Tag Archive | United Kingdom

Windsor Castle and Helen Mirren as Phedre at the National

Jul30

Monday, July 21, 2009
Windsor and London

With Llew on vacation, we are taking it easy in the mornings—waking late, breakfasting at leisure, showering and dressing as if we have the entire day ahead of us—which we do! However, I did want to make a day of it in Windsor; so without wasting too much time, we took the Tube to Paddington to catch one of the commuter trains to Slough for a change to Windsor.

The weather gods smiled upon us, bestowing sunny skies and a very comfortable temperature as we walked from the station to the ramparts of the Castle. How different the place seemed with teeming tourists everywhere. When we were last here together in November of last year (or was it March of this year?—it is so difficult to keep track!), the place was less crowded. Yet, today, with the sun warming the backs of so many enthusiastic sunbathers, the crowds grew with each minute. Having reached Windsor at noon, however, we missed most of the morning commuters from London who arrived early to make a day of it at Windsor and Eton.

Queen Mary’s Doll’s House:
For us, the biggest attraction today was a chance to see Queen Mary’s Doll’s House which, the last time we came here, had attracted a long queue that deterred us. This time, our wait was no longer than ten minutes. While one might think that this is nothing more than a plaything of some privileged royal family member, it is, in fact, a completely charming showpiece. Designed by the great Edwardian architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (designer, among other projects, of the city of New Delhi in the second decade of the 20th century), it is a massive wooden house completely furnished with the fittings of a royal residence of the Edwardian era. Every item inside is not only of the finest material but superbly constructed to scale. Hence, there are real bottles of wine in the cellar (no bigger than your pinky finger) and real sterling silverware and plates on the dining table. Of course, some things are not quite real—the maid’s bedroom, for instance, is just at the side of the owner’s—something that was unheard of, given the Upstairs Downstairs arrangements of Edwardian mansions that strictly segregated living quarters along class lines. Still, it was charming to notice the attention to detail and the manner in which it seems the entire country cooperated to create this royal showpiece.

Equally noteworthy were the two French dolls presented to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret while they were little girls by the French government on the occasion of their state visit to France with their parents in the early decades of the last century. The French not only presented the princesses with these dolls but used them to showcase the couture talents of their most predominant designers such as Chanel and Worth. Whole sets of beautiful clothing to be worn on different occasions were designed, executed and packed in a traveling trunk—one for each French doll. It would appear as if the princesses did not play with them at all for they and their wardrobes are in pristine condition and made for a truly delightful addition to this part of the Castle.

The Queen’s Private Collection of Drawings and the Special Exhibit on Henry VIII: Moments after we finished touring the Doll’s House and its precincts, we found ourselves in another exhibition area with an opportunity to peruse the Queen’s collection of drawings, most of which are rarely on exhibition as she has such a vast stash that they are rotated regularly. Llew and I were fortunate enough to see a few of the drawings by Leonardo da Vinci that are in her private collection—we saw some of his anatomical drawings, some drafts for his far-sighted flying machines and some of the drawings that formed studies for his most famous paintings such as the Virgin of the Rocks (versions of which we saw both at the National Gallery in London and at the Louvre in Paris).

But, by far, the most interesting part of this exhibit was the one on Henry VIII that coincides with the five hundredth anniversary of his birth. There are special exhibits on Henry VIII this year all over London and I have seen the one on him at the Tower of London which focused on his wardrobe (being cleverly entitled “Dressed to Kill”—that’s what’s so admirable about the English…their wacky sense of humor!). This one focused on Henry as a Man of Letters and I was delighted to see several original drawings and paintings by Hans Holbein the Younger (Henry’s court painter) as well as several first editions of some of the most famous books of the era. Llew was particularly fascinated by first editions of Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, Martin Luther’s Treatise challenging the power of the Vatican and Henry’s spirited refutation of Luther’s arguments (which, ironically enough, earned him the title of Defender of the Faith from the Pope—this, of course, was before his bitter battle with the Vatican began and his divorce with Popery became final). So many of the exhibits I have seen all over the country this year have focused on the Tudor period and despite my in-depth knowledge of this dynasty, I simply never tire of learning more.

Having seen the rest of Windsor Castle earlier, including the State Apartments and St. George’s Chapel, we decided to make our way home but not before we stopped at Waitrose to buy some of the Wensleydale cheese with ginger that both Llew and I really like. Back on the train, we arrived at Paddington and took the Tube back home to arrive just in time to get our boxes of books ready for the shippers. Our friend Janie was kind enough to offer to take them in her car for me to the North Acton depot of Headley’s Humper where I had dropped off my antique bureau-desk a few days ago. Since I will be occupying a portion of a container, it made sense to fill the crate being made for me with my large collection of books and bed linen that have to be shipped back to the US.

Meeting Janie at the National Theater:
Janie had made plans to meet us at the National Theater on the South Bank of the Thames just before our show began in the evening. Having packed our boxes, we took them across in a cab and arrived at the National well in time for our 7.30 pm appointment with Janie. She did arrive soon enough which allowed us to transfer the boxes to her car as well as take a few last pictures with her. She has been a such a great friend to me in London, ferrying me around to places of interest (Syon House, Dulwich Picture Gallery and Village and Rochester in Kent), introducing me to so many fascinating aspects of English architecture (Georgian is her own favorite) and telling me about so many London attractions that she thought I ought not to miss. As she drove off, I felt a pang of sadness…though I know I will see her again (if not in London then in Southport, Connecticut, where her brother Jonathan is a good friend of ours).

The Hottest Summer Theater Tickets—and they were Ours!
As Janie drove off, Llew and I made our way towards the National Theater and looked to find our seats. I became excited (even though I have so much on my mind right now with my return to the States and the vast number of things I have to do in the hope that everything will fall into place). The auditorium was filling quickly as Helen Mirren’s presence in the cast (playing Phedre in Racine’s famous play of the same name) ensured an exciting evening at the theater. I had actually forgotten that another star name was in the cast—Dominic Cooper who played the male romantic lead in the smash hit film version of Mamma Mia last year. It was only when I saw him on stage and found him familiar in the role of Hippolytus that I remembered that he too was in the cast—a very fortunate bonus, I thought.

As it turned out, I found Mirren’s portrayal deeply melodramatic and while I do realize that I was watching classic Greek tragedy which is expected to be played in this fashion, the performance got rather monotonous being so devoid of a range. Oenene, her aged counselor, played by Margaret Tyzack was equally one-dimensional if very good and I guess, given the pathos of the situation and the excess of emotion portrayed by the principal characters, Cooper’s decision to underpay his role stood out in contrast against the rest—but too stark a contrast, methought! The play’s intriguing plot kept us spellbound, however, and as we watched Phedre’s machinations on stage in her attempt to retain Theseus’ favor (despite having professed love for his son Hippolytus), I realized that despite its somewhat predictable characters and outcomes, it was a rare treat to see Greek tragedy so masterfully portrayed on a world-class stage by world-class actors. And, of course, there is the brag value attached to having seen Mirren in the flesh—so we felt profoundly privileged that we managed to get the hottest summer stage tickets in the city and made such a fine night of it at the theater.

A Moonlight Walk along the Thames and Drinks at the OXO Bar:
It was the perfect night to walk aimlessly along the banks of the Thames whose colorfully illuminated buildings threw their changing neon reflections into the swirling waters. What better an idea than to hot hoof it to the rooftop bar at the OXO building where Llew and I enjoyed a cold (okay make that cool) beer while watching the buildings on the opposite bank glint in the ink blue night? It was a truly romantic evening for the two of us as we snacked on spiced bar nuts, sipped our drinks and thrilled to the knowledge that we had all of London seemingly spread out at our feet.

An hour later, drinks consumed and with a heady buzz that added to our enjoyment of Londres: La Nuit, we walked on the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge from where we hopped into a 63 bus that took us home to Farringdon, a hot dinner made up of remains in my fridge and then called it a night.

The Tower of London and Dinner at Lahore Kebab House in Whitechapel

Jul19

Sunday, July 19, 2009
London

It being Sunday, Llew and I decided to go for Service to the Church of St. Peter in Chains which is one of the royal chapels of her Majesty the Queen located inside the precincts of the Tower of London on Tower Hill. We ate a cereal breakfast at home, then showered and left at leisure. Llew was jet lagged and was finding it difficult to focus, so hats off to him for making it on time for the 11 am service which we reached by the Number 15 bus which we caught from Fleet Street. Smithfield is quiet and very deserted on a Sunday morning and Llew enjoyed soaking in its unique ambiance.

We were able to get past the hordes of tourists and the long line snaking into the Tower of London. I led Llew to the Church which was opened up for us by one of the Yeoman Guards (Beefeaters). It was a very small gathering (not more than 15 members in the congregation) that were in the historic church built during the reign of Henry VIII. It is filled with memories of the many figures who spent their last days in prayer here including Katherine of Aragon for whom this was a private chapel. As in all Anglican churches, there are memorials lining the walls honoring those who died bravely and several funerary monuments all over the church. Its age is easily proclaimed by its interior.

Right after the service which was conducted by Chaplain Roger Hall (whose vestments were decorated with the various medals he has received while serving his country in war times–like the Chelsea Pensioners), we began our tour of The Tower of London with a look at the fascinating Crown Jewels. I had been there only two months ago with Chriselle but Llew was returning there after more than 30 years and could not remember anything, so it was primarily for his sake that I had planned this morning’s excursion to the Tower.

Needless to say, we were entranced by the jewels, their history and significance as we stood on the mechanical walkway that runs alongside the glass cases that hold these priceless treasures. In fact, we stood on the walkway twice as well as walked slowly by each plaque that gives details about each piece. I really adore the little diamond crown that was especially made for Queen Victoria to wear after she became widowed. It is a darling little crown (like a child’s) but exquisitely designed and executed and twinkles brightly. Of course, the Koh-in-noor diamond on the Queen Mother’s Crown and the Cullinan (Star of Africa) diamond on the sceptre always earn a few gasps.

Next, we were out in the Tudor courtyard taking a look at the scaffolding upon which had once lain the heads of Anne Boleyn and a host of other unfortunate sods who had the temerity to say “Boo” to Henry. We walked reverentially around what used to be the chopping block (with grizzly axe included) but which now holds a quartz crystal “cushion”, a sculpture by Brian Catling–a far less startling reminder of the blood and gore that encompassed that phase in English history. We followed a guided tour group back into the church where we were treated to the delightful commentary of one of the Beefeaters (so-named because they did not receive any money as payment but were provided with meals in days gone by–a fact that singled them out from the local populace most of whom could not afford meat).

We took a bus back home where we had lunch (still trying to finish things in my fridge and freezer) and then took a short nap (as poor Llew is still jetlagged). When we awoke, I suggested that we relax quietly at home until dinner time. I called Jack who gave me the address of the most excellent authentic Pakistani restaurant in the East End called Lahore Kebab House just off Commercial Road. Llew and I rode the bus there (Number 15) and then walked to the spot where the aroma of grilled meats reached us long before we arrived at the door.

We were shown upstairs to a very spacious hall by the waiter who, looking at Llew, switched straight away into choice Urdu–it was great that we both speak it fluently, so that the rest of our conversation with the waiter was in the tongue of our native land! On his recommendation, we ordered mixed kebabs as appetizers (seekh, chicken tikka and lamb chops–absolutely fabulous!) and the Special of the Day, the Tiger Prawn Curry with Rotis and Naans. The curry was to die for but a trifle spicier than both Llew and I can handle. With our noses running, we relished our meal and decided to have the Pista Kulfi for dessert as our mouths were on fire by the end of it–much as it was memorable and a very reasonably priced meal. We left the restaurant paying less than thirty pounds for the two of us which, given London’s prices, was a steal.

Stuffed and chastising ourselves for over-eating, we took the bus back home. It was almost midnight when we turned in, delighted at having spent such a great day together in London.

Welcome Back to London Llew! And Dinner with Friends at Moro

Jul19

Saturday, July 18, 2009
London

I awoke at 6. 30 am, switched on my PC and received the disappointing news from Sylvia in Canada and Chriselle in New York that Llew’s flight had been delayed –by four hours!!!! I was devastated–not just because it meant that he would now only arrive at Heathrow at noon, and, therefore, at my flat after 2. 30 pm, not just that it would mean a complete disarray in my intended plans of going to the theater to see The Mountaintop (a new play about the last days of Martin Luther King, Jr), but because it was such a gorgeous day and I could not believe that all of it would be wasted–when we had such few days together in London. Well, after I got over my disappointment, I figured it was just as well.

The delay left me time to take a shower and clean my room as well as finish work on my Oxford lecture to which I put the finishing touches. Needless to say, I was greatly relieved when this was all done as I am now ready to face my audience of graduate students at Exeter College this coming Wednesday. I put myself through part of a practice run with it when I realized that I had to go and pick up the tickets for The Mountaintop as I had told Chaichin to hold them for me and didn’t want to disappoint her. The trip to Charing Cross and back took over an hour and by the time I reached home, I barely raced Llew (arriving from Heathrow) by about 15 minutes.

Then, at 2. 30, he was ringing my doorbell downstairs and then, finally, he was with me and my year-long solitude came to an end. Of course, he was equally disappointed and fatigued and sleep-deprived when he came in and after a glass of grapefruit juice and a late lunch of pasta with asparagus and ham and peas, he felt better. It was time for him to shave and take a shower and because neither one of us wanted to waste a spectacular day, we got dressed and went off for a walk.

I took Llew around our new neighborhood, showing him the sights that are most notable–St. John’s Gate and Museum, Smithfield Meat Market, The Church of St. Bartholomew the Great, the home of Sir John Betjeman and the cafe that is named after him at Cloth Fair, The Church of St. Bartholomew the Less, St. Bart’s Hospital, Charterhouse Square and the Cloisters and the marvelous variety of architectural styles around the square including the Art Deco building which was used as the location for the Hercule Poirot TV series–Llew is a big fan!

On our way past the Charterhouse Monastery, we spied a mulberry tree just laden with luscious ripe fruit and it was all I could do to resist stripping it down completely. Well, we requested permission of the guard and the next thing you know, rivulets of red juice were running down our fingers and on to our elbows as we plucked the jewel berries from the tree and popped them straight into our mouths. When we had our fill, we left, having dragged the guard into our mischievous pursuits as well.

Then, we walked briskly up to Fleet Street and took the Number 15 bus to Trafalgar Square when we alighted into a slight drizzle. As neither one of us had the foresight to carry our brollies, we had little choice but to shelter under a protruding roof line that offered quite a good view of Anthony Gormley’s Plinth that is supposed to be a form of Live Art in that it offers human beings the chance to climb upon it and hold the fort for a fixed period of time. Passing in the buses over the past few days, I have seen all sorts of entertainment being presented from the vantage point though this evening while we were there, all we saw was a rather dour man sitting and facing the square and doing absolutely nothing at all. It was quite boring and made the entire concept seem more bizarre.

Since the rain continued unabated, we figured it was best to take the bus and get back home so that we could rest for a bit before starting to get dressed for our evening dinner appointment with Tim and Barbara. Back home, I brewed us a pot of tea and over steaming cups and a pack of French macaroons which Llew really enjoyed, we caught up as there were so many things we had to talk about–it just did not stop.

Finally, we got dressed and awaited the arrival of my former neighbors who arrived promptly at 8. 40 pm. We sat down and chatted for a while over a glass of rose wine and some roasted almonds and left our flat at 9. 05 to walk to Moro for our 9. 15 reservation.

Moro has become a legendary restaurant in Exmouth Market in London’s Clerkenwell area, a ten minute walk from my flat. Its chef is the son of Kenneth Clark of Civilization fame, who, when I was fifteen years old and watched screenings of it on Bombay TV, became madly involved in the study of Art History–something that has remained a passion for me. So I was pleased to be dining in the restaurant of the son of the man who made an art historian of sorts of me.

Tim and Barbara were great company, as usual, as we poured over the menu and decided to start with glasses of dry sherry (well, when in Spain…). As we sipped our sherry, we awaited the arrival of our appetisers–we chose a Serrano ham served on a bed of well-seasoned rocket, a pasta dish with seafood (there were prawns, cray fish and langoustines in the earthen dish in which they were baked) and a paper thin dried tuna (mojama). All of this was very interesting with the seafood pasta being the best of the lot. Bread and olive oil had been passed around for nibbling on. We ordered a red Spanish Rioja to be enjoyed with our meal and it was served just a few minutes later.

Llew went for the grilled lamb (as did Barbara), Tim chose a roast pork which was finished by the time he made his order (leaving him to have the bream, instead while I chose the mixed vegetable mezze. Everything was superb and the mezzes took me right back to Greece where Llew and I had enjoyed some of the most memorable meals we have ever eater.

Despite the fact that we had done justice to our meal, we did opt to order desserts–Llew and I chose to split a chocolate and apricot tart which was very good, Barbara ate the Jerez cream with fresh raspberries while Tim went for the Malaga rum and raisin ice-cream. Overall, we had a very good meal but it was certainly not the best we have ever eaten.

Tim and Barbara came back to our place after dinner (we walked home taking a more complicated route so that I could show Llew the building in which Karen had stayed) and when we arrived at Denmark House, I put the kettle on to brew coffee which we sipped as we continued to chat. There is always so much to catch up on and it was after 12. 45 when they got up to leave after what had been a rather exciting first day for Llew.

I am so happy to have him back with me and to be able to share with him every hidden corner of this beloved city with me. We will be hard pressed for time in the next few days, but we intend to enjoy it as much as we can and to squeeze the maximum pleasure out of it. We are glad we began by sharing it with some of our closest friends in the city.

Sauntering in Salisbury! Seeing the Magna Carta and Constable’s Iconic View.

Jul17

Friday, July 17, 2009
Salisbury, Wiltshire

The ancient town of Salisbury is in Wiltshire, west of London, an area filled with renowned tourist attractions such as Stonehenge, Stourhead Gardens, the Georgian city of Bath and Avebury. But somehow, I had simply not managed to get there even though its cathedral is definitely worth a visit.

Awaking on Stephanie’s sofa bed in her living room at 7.00, I quickly got ready to leave with her at 7. 30. We grabbed yogurt and cereal to go and were in her Lexus and on our way in a half hour. It was an hour long drive which gave us a chance to gab a bit more. It pleased me to see that though she has a long commute to work daily, at least she has no traffic at all–in fact, the drive can be quite therapeutic past fields and pasture.

Since Stephanie works in an industrial belt at Andover, she dropped me off at Andover train station which is just 18 miles away from Salisbury. I could have taken a bus from the station which would have wound me around the tiniest villages in Wiltshire and reached Salisbury in an hour and a half–or I could take the train which took less than 20 minutes (return fare was 7 pounds but there was some malfunction with the ticket machine and I ended up going on the train without a ticket but having to explain to the guards that there had been a problem).

Roaming Around Salisbury:
Luckily, Salisbury station is not miles away from its city center–which is often the case, as I have discovered. It was only a quick ten minute walk to the Town Center which you reach after following signs. It was about 9. 30 am when I arrived which left me enough time to explore the tangle of streets that lead up to the famous Market Square where medieval life centered. En route, I popped into the Roman Catholic Church of St. Thomas Beckett which also dates from medieval times. It is filled with marvelous mementos of centuries past including a beautiful Doomsday Painting on a wall just above the nave. This was plastered over during the Reformation but was recently stripped and conserved. I realized as I gazed at it how similar is the style of medieval painting with the more contemporary work of the Surrealists such as Hieronymous Bosch as seen in his most famous work The Garden of Earthly Delights. The Tudor Chapel with its dark ebony wood carvings was also quite atmospheric and is supposedly the prettiest part of the church. I deliberately visited this church first as I felt that the famous Salisbury Cathedral ought to be the piece de resistance of my day and would best be saved for last.

I have to say that I quite cherished every single step I took for I was fully conscious of the fact that this is my last day alone in the UK and indeed the last place that I would be discovering on my own. Tomorrow morning, I will awake for the last time alone in my bed for Llew is scheduled to arrive at 8. 30 am and my year of solitude, self-exploration and self-discovery will come to an end. The enormous pleasure I have had in doing exactly as I pleased wherever I pleased will also end and I felt a bittersweet emotion as I sauntered through the streets of Salisbury–delighted to have actually arrived there and met my goal of not leaving the UK without seeing this lovely city but regretting that Llew had not already arrived here to share it with me. Still, I took consolation in the fact that we will be spending the next two weeks together in two of my favorite places in the whole world–London and Paris–and it was on that happy note that I crossed The Mill on the River Avon where a lovely pub seemed like a good place to enjoy lunch later in the day.

Then, I was in the streets that radiate from out of the Cathedral Close, each rather enticing as they offered shops galore in which to browse. I examined all the charity shops (still looking for antique treasures) and was so pleased to find a Victorian cheese container–the sort for which I have searched for a whole year. These ceramic containers are very rare and hard to find–being a two piece item, one or the other piece often broke over the years, so that sets are almost impossible to find and when available cost the earth. I have seen only a few of these items in the many antiques markets I have scoured and most often they were so exorbitantly priced that I had to walk away. Well, imagine my delight when I found this set in perfect condition and for just three pounds! Now you know why I rummage around in the charity shops! They are a better source than any flea market! With my treasure carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, I walked out and then there just across the road, I chanced to come upon the Salisbury Antiques Market–three floors of individual dealers each displaying their treasures in glass vitrines–my idea of heaven!

Lunch at the Tea Room at the Top:
By this time, the irritating drizzle which had been playing all day developed into a full-scale shower, so it was with relief that I escaped into the vast environs of the market and browsed around the show cases. Needless to say, by this time (12. 30), I was tired and hungry; so when I saw a sign that announced a tearoom at the top of the building, I headed straight for it. I spent the next hour in the most delightful situation near a window through which I felt the slight spray of raindrops that splattered the pane. What’s more, the charming room was scattered around with a multitude of mismatched chairs and tables–some garden furniture, some living room quality finds. The menu was small but everything was very reasonably priced. I debated whether to get a pot of tea and a toasted hot cross bun (just 1. 50 for the lot) but then I figured that I really ought to have a more substantial lunch and settled for that most old-fashioned of British meals (and it was the very first time I was eating it in this country)–sardines on toast with a pot of Darjeeling. Thank you England for making a tea drinker out of me. On weepy days like this when there is a horrid sudden chill in the air and you wish you had worn a thicker cardigan, there is nothing more soothing that a pot of tea with lemon and honey!

A very lovely young girl called Jessica (I asked her her name later) served me–the pot of tea and a salad came free with my meal (all for just a skinny fiver–a true find in super expensive England). To my delight, a copy of The English Home lay near my table and I grabbed it to browse through while my meal was being prepared. I have a subscription to this magazine back home in the States and have dearly missed reading it, so I was thrilled to be able to lay my hands on a copy. There is a section in it called ‘Favorite Places’ and I definitely intend to write to the editor with a note about this incredible find–The Tea Room at the Top on St. Catherine Street in Salisbury.

Well, I spent the lovliest hour sipping my tea, munching my light lunch, spooning dressing on my salad and reading the magazine as I rested my feet and took a breather. The intermittent rain showers finally stopped and when I stepped out, an hour later, to walk towards the Cathedral Close, there was a lightness to my step.

But just five mintues later, it came down again–a very heavy shower this time which gave me time to dip under the awning of a very pretty chocolate shop where the handmade concoctions called my name. The place also offered a variety of sundaes and ordinarily I would have indugled–but on a day so chilly, ice-cream was furthest from my mind!

To arrive at Salisbury’s Cathedral Close, you pass under a medieval stone gateway and enter a place that has forgotten the passage of Time. It is a vast square with a sprawling green lawns in its center, surrounded by elegant buildings that reveal a variety of architectural styles–I recognized Tudor, Georgian and Victorian very easily indeed. In fact, the most striking of the buildings had a grand facade and it turned out to be Mompesson House (and Gardens) which is run by the National Trust. Now, of course, with my membership still valid, there was no way I would pass it by without nipping in for a quick visit–only it happened to be closed on Thursdays and Friday–wouldn’t you just know it!!?? So I gazed at the entrance in growing furstration having made the discovery that the 1995 version of Sense and Sensibility (I’m guessing this was the version whose screenplay was by Emma Thompson for which she won an Oscar–the film was directed by Ang Lee of Brokeback Mountain fame) was shot in here. Anyway, there was nothing to be done about it and I turned towards the other buildings instead.

Exploring Salisbury Cathedral:
Salisbury Cathedral has the tallest spire in England–though I have to say I could not have discerned this myself. Much of the side of this splendid building is encased in ugly scaffolding (I simply hate when the facades of major tourist attractions are marred in this fashion) and there was a Festival of sorts going on for a huge white marquee took over the lawn. It was just as well I had found other pursuits to occupy my morning for the cathedral had been closed to visitors until 1 pm. And it was a good thing I had a whole day in the town–imagine my disappointment if I had made the trip all the way from London only to be told that the Cathedral would remain closed all day!!!

Well, once inside the Cathedral, there are many attractions that catch the eye–but interestingly and unexpectedly, the choral groups that were participants in the festival were practicing their routines at the back and filled the massive space with the echoing grandeur of their voices–it was truly superb. A printed layout guide of the cathedral is available for visitors and with it in hand, I was able to see the mechancial clock–it has no face, still works beautifully and is considered the oldest clock in the country. I saw also the very modern baptismal font in the center of the church before I walked past the area right below the spire. In fact, the spire is so heavy that the supporting beams in the church have begun to bend beneath its weight and when Christopher Wren arrived in Salisbury in the early 1700s, he estimated that they were leaning at least 75 cms away from the center!

The Cathedral’s choir stalls, all finely carved in oak and the ‘Cathedra’, the Bishop’s seat or ‘cathedra’ that gives its name to the building were in fine condition near the altar. Follwing the printed guide and a rather nice human guide who was somewhat amusingly named Roger Bacon (!), I arrived at the picturesque Cloisters (which were never actually used as cloisters as the cathedral never had monks living there). However, it was meant to be a place to read and relax in and indeed that it was! I stepped through into the Chapter House which was built at the same time as the Catehdral though it has more modern Victorian stained glass windows that were restored when the original medieval ones broke–by the way, the cathedral was built in the early-1200s!

Up Close and Personal with Magna Carta:
So I suppose I ought not to have been surprised to discover that Salisbury Cathedral has an original copy of one of Great Britain’s most precious treasures, the Magna Carta of 1215! Yes, one of the three original 1215 copies is here under glass (the other two being in the British Library at King’s Cross in London, one of which has suffered fire damage and is illegible). This one was in pristine condition and together with the Domesday Book which I saw at Kew the other day, it really was one of the highlights of my travels in the UK!

I mean, just imagine having the opportunity tot gaze upon the original Magna Carta! And I mean you can get really close to it for it is merely preserved under glass. While most people expect the Magna Carta to be a heavy tome, I knew it would be a single rather large sheet–and indeed that is exactly what it is! In lay men’s terms, the Magna Carta (Latin for ‘Great Charter’) is simply a statement of legal demands that were thrust upon King John in 1215 by the barons to ensure that their rights would be protected and that the king would not overstep his powers. It was presented to King John at Runnymede between Windsor and Staines, a fact that is declared at the bottom of the document. It came into the possesion of the Cathedral as John’s half-brother William was associated with the Catehdral. He received an original copy of the document which he then passed on to the church. Somehow–don’t ask me how–it was placed for about 90 years during the Victorian Age in a cabinet and forgotten about, so that when it was rediscovered, it was found to be in such a great state of preservation! Unbelievable!

Written in Latin upon vellum (calf skin parchment), it is very easily read if one knows Latin! Various copies of it were produced throughout the 1200s with the 1297 version having become the cornerstone of the British legal system and having influenced the greatest charters such as the Declaration of Independence of the USA and the constitutions of so many Commonwelath countries (including India’s). So, for all these reaons, I was deeply moved to be in the presence of so important a document–like I felt when I gazed upon the Declaration of Independence in the Capitol building in Washington DC so many years ago–only that document was dated 1776, this 1215!!!–a difference of only half a millennium!

Well, back in the Cathedral, I took in its colossal proportions that dwarfed me as I gazed upon it and wondered as I have done in every cathedral I have seen (such as Winchester and Chichester, York and Canterbury) how it was at all possible for the laborers to create the sort of buildings they did in that time given the almost primitive nature of construction! Certainly they did not lack craftsmanship for the fine quality of the stone carvings is just breathtaking.

In Search of Constable’s Masterpiece:
I spent the next few minutes buying post cards from the shop as there was one more thing I wanted to do before I set out for the station to get my train back to Andover.

I wanted to discover the exact spot from which Constable painted his famous view of Salisbury Cathedral. As I got out of the cathedral, luck favored me right away for I caught hold of what looked like a ‘Salisbury Local’ and asked him if he could direct me to the spot “across the river” which is seen in so many postcards. It turned out that this man was not only a local but a knowledgeable one at that (don’t you just love it when people know their local history and enjoy sharing it with visitors?) and went on to tell me that there were various views and he wondered which one I meant. Well, I said, somewhat hesitantly, knowing that not a lot of people share my obsession with Art–“I’m really interested in the spot from where Constable painted his famous view of Salisbury Cathedral that is in the National Gallery in London!”

“Ah”, he said, delighted at my inquiry. “Of course. For that you need to walk straight ahead past the Close, go under the gateway, make a left at the pizza place, then go over a bridge on the river, follow the road as it bends past the Meadows which will be on your left. You will see a road leading to the railway station and on its left a foot path leading to another wooden bridge. Cross that bridge and you will see the Cathedral on your left in the exact angle in which Constable painted it”. My God! I could have hugged him! I mean imagine asking someone for something as esoteric as this and finding a person who not only knew what I was talking about but happened to know how to get me to the exact spot!

So off I went. His directions were crystal clear. While I was crossing the first bridge, I spoke to Llew on his last day at work. We are simply so excited to see each other again and we simply can’t believe that the one year that stretched out at us seemingly endlessly has come to an end! I told him I had spent the night at Steph’s and was at Salisbury and couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow in London. Then, I resumed my goal, passing by some of the most charming parts of the city and neat roads lined with lovely terraced houses and blooming gardens. Truly, there is nothing more beautiful that a summer’s day in England–even a rather cloudy one on which the sun is reluctant to show its face!

And then I was there. Across the meadow filled with black and white cows and a scattering of sheep and the River Avon on whose banks grew tall bulrushes that almost obscured the sight, there it was!!! I was so moved, so thrilled, so delighted to be there! The rain had stopped, thankfully, and I could gaze upon the sight that Cosntable so immortalized in his work. Yes, the trees have grown more lushly since his time and much of the Cathedral’s front facade is obscured by the luxuriant foliage…but it is still timeless, this scene, still filling the passerby with a rare serenity that made me feel so happy to be alive.

Leaving Salisbury:
Then, I was hurrying off to Salisbury station along another pleasant walk and arrived well in time to take my 4. 24 train to Andover. I waited there for about 20 minutes while Stephanie finished up at work and when she arrived to pick me up, I told her all about my lovely day. She was surprized that I had made such a great and full day of it for when she had visited Salisbury she found nothing much to grip her attention but the Cathedral and she told me that she wondered what I would possibly find to do there for a whole day!!! Well, I have to say that I could easily have spent another two hours in the town for there was so much to see and do.

Back on the Tube from Richmond, I reached home at 7. 30 which left me time to eat my dinner, check my email, make a few more last-minute calls to Llew and get to bed–as I said, alone for the last time. When I awake tomorrow, my life of solitude and contemplation in England would have ended and I know it will not take long for this entire incredible year to seem like nothing more than a dream–which is why I am so glad I have maintained this blog, for it will remain a constant reminder to me of all that I made of this year that was gifted to me from above and how much I appreciated this opportunity of a lifetime!

Freud Museum, Regent’s Park Open Air Theater, Hounslow & Richmond

Jul17

Thursday, July 16. 2009
London

Featuring prominently on my List of Things To-Do in London was the Freud Museum and I am amazed that I have waited so long to see it. Five years ago, this would probably have been my first stop in London as I was steeped in Freudian theories as I was researching my second book on The Politics of Mourning: Grief-Management in Cross-Cultural Fiction. With my third book under way, I have turned to other topics and they took predominance over all thing Freudian. Still, having become so familiar with old Sigmund’s writing, particularly those associated with Mourning and Melancholia, I simply couldn’t leave London without exploring his English hidey-hole.

Freud’s home is open from Wednesday to Sunday from 12 noon till 5 pm only. Hence, one has to carefully plan a visit to this place because it is not in the heart of London but in Finchley which I reached by Tube so as to arrive there exactly at 12 noon. I had spent the morning continuing to work on my Oxford lecture and my packing and the discarding of a huge bunch of accumulated papers I do not need to carry to the States. Minda had arrived to clean the loft but I had little time to chat with her today as I had a lengthy agenda of things to be accomplished.

A word about the neighborhood in which Freud made his home in 1938 when he arrived in London fleeing the Nazi invasion of his native Austria where he had spent a lifetime in a house at 19 Bergstrasse in Vienna: It is in an area called Maresfield Garden, a truly lovely street filled with grand Victorian single family (detached) homes wrapped in red brick and defined by a wealth of snow white architectural details. I passed front garden after front garden completely taken by the wealth of the neighborhood until, a short walk later, I arrived at Number 20 where the Freuds made their home. A large plum tree greets visitors at the front gate past a small and perfectly well-kept garden ablaze with giant roses.

It costs 6 pounds (3 pounds student concession) to tour the house which is spacious by English standards. In fact, Freud himself was quite taken by the proportions of it and wrote enthusiastically of its size in the letters he exchanged with his siblings who remained behind in Vienna (they were all eventually killed in the concentration camps). The tour is made superbly interesting by the audio guides that cost an additional pound (but it is well worth the extra expense). You walk through the lovely hall and into the study and long consulting room where Freud met with his patients. He was a sick and old man by the time he arrived in England (suffering from cancer of the jaw which required frequent painful dressing) and took on only four patients whose voices can be heard on the audio guide describing their sessions with him.

For me, the biggest surprise was discovering that Freud was an enthusiastic collector of antiquities and amassed a vast number of Greek, Roman, Turkish and Asian artifacts that are seen all over the house as single pieces as well as in groups neatly displayed in glass vitrines. I suppose I ought not to be surprised, come to think of it, for an obsession with history and antiques is to be expected from someone whose fondest psychological theories focus on people’s past as offering a key to their present and future.

The study also contains Freud’s couch, perhaps the most famous piece of furniture in the world–and, again surprisingly, it is covered with velvet cushions and handsome Turkish carpets which are also strewn liberally all over the wooden floors of the house. Also surprising is that the rooms do not look a bit like the consulting rooms of a doctor’s office–far from it. In fact, with the use of curtains, floor rugs, masses of objects d’art and skillful lighting, Freud managed to make the rooms look cozy and very comfortable indeed and conducive to the opening of his patients’ minds. We see the cushioned bucket seat on which he sat behind his patients and, therefore, out of their sight in order not to inhibit them from speaking by giving away his own thoughts through his expressions. The entire method which Freud devised and upon which his approach rests–psychoanalysis–required the very careful creation of an ambiance that would encourage the free association of thought and ideas which would then allow the psychoanalyst to make sense of them. It was a fascinating and very exciting space to be in and to know that it was from these premises that Freud was able to allow his revolutionary techniques to be made known to the world.

Indeed, though he had been practising psychoanalysis for decades from his clinic in Vienna long before he arrived in London, he took pains to see that every single one of his books and antiques was shipped to London (including the famous couch which was a gift from one of his female patients) so as to recreate the rooms as they had existed in Vienna. Hence, though Freud only lived in Maresfield Gardens for one year (he died a little over a year after taking up residence there), his London home is a far more authentic space than the house at Bergstrasse in Vienna which has also been turned into a Freud Museum but which contains none of his own possessions but merely a replica of the manner in which the space might have looked while he as there. And as we all know (from Freud himself) how insightful an analysis of our personalities and our beings can be gauged from the possessions that we amass, his ‘things’ are not mere ‘objects’ but keys to his own mind and his own personality–just as ours are. Interestingly, before the apartment was dismantled and its contents shipped to London, Freud had a professional photographer come in and take a series of pictures of his Viennese rooms–many of which now adorn the walls of his London dining-room– to give him a template upon which his London rooms could be recreated.

Upstairs, there is a room that was occupied by his youngest child, Anna Freud, the only one to follow her father into his profession and who specialized in Child Psychology having being taught Psychoanalysis by her father who actually psychoanalysed her–in a most unconventional and unorthodox move–for a father would never psychoanalyse his own child in contemporary Psychology. At any rate, it is great to see the manner in which these rooms have been preserved. They give us a superb insight into the mind and thought of this 20th century genius whose theories have influenced every single one of us in ways that we might not even realize. Such common words that form our daily vocabulary as “unconscious”, “sublimated”, “regression”, “negated”, etc. are all derived from Freudian psychology.

Amusingly, a young man entered the house and at the ticket counter, while purchasing his ticket, asked the young clerk: “Am I dressed OK for a visit to this place or should I be wearing a Freudian slip?” Unfortunately, his clever pun was lost on the clerk for whom English was clearly a foreign language! Instead, his groupies, two young girls, giggled in unison and prevented his joke from falling flat on its face.

I took a walk around the dining room with its grand Austrian painted cupboards (a collection amassed by Anna Freud) and the garden where I was delighted to find lovely small ripe plums strewn all over the lawn. The tree in the back garden had yielded the sweetest fruit and the birds hadn’t yet gotten them. With a handful of plums to snack on, I left the house, very pleased that I had made it to this temple of Freudian thought and had acquired a very interesting insight into this remarkable man whose work has had a great influence on my own writing and whose theories form the cornerstone of the literary analysis that I had undertaken a few years ago.

Regent’s Park Open Air Theater:
Then, I caught the Tube back and got off at Baker Street to meet Chaichin who handed over to me two tickets to see the matinee show of The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde at the Regent’s Park Open Air Theater. Now I had never been to this theater and thought it would be great fun to see a play there and we were blessed by the kind of day that seemed tailor-made for such outdoor activity. I had made plans to meet Jack, son of my friends Paul and Loulou, and our rendez-vous was the entrance to Madame Tussaud’s. It always amazes me how many hordes go through the doors of this London attraction each day. In fact, you can tell that tourist season has begun in the city when you start to see the line winding in serpentine fashion around this block of Baker Street. Having been to Madame Tussaud’s 22 years ago when I first arrived in London, I have never returned there and have never felt the inclination to visit it again.

Jack arrived bang on time and we made our way towards Regent’s Park where the theater was located. It was a short ten minute walk past the beautiful Queen Mary’s Rose Garden laid out in 1935, one of London’s best-kept secrets. Though the roses were not as stunning as the ones in the many gardens I have recently seen all over the place. I could not resist taking a few photographs, and with that done, we made our way to the lovely amphitheater where we found seats in the park surrounding it and sat down to chat for a few minutes before curtail call when we climbed the stands and took our seats.

The Importance of Being Earnest is such an entertaining Edwardian comedy that it is impossible to do a bad job of it. I had seen a very good version of it last March (2008) at the Vaudeville Theater with my friend Amy when she and I had spent a few days in London en route to Italy during my Spring Break. Lady Bracknell was then played by Penelope Keith (of To the Manor Born fame)and it was to see her that I had booked tickets then. Well, imagine my surprise when I discovered that Lady Bracknell in this production was played by Susan Woolridge–whose real name may mean less than her screen name (Daphne Manners) in The Jewel in the Crown! She made a very funny Lady Bracknell but both Jack and I thought that our favorite character was the girl who played Cecily (Lucy Briggs Owen) in such a saucy fashion as to be completely lovable.

The set design was rather ingenious though I have to say that I had my heart in my mouth every time the characters walked down that steep slope–I could see how gingerly they were doing it. One false move and they could have been flat on their faces. With a Pimms cocktail at the interval for me and a coffee for Jack, we stretched our legs a bit before making our way back to our seats for the second half that was equally delightful. Since it was Jack’s first time at the Regent Park Open Air Theater we were both very pleased that we had such fine weather and such a charming performance at which to make our debut appearances as audience members at this venue.

Meeting Relatives in Hounslow:
Then, I was saying goodbye to Jack and getting back on the Tube and heading towards Hounslow East where I was picked up at the station by Joel, who drive me over to see my Dad’s second cousin Sybil who hasn’t been very well for several months. Since I am leaving soon for the States, I did want to see her before I left and I was glad to find a free evening in which to fit in this visit–indeed I made the time to see her even if briefly. It was good to sit and chat with her and Joel over old times. We took a few photographs and then Joel was dropping me off to Richmond–a mere 15 minute drive away–where he said bye to me at my friend Stephanie’s place.

Stephanie was cooking us an Indian dinner when I arrived–chicken tikka with brown rice and papadams–and as we enjoyed it in her living room, she told me all about her recent cruise in Croatia which was a blast. I was so glad to hear all about it as well as catch up with other things.
It was about 11.00 pm when we went to bed. I was spending the night at Steph’s as she will be driving me tomorrow to Andover where she works. I intend to take a train on to Salisbury as I would like to see the Cathedral and the very historic town that developed around it, before I return to the States.

Incredible Jude Law as Hamlet at the Wyndham and a Walk in Soho

Jul15

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

London

Probably the strain of everything I have to do in these last few days is wearing me down because I am waking up too early again–today at 6. 30 am. Still, it gave me a chance to tidy up my room which now (with all my packing and discarding of unnecessary items) looks as if Hurricane Katrina has hit it. Also with Loulou and Paul here and with us having made plans for breakfast, I snuck into the kitchen to find out if they had awoken and got coffee going! They hadn’t and were still sound asleep. It is wonderful to have their comforting presence in this loft as it is vast and can get very lonely–so I am also glad that Llew will be here on Saturday to share this fabulous living space with me.

By 8. 30 am, however, Paul and Loulou had awoken. Loulou nipped down to Our Pantry (read M&S Simply Food) to buy coffee and croissants while I set the table–for four as we were also expecting their son Jack to join us. Well, a little later, he had arrived and we all sat down to crusty croissants with butter and jam and cereal with milk, coffee and grapefruit juice and chatted companionably as we reviewed our plans for the next couple of weeks. Hard to believe that I am down to the wire now and talking about what I will do when Llew gets here. We are planning a week in France with friends in Paris and Normandy, so I am also trying to set that part of our holiday up.

The carpet guy Dick came in to change the carpet in my wash room and I changed quickly and left him to it as I was headed off to NYU to do a few last minute things: I had to settle one last electricity bill, I had to print out a whole bunch of last interviews I had done and I had to photocopy something, not to mention chatting with the shipping guys about two more boxes that I need to deliver to their warehouse in North Acton. My friend Janie (who is currently with her mother in Yorkshire but who returns to London on Monday) has promised to help me out with that! Where would I be without all these friends who have sprung so amazingly to my rescue repeatedly during my stay here? They are truly incredible and I am truly grateful.

Errands at NYU:
At NYU, I did all the tasks I had to accomplish and then left my office knowing that I will return there for one last time next week when my Oxford Lecture is complete and I have to print it out. I said bye to Mimi, the security guard at Reception, and flew out the door (having lost a few precious minutes right as I was leaving in talking to Llew who called me. He is very excited about his return to London and we had to go over some last-minute details).

Lunch with Michelle:
My next appointment was at the office of my friend Michelle who is a lawyer working for Parliament. We had made plans to meet for lunch and I was delighted to see her. Michelle was in college with me at Elphinstone in Bombay where we had majored in English Literature and competed fiercely for every last mark! But, of course, we have remained close friends over the years despite her many international stints, first as a journalist in Hongkong and then as a lawyer here in London.
We had a really good lunch (their cafeteria is posh, the food very far from institutional)–a zucchini (0r courgette, as they call it here) quiche with a balsamic glaze and Brambly Apple compote–yummy! Needless to say, we talked nineteen to the dozen and before we knew it, I had to leave for my next appointment, but not before I hugged and thanked Michelle for the delicious lunch which was her treat. I am hoping to see her again on Tuesday at the little farewell get-together I am planning for a few friends.
Then, I was hopping into buses to get to Leicester Square for the 2. 30 pm matinee show of Hamlet starring none other than Jude Law himself at the Donmar Wyndham Theater. Because I was a bit early, I had a chance to browse through some of the antiques stores in the neighborhood and entered one selling old English coins. I was delighted to find a special gift for Chriselle. I had been looking for a while for something unique to buy her from London and when I did find it, I realized again that it is not the monetary value of the item you buy for someone but the singularity of it that matters and its connection with the person for whom it is intended. I hope very much that she will like it.

Then, I made my way to the theater to find a long line snaking out of it as people hoped to find tickets. I was thrilled that I had purchased my ticket online several months ago because with Jude Law playing Hamlet, the summer hordes that have descended upon this city (mainly star struck teenyboppers) are making a beeline for this theater hoping to find tickets. Well, they are going to need all the luck in the world as the house was full to bursting. I had fairly good seats and was so grateful for the opera glasses that I now carry with me every time I go to the theater as they are so useful.

Jude Law Plays Hamlet:
The play in general and Jude Law in particular have received such staggeringly good reviews that anything I say would be superfluous. Suffice it then to say that it was an extraordinary afternoon at the theater and that it is productions like these (it was directed by Michael Grandage who also directed the As You Like It production that I saw at The Globe last month) that make me realize why Shakespeare is so revered and why his work will live on forever. I have seen many versions of Hamlet in my lifetime (on stage and screen–I am most familiar with the Mel Gibson production but my favorite is the Kenneth Branagh version with Derek Jacobi playing Claudius) but I know that I will remember forever this anguished Hamlet played so vulnerably by Law. I have to say that I have never found him a heart throb myself, so I was able to watch the performance objectively and it was splendid.

But as has happened repeatedly since I started going to the theater here in London a year ago, what leaves me gob-smacked is the number of other cast members with whose work I am familiar through the small screen. So just imagine how pleased I was to discover that Claudius was played by Kevin McNally who was wonderful in a TV show from the 70s called Dad that I had seen on PBS screenings in the States…and best treat of all, that The Player Queen was played by Jenny Funnel whom I recognized immediately as the lovely lovely actress who plays Sandie in As Time Goes By! It is these unexpected treats that have made my stay in London so memorable and they just never stop coming.

At the end of the show, I inquired of the ushers as to where the Stage Door was located in order to try to catch a closer glimpse of these stars–I reiterate…I was more interested in McNally and Funnel than Law! Thankfully, we did not have to wait too long. Within fifteen minutes, the actors began trooping out and when McNally arrived, I requested a picture with me. He was very pleased indeed to pose with me (see left).

A few minutes later, Jenny Funnel appeared and I might have surprised her deeply when I asked if she would pose with me. I swear I felt as if I was fifteen again! Seems I might have missed my calling as a groupie!!! She, too, was very gracious and willing and when I told her that I have watched her and loved her for years in As Time Goes By, she beamed, her beautiful large blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. So here is the picture I took with her. And let me tell you that these two close encounters of the Anglo Kind so made my day that I called Llew in great haste on the bus to tell him whom I had just met!
In fact, in a few minutes, one of the stage hands came around to tell us that Jude Law does not appear at the stage door between shows (there was another show at 8pm) and that he would only be available at the end of the evening’s performance. The poor star struck teens outside were devastated, while I quickly waltzed away with not a crack anywhere in my own heart!
A Walk in Soho:
And then I got on a bus that took me back to Oxford Street as I wanted to explore Soho on my feet. I mean how crazy is this? I have been in London for a whole year and have not yet explored its trendiest part? I mean, were I twenty, I guess that’s where I’d be every evening…but not being twenty anymore, well, I have different priorities!

I started off at Soho Square, the lovely little park with a Tudor house in its center and the sculpture of Charles II (he once frequented the area and built a home for his mistress Nell Gwynne on the Square). Today, the place was rather crowded and a corner of it was taken up by a group of idlers and drug addicts who, once-upon-a-time, when I used to see them hanging out at Union Square Garden in New York, used to make me feel very uncomfortable indeed. It seems that I have gotten over even that aversion for this time round they did not bother me at all!

It was from a history plaque in the garden that I realized from where the word “soho” came. It was a hunting term, used each time a prey (such as a fox) was spotted. The leader would yell, SO HO!” and the troupe would give chase. Needless to say, this part of London in the 17th century was hunting ground being covered thickly with woods! French Huguenots and Catholics congregated here and as time went by built two churches that stand upon the square–one a Catholic church in which I had once attended Sunday mass.

From there, I picked my way to the beginning of Dean Street to see a shelter for the homeless called The St. Barnabas House. My book informed me (and I am using a different book now as I have finished all 24 walks in Frommer’s Book) it has one of the most beautiful Rococco staircases in the city and it was for that reason that I visited the spot. Well, the nice gentleman who led me in, then gave me a special private tour taking me from one historic room to the next where the plasterwork on the walls and ceiling was truly stunning. In fact, in one of the rooms I saw the largest central ceiling medallion that I have seen anywhere–featuring playful fat cherubs. It was really lovely. The man also then took me to another staircase to show me the special iron balustrades that were constructed to protrude out into the stairwell so as to accommodate the enormous crinoline hoop skirts for which the 18th century was renowned. It was very nice of him to do this for me but clearly he sensed my vivid interest in such things and even permitted me to take photographs. He also said goodbye to me at the door and presented me with a color brochure that gives wonderful close up views of the plasterwork.

My walk in Soho continued as I wound my way in and out of the maze of streets each one lined with restaurants of every kind and cuisine. I saw the home in which the young Mozart had once stayed and composed and where the essayist William Hazlitt died. The drizzle which had been sporadic through the day turned into a heavy shower at this point and though I had my brolly, I sheltered under the lobby of a building until the worst of it passed.

Next I went out in search of Mezzo restaurant which Terence Conran has turned into the largest one in Europe–or so my book said. Well, it turned out that my book was five years outdated! The restaurant closed down five years ago but has been replaced by two others–Floradita and Meza–still owned by Conran–so a nice guy told me at a neighboring place. I took a peek into them and then continued on my rambles looking in particular for The Gay Hussar, a Hungarian restaurant that has been packing them in for fifty years on this street–clearly it was opened as a time when Gay meant something else altogether different!

The interior of the restaurant is similar to Lindy’s in Manhattan in that its walls are covered with cartoon representations of the many dignitaries who have supped within them. The Gay Hussar is best known for its wild cherry soup and I thought it would be the perfect pick-me-up and a great way to escape the rain. So in I went. It was still rather early in the evening (about 6. 30 pm) and the diners hadn’t yet started to arrive. I told the maitress d’ that I was there only for the soup and she seated me down graciously at a window corner and brought me a bowl. It was amazing! I mean there I was sipping a great big bowl of what might be described as cherry flavored milk with a few cooked cherries hidden at the bottom–the perfect summer soup. I am determined to experiment with a few concoctions to replicate this delight once I get home to Connecticut for it was fabulous! At 4. 75 pounds a bowl, it is a steal as the portion was huge making it very filling indeed. Replete with this treat inside of me, I resumed my rambles and arrived on Berwyck Road at which point, I began to feel fatigued.

I know the area that the rest of the walk covered really well (Cambridge Circus and Charing Cross), so I decided to cut it short and took another bus to come straight back home.

I spent the evening in my room downloading my pictures, checking my email, sending out a birthday message to my cousin Bonnie in Bombay and winding down for the day, thrilled at its outcome. I had a very late dinner (rice and salads) and fell asleep.
It had been at least two weeks since I had done any serious sightseeing (as I had been preoccupied with work at the libraries) and I realize that one of the highlights of my year in London has been the many walks I have taken and the secrets and hidden gems of the city to which they have introduced me. I know that I can return again and still find a year’s worth of places to explore and it is this thought that is making the withdrawal symptoms a bit easier to bear as the days and hours fly by.

A Funeral in Lewisham

Jul14

Wednesday, July 14, 2009
London

My day started at 6. 30 am as I checked email and proof read my blog before calling my parents and brother Russel in Bombay. I also continued working on my Oxford Lecture and made steady progress on it until I decided to stop for breakfast (cereal and milk) and a shower. At 11. 30 am, I left my flat for the bus ride to Lewisham for the funeral of Mary Wilson whom I had interviewed at the end of last year. I did manage to get to the Church of St. Savior on time and was pleased to see so many folk from the Thursday Luncheon Club of the South London Anglo-Indian Association who had already assembled there. I walked to the church with Oscar , another man who I had interviewed, and met Cecil, Mary’s husband at the church. He was surprised but very pleased to see me indeed.

This was my first funeral in the UK and indeed my very first cremation. The mass was short and said by a South Indian or perhaps Sri Lankan priest. The eulogy delivered by Mary’s son, Peter, took the form of the recitation of a poem that was composed by Cecil. It was deeply moving and I was in tears for a good part of the service. It is amazing to me how close I feel to these folks who have shared their life stories with me. In fact, I possibly know them better than they know each other even though they have been friends for years. Certain aspects of one’s life never come up in conversation even with one’s closest friends. Everyone spoke fondly and admiringly of the devotion that Cecil showed Mary who was on dialysis for years and it was profoundly moving for me to see him dab at his eyes several times during the day. Equally emotional was their grandson. It is wonderful, I think, that these Anglo-Indians have created links that allow them to stand by and support each other in times of grief. The members of the group are hoping very much that Cecil will return soon to the Thursday Luncheon Club as this might be a way for him to resolve his loss and move on.

I was especially grateful to Dennis and Joy who gave me a ride from the church to the crematorium to the wake which was held in a pub in Lewisham called One. This couple has been extremely supportive of my work here in London and I very grateful to them too as also to a number of the other folks I had the chance to meet over the past year. They are now preparing for their Anglo-Indian Annual Day which takes places in Croydon on the first Sunday in August–alas, I will miss it as my UK visa expires on August 1 and I need to leave the country before this date. Unexpectedly, this funeral gave me a chance to meet many of these folks and thank them personally for the assistance and hospitality they extended to me over this past year. I was also pleased to meet Lynette, Cecil’s sister from Canada, who flew to London for the funeral. We have corresponded via email but hadn’t met each other earlier. This was a sad occasion but an opportunity, nevertheless, for us to connect in person. Lynette does a great job keeping Anglo-Indian history and affairs alive in her part of the world and her networking skills are enormous.

I said my goodbyes to Cecil and my friends and left the pub at 4. 30 pm to catch the buses that brought me back home at 6 pm when I took a bit of a rest before I continued with the task of sorting out papers and packing. I need to make a list soon of all the things I have to do before Llew arrives here so that I can actually spend our last few days in London doing quality stuff and not anything too boring such as packing.

At 6. 30 pm, I heard sounds in my loft and realized that I had company–a few minutes later, Loulou walked in, to my great joy. It was great to see her again after more than two weeks. Paul followed a few minutes later. They had arrived to go out for an important family dinner and, therefore, disappeared into their room to dress. I continued to work on my PC, then had a solitary dinner at home–still trying to finish leftovers in my fridge and freezer but I made myself a large salad after a long time with a mustard vinaigrette. I went to bed early knowing that I would awake the next day and have company at breakfast.

More Archival Research at Kew and Seeing the Domesday Book

Jul13

Monday, July 13, 2009
London

I did not have a good night at all. Was awfully restless, then awoke at 3. 30 am with a headache. Took a pill for it and tried to get back to sleep but tossed incessantly feeling hot and cold within five minute intervals. I finally gave up at 5. 45 am, typed my blog, then fell asleep again at 6. 30 am and did not awake till 8 am. I was so annoyed with myself as I had wanted to leave the house by 7 am to take the buses that would get me to the Archives at Kew by 9 am. Fat chance!

Well, I raced through a shower and my breakfast (cereal and milk), made myself a packed lunch and left the house at 8. 50 am. I carried Owen Thorpe’s autobiography to read on the bus as I find the long journey of nearly two hours to Kew rather monotonous and I figured I might as well get another book read. I found it very interesting and not entirely serious either. It is written with a very firm tongue-in-cheek and as any boy who grew up on the Indian sub-continent in the 40s, 50s and 60s will attest, speaks of a simple but blissful childhood with dozens of friends and a multiplicity of games that kept one fit and slender. I saw so many visions of my own childhood reflected in the pages of this book that I am enjoying every moment of it. Despite the fact that Owen was brought up in South India and I in Bombay, there is such a similarity of habit, custom, tradition and experience as to make the book seem as if I have authored it. Very entertaining indeed!

Then, I was at Kew and ensconced in my seat at 10 A pouring over the last of the files that spell out policy decisions particularly those pertaining to the British Nationality Act, 1948. Needless to say, I am discovering a great deal about the legal positions that governed decisions regarding who could and could not legally enter the UK as immigrants and the extent to which the British government was willing to lend a helping hand and a leg up to the new arrivals. With all the reading I am doing, both fictional and autobiographical, and all the documents I am reading and photographing and photocopying, I feel fully steeped in the culture.

Unfortunately, I am unable to meet Alison Blunt whose work on the Anglo-Indian diaspora preceded mine. She sent me a text message to cancel our appointment due to a sudden loss in her family. I felt very sorry for her indeed and look forward to meeting her another time.

The National Archives Museum at Kew:
I was done with my research by 4 pm when I left the Archives, but on the way out I saw the entrance to the Museum of the National Archives and, of course, I cannot pass a museum without peeking inside it…so in I went. To my immense surprise, there was the famous Domesday Book that dates from the 12th century when William the Conqueror of Normandy decided to create a census, if you like, of all the landowners in the British Isles in order to determine the amount of taxes that was owned him by his new subjects! Hence, ever since that day, old and well established British families boast their age and authority by their presence (or otherwise) in this Book. Having seen the Book of Kells (at Trinity College Library, Dublin) and the Gutenberg Bible (in the British Library at King’s Cross), I was thrilled to be able to inspect the Domesday Book–which is really the earliest book of any significance produced in the British Isles.

The Book is handwritten in exquisite calligraphy by a single monk who wrote on parchment leaves (obtained from the stomachs of sheep) and then illuminated (illustrated) each page with beautifully decorative borders and motifs. There is also a Little Domesday Book which contains similar entries for a few other parts of the British Isles and these two together make intriguing viewing. I also saw the chest that was used for its safekeeping.

Also on display at the Museum is the register in which Henry VIII’s Bishop Thomas Cranmer began a slow and painful record of all the ecclesiastical properties that fell under the jurisdiction of the Crown following the Disillusion of the Monastries in 1538. This too us superbly illuminated with a rather interested representation of Henry VIII himself on the front page–wonder if it was made from a life pose or from memory. Though this museum is small, it has some rather wonderful exhibits and I was amazed, as always, at the condition of these priceless artifacts and the pride with which they are placed on display in the UK.

Though it is a bit of a hike getting to the National Archives which are situated in the midst of residential Kew, it really is worth going there just to see the Domesday Book. And really it is of significance that the book is placed here as thousands of ordinary people go to these Archives each year to trace their family history as the building is a receptacle for a thousand years of British documentary history. My own research in this place has proven invaluable–not only in helping me understand the state of affairs that brought Anglo-Indians to the UK but the manner in which bureaucratic principles of policy design and decisions were inherited by those of us who can trace our own history to the former British colonies. It amazes me how racist these men were (and they were always men then) in whose hands the running of the Indian sub-continent was placed and how despite their animus towards people of color, they never ever said so in so many words. As one of the more thoughtful and reflective of my Anglo-Indian subjects told me, “The British will never tell you to your face that they dislike you because you are brown…but boy, read the sub text which is present all the time…and the writing’s on the wall!” Certainly in the documents I examined (many of which I have photographed) that date from the early 1950s, it is crystal clear that British officials tried their hardest to keep Anglo-Indians out of England after India’s Independence. Indeed, had the Anglo-Indians been privy to the discussions that occured among the officials in whose hands their own fate was held, they would never have been surprized by the racism they encountered when they arrived here. No wonder so many of them have told me how grateful they are for the current climate of political correctness which, at the very least, prevents mainstream Britons from verbally expressing their dislike of people who do not come from what the documents describe as “white stock”.

By 5. 50, I was home to check email and receive instructions and directions from my friend Oscar for the funeral I will attend tomorrow of Mary Wilson whom I had the pleasure of interviewing. I also used Journey Planner on my PC to figure out how to get to Lewsiham on the buses tomorrow. Then, I made a To-Do List of items I must slowly start to do as the days fly by and the day of Llew’s arrival is upon me. Top of the list is to compete drafting and editing my lecture to be delivered at Oxford in a couple of weeks from now. It is, however, a great weight of my mind to know that I have successfully finished all my interviews and all my intended research at the British Library and the National Archives at Kew.

Feeling marvelously light (mentally), I started my packing. Hauling boxes out of my closet and pulling down one of my suitcases, I stated to put all my recent shopping into it and placed myself in Wind Down Mode. Then, when I had accomplished a great deal of clearing of papers and books, I stopped at 9. oo pm to have my dinner (Zurek, the delicious soured Polish soup to which we had been introduced in Poland and which I found in a Polish grocery store at Croydon and rice and vegetable curry). I watched a spot of the BBC News as I ate, then decided that since I slept so badly last night, I had better try to get to bed early tonight.

An Anglo-Indian Bash in Wembley

Jul12

Sunday, July 12, 2009
London

With just one interview left to be transcribed, I awoke at 7. 30 and decided to finish it up–but that was after I read some Potter–the last novel is taking me longer to go through than the previous one. Then I was grabbing a bit of cereal and a mango, showering, dressing and taking a series of buses to Wembley Central for the summer party thrown by Gerry and Coreen–to which I was invited about two months ago. En route, I began reading Owen’s book and have to say that I find it absorbing.

The party was great…loads of people present–relatives and friends. This core Anglo-Indian group that calls themselves The Gang take it in rotation to meet periodically at their homes. Gerry and Coreen have an enviable parcel of property in Wembley that allows them to throw a huge bash complete with shamianas, and a family of caterers who cook the meal on site–all surrounded by the many aviaries filled with exotic birds that forms the center of their unusual business.

This is your typical Anglo-Indian party…only scaled up to include rock and roll hits of the 50s, 60s and 70s, a really great bunch of guys who know each other well and take to the dance floor at the drop of a hat to shake a leg and let their hair down. The booze flowed and I particularly enjoyed a Gerry concoction he called Mango Fool–more like a Mango Lassi which, spiked with Bacardi, took me to the Bahamas! Needless to say, the food–all Indian, all cooked by a Pakistani woman called Farah who had the most adorable brood of kids helping her out–was great, particularly the appetisers–a variety of kebabs of which the Chicken Tikka and Lamb Chops were to die for.

I met a couple of folks, who, over the months, I have interviewed and who seemed pleased to see me again. And then I met a bunch of folks I have never seen before–in the case of so many of them, I feel terrible that it is now time for me to return Stateside for I know that they would have made great company during all the months that I was alone in this city and even greater friends. I was very happy to meet and chat with George Hillier who spearheaded the creation of the Anglo-Indian associations in the UK and was the shaping force behind the many London Anglo-Indian dances of years gone by.

I had a bit of a shock when it was revealed to me that one of the Anglo-Indian ladies that I had interviewed several months ago has passed away. Her funeral is on Tuesday and I would dearly love to attend it but I have already made plans to meet up for lunch with Prof. Alison Blunt, a fellow scholar of the Anglo-Indian diaspora, and I fear that I will be unable to change that appointment as I have only a few days left now to play around with before Llew gets here and I have to leave. I was very sad indeed to receive the news as I had been welcomed warmly by this person and her husband at their home in Lewisham and had partaken of her excellent chicken curry and had enjoyed a very interesting conversation with her. Little did I know that before I returned home, one of the folks I have interviewed would be no more. It makes me realize once again how important it is that the oral history of these lovely people be recorded for posterity before it is too late.

One of the folk I particularly enjoyed chatting with was Bash, Gerry’s financial adviser, who also then offered to give me a ride home. Except that when we got into his car–the cutest little silver grey model–and began our journey, he sensed my interest and made a few detours en route to show me some of the sights that Wembley could offer–such as the iconic Stadium where ever so many sports events and entertainment shows are held and a little further afield, the famous public school, colloquially known as ‘Harrow’ at Harrow-on-The-Hill where Jawaharlal Nehru was once a student and from where he wrote some of the most moving letters to his father Motilal as he tried to cope with the strangeness of the country into which he had been thrust as a tender teenager!

I was struck both by the stadium’s unique design–it has a rather odd semi-circular hoop that seems to stand suspended above it–and even more so by the glorious red brick buildings that comprise the prestigious school. Build in the Tudor idiom, they reveal the kind of extraordinary brickwork of which only the Tudors and the Elizabethans were capable–black brick making interesting herringbone and diamond patterns to relieve the monotony of the red walls. There are castellated tops, a grand approach comprising steps punctuated by rose bush beds and a rather lovely grey and white church with a slender spire reminiscent of the one on the chapel roof of Exeter College, Oxford. This school served as the location for Hogwarts School for Wizards in the Harry Potter films. Despite the failing light, I took a few pictures before we left the venue. Indeed, the entire little village of Harrow-on-The-Hill is prettiness personified with the heart of Old Harrow comprising a warren of narrow streets lined by bookstores, coffee shops and trendy restaurants. It never ceases to amaze me how many quaint parts of London I have yet to see and with this school visited, I can tick another item off my List of Things To Do in London–thanks to Bash and his offer to include a bit of unexpected sightseeing on my agenda.

Back at my place, Bash stayed for a cup of coffee before we said goodbye. I had a conversation with Llew before I prepared for bed and as I intend to spend the day tomorrow at the National Archives at Kew, for which I need to leave my early, I went off to bed straight away.

An English Historian of the Raj and More Archival Research at Kew

Jul11

Saturday, July 11, 2009
London

While the rest of the world snoozed and had a lazy weekend lie-in, I awoke at the crack of dawn, read some more Potter, then showered, breakfasted and left my flat to catch the many buses that would take me to Wandsworth where I had an appointment with an Englishwoman who has written and researched extensively on British History in India from the 17th to the 19th centuries. Rosie lives in a very charming home overlooking a park in the beautiful hamlet of Wandsworth with her Goan husband Stanley who is also a historian and, according to her, has “written the definitive history of the Indian army”.

It amazes me that after a whole year in London, there are still some parts of it that I have never traversed. The bits south of Victoria, for instance–Battersea and Clapham and Wandsworth– are still unknown to me and in the bus today, I discovered them. Of course, the buses are the best way to see these hidden corners of the city as they take you through a maze of narrow streets lined with terraced houses whose front gardens are brimming with abundant summer foliage and scent-ridden blossoms. Jasmine is tumbling over moss-covered brick walls in an untidy disarray of fragrant blooms that grow sweeter at dusk. I have noticed that the plant we call “butterfly bush” (budeleia) in the States (and that despite so much care I have never managed to coax out of the ground or to produce a single lush flower-head) grows luxuriantly here, almost like a weed. It is seen in every hedge, its fat purple conical flower heads appearing almost as abundantly as lilacs. There are scarlet poppies growing wild along the roads and in ditches–they are truly weeds in this country– and hydrangeas have started to appear in a variety of hues. As for the hanging baskets, there must me some magic formula that causes them to explode as they do in England in a ferocious palette of primary shades as petunias flow copiously, bizzie-lizzies crowd the brim and leafy fronds of wispy ferns add to the bulk of these globular creations. I am constantly in awe of their abundance.

Rosie’s home is lovely–it is filled with the items she has purchased on her frequent trips to India–loads of Islamic artifacts from Lucknow. There is a gaddi, as was favored by the Nawabs of Awadh (formerly Oudh), covered in a sequin-laden, chiffon-like duppata. There are loads of pictures that hark back to good times in the Indian colony. The bathroom is a Cath Kidson creation–her wall paper and fabric designs are everywhere in posies of roses–in keeping with the owner’s name! The ‘Cries of London’ series of picture adorn the walls–a strange contrast, this Victorianness, with the Indianness of the black and white photos of Raj nostalgia outside.The kitchen is equally lived-in–loads of china line solid dressers, plants galore crowd around a tile-covered table. This is your typical English interior (the kind I have always adored and tried to emulate in my own decorating)… and then there is the garden with its own real apple tree laden with chartreuse fruit, some having already fallen on the lawn. I mean this is the stuff of which one reads in Enid Blyton’s books, isn’t it?–the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. And to see it in reality is rather overwhelming and I have to take a picture.

Rosie and I have a very interesting chat over a cup of coffee that she produces with some spicy samosas . Fellow academics have so much in common, not the least of which is their constant quest and delight in knowledge. She, like me, leads tours to India–her’s focusing exclusively on Raj History in the North. She shares her itinerary with me and I am intrigued to discover that there are still so many corners of India I have yet to traverse despite a lifetime spent traveling in the beloved country of my birth. I silently resolve to fill this lacuna in my wandering. She also informs me about new books about Anglo-Indian history that have just been published and promises to put me on to the authors. I am deeply indebted to her and her willingness to share her sources.

Then, I find myself saying goodbye. Stanley accompanies me to the bus stop and we chat about American colonial history in my neck of the Connecticut woods–Southport and Fairfield–what he calls “Puritan America”. He is soft spoken and I have to strain to hear him correctly. When my bus arrives, I jump on to it and several detours later–one of which takes me to Putney High Street where I find a complete set of unopened Penhaligon purse-sized scent phials in the Cancer Research Shop–I finally arrive at the National Archives at Kew.

I know the ropes here now and the systems that operate in this place–each place has different rules, but this time I am able to obtain a year-long Reader’s Ticket that gives me access to Confidential and Top Secret documents exchanged between officials on both sides–in Great Britain and in India at the time of the transfer of power. It is such fascinating information that I am enthralled and wish I could make notes about everything.

So much policy decision is becoming clear to me–the ones that prevailed with regards to repatriation of the Anglo-Indians in the UK makes absorbing reading and I realize how heavy were the odds against these people when they arrived here–and how creditable is their achievement in this country, even if slight in relation to their Indian counterparts–for they were clearly victims of racism and every attempt was made to keep them out of England and not to extend them a leg-up once they got here. Suddenly every story they shared with me about their early struggles in this country is all the more laudable. I now have a very good idea of the thesis I will create as I start to think about the writing of my book and the slant it will take as I begin to retell their oral histories.

Back home–the journey by bus took me exactly two hours–I transcribed one more interview–a rather long and very interesting one with Joe who has extremely unique views on his fifty odd years in the UK–then sat to eat my dinner while watching some nonsense on TV. I have to say that the Pakistani mangoes I bought in West Croydon are superb and tomorrow when I get to Wembley, I intend to buy myself another box–for not having had access to mangoes from the Indian sub-continent all these years while living in the States, I really do want to make the most of the opportunity I have this summer in the UK and pig out on them.