at least one character always refers to an historic home as a “pile” as in “Yes, it’s the family pile”. I decide that Windsor Castle is a splendid pile. It has satisfying round turrets, double wall defenses, sturdy architecture. Not a lot of embellishment. It is lovely and tidy and if you have to live in a castle…it’s not a bad choice. Our local guide is a knowledgeable gent named Mike and he keeps us entertained as we wait in line to enter.
(BTW, this is my travel journal, not a compendium of history, so what you’ll read from here on out are my impressions. Check the interweb if you want facts. I’m on vacation.)
Named for the dearly departed husband of Queen Victoria
Henry VIII lived here as did some of his wives and children. He’s buried with his third wife in St. George’s. The current Queen will likely join her parents and grandparents there. It’s all quite civilized; living near your final resting place among the ancestors.
I’m very amused by the knitted/crocheted tableau atop the post office box. It depicts her majesty on a throne, her majesty in riding garb with a horse, a scepter, a tiny crocheted tea set and a few corgis. It is ridiculous and hand crafted and quite satisfying to see.
We witness the changing of the guard – it’s the Irish Guards this week – and I let Les jockey for position to get photos while I take a break in the shade. I can’t imagine standing around in wool uniforms in the blazing sun. They are disciplined and they carry modern weaponry over their shoulders. I think the castle is pretty well defended. The new guard is announced with a marching band that gathers in formation and plays a selection of music. They’re all in the sun and I’m drooping in the shade. I hope Les is getting good pics.
After this we queue up to see the state departments and we are no sooner inside than I see a cafe sign and peel off in search of water. It feels good to sit for a bit in a cool room. Our guide winks at us as he sits down with a coffee and snack. Refreshed, we head up the stairs.
The state departments are sumptuous and grand – lots of gilt and ornamentation and a few astonishingly preserved old masters. The colors are deep and well lit; they glow like they were painted yesterday. I’m beginning to pick out symbolism and note postures and garments (all tell a tale). There is a portrait of a previous queen holding a lamb. She looks very motherly. The lamb is the size of a Maine Coon cat. I am entertained.
We find a little Greek restaurant down the street from the castle and have a tasty lunch and a beer. It’s hot, but there’s a tiny breeze from the river. After, we trek back up the hill and get some souvenirs – postcards, a Jubilee tea towel, stamps, some British money from an ATM. We then decide to trek down a side street in hopes of some interesting local sites on the way back to our hotel. There are a number of backyards, garages, a park….no sign of High Street….oh dear….hot, so hot. After many, many steps we find the right road and exit into the hotel for some packing. Tonight is a no host dinner at the Duchess of Cambridge pub and tomorrow we leave for Stratford on Avon.
Souvenir corgis (but no dorgis)
Souvenir Gin!Celebratory Restaurant!Nice LandscapingThis makes me so happy
Today is “on the move” day. We have an arduous journey to Windsor that involves a tube ride, transfer to a train, transfer to another train and a walk. Oy.
Our bags are packed, mostly and we’ve managed to fit coats and jackets into the nooks and crannies. My hat finally showed up. My cane is fully extended. I ate half a coffee/chocolate bar and my burgeoning caffeine headache is at bay. We ate yogurt and granola bars for breakfast.
The plan is to leave the luggage at the hotel, bus to the British Museum, visit the Elgin Marbles and meet my London compatriot. Following that we’ll return for luggage and begin our multi-step journey to Windsor. I’m wearing a knee brace. Wish us luck!!
There comes a point in every vacation when you run out of steam and tolerance and just hate where you are and what you’re doing. Turns out that “on the move” day coincides with me kind of hating the world.
The British Museum is hella crowded and with a long security line, crammed with tourists and schoolkids and essentially it’s a zoo. We find the Elgin Marbles, which continue to thrill me (although it was more lovely the last time when hardly anyone was in attendance and I had the hall to myself). My husband is thoughtfully taking photographs. Of each marble. Every marble. Multiple exposures. He is in heaven. Deep heavy sigh. I open my Kindle app and start reading.
45 minutes later it’s time to meet up with my London cohort who buys us a coffee and tea and chats with us for just over an hour. He is a lovely man and this is a pleasant interlude. I’m really glad we took the time to meet him.
He heads back to the office and Les heads back to the Elgin Marbles to finish his photography project and I find a bathroom and a bench and resume my book. So. Crowded. Very. Warm.
I dig out a Kind bar to tide me over while waiting. We regroup and discuss lunch options. I’m hot and hungry, my knee is killing me, and I’m bored. It’s a lethal combination. We can’t agree on a lunch plan so head back to our hotel to collect luggage and begin the journey to Windsor.
It’s tedious – we have one big suitcase, one little suitcase, one carry on bag, Les’ 30 pound camera backpack and my backpack. We take the lift to the right level for our train, haul everything across the gap and stand, swaying while the car fills up and up…..exit and backtrack to find another lift, another train, exit at Paddington and trek a long, long way to the main station.
We wait in line to buy tickets for Windsor and snag a couple of meat pies and some water for lunch. We’re not sure which train is the ‘right’ train and then I think I see it. We can’t agree, there’s no signage, Les backtracks, we start hustling and the doors close in our faces. We are left on the platform with our luggage, our pasties and thoroughly bad tempers.
There is nowhere to sit while we wait for the next train. I think there’s another option on a different platform but it is decided that we’ll wait for the train we know. We finally board and are in a car with a very young child who is playing a screaming game with mommy’s best friend. Screaming game morphs into a running game. The child careens down the car, bounces off a stranger, and hurtles back. Repeatedly. Les and I are united in our dislike for the situation and the game in which the child slaps the friend, who laughs hysterically every time a blow lands. We are old. We are crotchety. We are not amused.
The train drops us at a little station in Slough (pronounced sluff). We are directed up a lift but then face a choice of tracks. I direct Les to figure out which one is the correct track and wouldn’t you know that our train puffs off just as I get onto the platform. Another 20-30 minute wait. It’s hot. We are drenched in sweat and thoroughly dehydrated. We have little to say to each other.
Finally we board a tiny little train that puffs into Windsor. I think it’s like 90 degrees when we arrive around 5:15 and our program orientation starts at 5:30. We haul the luggage out to High Street and finally make the correct turn to get to the hotel.
We follow an extremely well-dressed couple inside – he’s wearing a splendid outfit that I think is a morning suit, and she’s decked out in a floral chiffon dress and fascinator. They head for the bar and she says “I think I’ll spend a penny first” as she disappears into a loo. First time I’ve heard that outside of a book and I’m delighted.
The main floor has multiple stairs and no elevator to the lobby so we bump and drag our luggage to a really hot reception area and receive our keys and directions to go down a flight of stairs, cross the parking lot to another building and our tour orientation is in there. This building also has stairs and no elevator but fire knee and I persist and we take the last two chairs.
We’re the last ones to arrive at the orientation and we droop in our chairs slurping water while introductions are made. But at least we are here. The group seems pretty nice (we might be the youngest people at the table) and there are 2 other librarians, 3 nurses, a semi-retired physician and some teachers. Most people have gone on multiple Road Scholar journeys and know the drill. We get “whisperers” and directions to dinner which starts in an hour.
Upstairs, our bags have arrived, and we get settled. The room is quite comfortable, and the bathroom is bigger than a postage stamp, which is nice. The group dinner is fun – we are a congenial group – and the only confusion is who ordered what. If people don’t figure this out, then it’s going to be a long trip of “Did I order that? What did I order?” My fish and chips are quite tasty and the Guinness goes down smoothly.
After, most of us head outside for a brief guided walk to Eton. This also serves as our “whisperer” training. The sun is setting and the sky is golden. There are very few people around as we wend our way down the hill and across the river. Eton seems to be a nice campus with ancient buildings and our guide points out the school uniform and sporting goods shops that line the road. It feels good to be walking. Tomorrow we storm the castle!
My knee is killing me – the tendonitis is red hot and feels like fire. I kept waking up last night trying to find a comfortable position. While Les is getting ready, I drape a cold washcloth and imagine ice. We’re moving slowly this morning and decided to revisit Le Pan Q for breakfast.
My original plan was to trek to Hampton Court but it’s closed today so we tube back to Oxford Circle and Regency Street in search of Sotheby’s. They have a free of charge display of tiaras. The day is warm and breezy and it’s a pleasant walk past the rich and wealthy. Think Rodeo Drive, times 3.
This one is for Adele
The Sotheby’s exhibit is fantastic. The tiaras are delicate, floating in space, refracting light as they twirl slowly. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls. They are wonders of engineering, many convert to broaches, necklaces, bracelets. I’m quite taken by a butterfly design and the ones with botanical inspirations. Ivy and palm motifs are charming when rendered in diamonds and topaz.
Apologies, professional cameras and flash were disallowed
Unfortunately, all that glitters does not inspire us for the rest of the day. I’m tired of planning things and Les has no ideas. I suggest a few things but get little response. It’s hot, we are tired and dehydrated and things are not going well. We trek to Fortnum & Mason’s for tea shopping and are overcome by too many choices and not enough luggage space.
Empty handed, we retrace our steps and stop at a bookstore cafe with air conditioning. This shop has three cafes so we take the lift to the top and settle in with beer and snacks. The cool air revives us and we’re able to make it back to the room without incident. It will be an early dinner and a better night.
We lie down for another nap and mine is brief because I had an iced coffee from Black Sheep and my veins are singing. Les has a higher caffeine tolerance and he drops off like a baby. I abandon the nap and do some preliminary repacking because tomorrow we join our tour and I am READY. For some strange reason things that didn’t fit into the suitcase in LA do fit now. This is not bad news!
At 5ish we head up to the “Coal Drop” – another redeveloped area past the redeveloped mixed use office space and cross the canal to an area where they’ve installed posh shops and a ton of restaurants. We don’t have reservations but hope we can get dinner before 9:00 PM. It’s hot, and the late afternoon sun is blazing as we trek past the greenspace, office buildings, fountains and restaurants that shunned us the previous night.
We’ve chosen a Tapas bar and are greeted with the familiar “Do you have a reservation? No? We can seat you at 9:00” “We’ll wait,” I hiss at my husband. My fire knee is not going on walkabout tonight. Despite the attitude, it all works out. The hostess reluctantly seats us at the bar with other non-reservation slackers and we settle in for some vino and small plates.
Our server is on day 3 of his new job and his spanish-inflected english is charming. We order a house version of sangria – red wine with a wedge of orange, sparkling water and a mist of sherry. It’s refreshing. He leaves us a carafe of water – first time that’s happened! On Les’ right is an intense Japanese couple who meticulously document every bite of food and on my left is an older British couple who communicate with the server in rudimentary spanish, which he seems to appreciate.
We’re hungry so we begin our meal with meat – chicken thighs and romesco sauce and lamb skewers in pimento sauce. The lamb is aromatic and tasty but the chicken is ambrosial. It’s garlicky and crunchy with nuts and the smooth romesco sauce chases it perfectly.
Next up is a spanish tortilla that is a perfect hockey puck of satiny potatoes and onions that runs with a creamy eggy filling. Our forks dance as we vie for each bite. We almost lick the plate.
By now our server is a friend and he glows when we order the spanish cheesecake – “Made famous in the pandemic!” he announces. It’s a rich eggy concoction redolant of sheeps milk that is lightly burnt on top and beyond delicious smoothness. It’s not too sweet and it’s a measure of our relationship that we share it more or less equally.
I leave Les at the bar while I check out a store that’s popped on my Insta – Wolfe and Badger. True to form, it is more interesting online than in person and has nothing that I need or want. We take an alternative route back to the hotel and are charmed by potentially edible artichokes blooming by the road. I’ve read that artichokes are members of the thistle family, but never expected to see them in a garden. It’s fun to see them emerge from a bright purple stalk.
But is it edible?
I think that’s a pleasure of traveling. You can read about something, but you gain understanding when you see it out in the wild.
I think about how greedy we are – how entitled – that water would be free and bread and butter or chips will magically appear on the table for no extra charge. We expect leftovers and aren’t used to paying a fair wage for service. It’s very different here.
And then the strident voice of a lost soul shrieks obscenities into the evening. We navigate around a sad human sleeping in the street. Maybe it’s not so different.
So many visits to the UK and this is the first time we’ve seen corgis! Perhaps they are more likeable than the queen?
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 