Work at NYU, The City, Bolshoi Ballet

Aug6


Monday, August 5, 2013
Work at NYU, The City, Bolshoi Ballet
            The morning passed quickly with me putting in about 3 hours at my computer even before I got up for breakfast. I skipped morning Mass as I was so engrossed in my work, I did not want to break my trend of thought.  We had granola cereal for breakfast at the Bishop’s table with tea and then I returned to my work. A good part of the next hour was spent sorting through the vast amount of paper I have accumulated through my handwritten or photocopied notes and research at the British Library. The administrative assistant at NYU-London at Bedford Square kindly agreed to assist me in mailing them back home to the States to save me having to pay excess baggage charges.
            I called Tim to find out if I could get over to his place to pick up the weighing scale he owns and took the bus two stops down to Holborn. With scale safely in my possession, I returned home and continued to cull down my papers. When that was done, I made a bundle of one pile and carried it with me to leave at NYU-London.
Lunch at Hare and Tortoise with my NYU-Office Mate:
            James Polchin and I share a very large office at our NYU campus in New York. Because he is currently posted in London, I have the office to myself and I do miss his presence. We had made plans to meet for lunch and to catch up on all that is happening at our London site. At 1.00 pm, James arrived at The Hare and the Tortoise at Russel Square’s Brunswick Center which has great pan-Asian food. My favorite is the Curry Laksa and I make sure I have it at least once during each of my visits to London. And that was exactly what happened. James ordered sushi and sashimi and I ate my super-large prawn, chicken and squid soup which was as terrific as I always remember it to be. We had a long and very informative exchange of information and ideas and he caught me up on all the changes that have occurred on our London campus since I worked here. We laughed, we joked, we tut-tutted over things and then it was time for the short stroll to Bedford Square. I said goodbye to James there and then settled down in my office to do a spot of photocopying and to print out a number of items that I need to send off to New York. I spent more than an hour getting all this work done and then I was off.
A Walking Tour of The City:    
            A steady drizzle had begun by the time I left my office and since I did not have my brolly—I am getting used to a London sans rain—I hopped into a bus up to Chancery Lane Tube station, then took the Tube to Bank. My idea was to explore the mainly commercial heart of The City of London which comprises banks, financial institutions, etc. and a bunch of beautiful old Wren and Hawksmore churches.
            When I got off the Tube, I was right outside the great Neo-Classical edifice of Mansion House which is the office of the Lord Mayor of London (not to be confused with the Mayor of London who is Boris Johnson—BoJo—and who is ensconced at City Hall, Norman Foster’s overturned glass pudding bowl on the South Bank). Right opposite is Sir John Soane’s Bank of England Building and right next to it is the Royal Exchange Building (the original Stock Exchange Building of London). These structures are fabulous and I do adore them. But with the drizzle becoming a steady shower, I quickly found my way to the Church of St. Stephen Walbrook (on Walbrook Lane) only to be disappointed because it was closed. Bummer!
            Not losing any time, I found the next church on my agenda: St. Mary’s Abchurch which, thankfully, was open. I stepped inside and took in the lovely aged interior with its box pews, superb wood carved altar and reredos by Grinling Gibbons and painted dome (thought to have been the work of James Thornhill but now attributed to someone else).
I spent some time there in prayer before venturing out in the rain again to look for St. Mary’s Woolnoth. This church sits at the cross roads with the Bank of England. It is one of Nicholas Hawkmore’s masterpieces with its two flat spires (reminiscent of Sainte Supplice in Paris). Unfortunately, it too was closed but I could admire its beautiful exterior and its characteristic Hawksmore’s touches—the solid pillars high up near the spires, for instance.
Tired and with plans disrupted by the rain, I rode on the bus to St. Paul’s and got back home about 5.00 pm. Having slept very late at night, I took a half hour nap as I had wonderful evening plans in store—I was off to see the Bolshoi Ballet straight from Moscow perform at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden—a treat, I knew, that would be unbeatable. I simply could not get over the fact that for about 30 years since I have been coming to London, I had never seen a performance at Covent Garden and then suddenly I was seeing two in two weeks (Puccini’s La Rondine had been my first, two weeks ago)!
The Bolshoi Ballet at Covent Garden:
            Cynthia had prawn sandwiches and marble cake ready for me with tea. I wolfed it down and showered and got ready for my night out. On the Tube to Covent Garden and after a short stoll through Floral Street, I was at the theater at 7. 15 ready for my 7. 30 pm performance. The Royal Opera House looks gorgeous at night with all the lights on—the last time I had been for La Rondine, it was a matinee performance and the place wore a very different look. This was far more elegant.
            Well, I had a lovely seat and I settled down eagerly to give myself up fully to the enjoyment of the spectacle. And a spectacle it was indeed! I mean, what can I say except look for superlatives? Everything was brilliant—from the music to the choreography to the technical flawlessness of the ballet dancers as they performed The Sleeping Beauty to the stirring music of Tchaikovsky. For the next three hours, with an intermission which allowed me to stretch my legs and walk to the gorgeous glass conservatory restaurant, I had a simply splendid time. The lady sitting next to me also was alone—she is a ballet freak and extremely well-informed about it. We struck up a lively dialogue and I learnt a great deal from her in a short time. Indeed, I realized that this was my very first full-length ballet ever and what a dream it turned out to be. I could not have been more elated!
            I got back on the Tube to St. Paul’s and walked briskly home at 10. 30 pm when there were still enough people about to not make me feel uneasy. The rest of the household was asleep when I entered, so I tiptoed up to my room and settled down for the night.
            I did not fall asleep right away, however, as I have a problem with my Outlook which is allowing me to receive email but no longer allowing me to send any. I spent over an hour on the phone with a technician before my minutes on my phone card ran out and my session timed out. Overall, a hopeless experience that left me more frustrated and disappointed than over. But tired and upset, I fell asleep and hoped to sort things out tomorrow.
          Until tomorrow, Cheerio!
 

Smithfield, The Barbican, Shad Thames and Dinner at Maze

Aug6


Sunday, August 4, 2013:
London
Smithfield and The Barbican, Shad Thames, Dinner at Maze
As always, Sunday for me in London begins with an Anglican service—although having said that, I found out that service at St. Bartholomew The Great Church at Smithfield, where I decided to go, did not begin until 11.00am. I used time after breakfast (Cynthia’s lovely porridge made from scratch by stirring oats for what seems forever), to have a clear-out among my things, (especially the large amount of paper I have accumulated) and to work quite steadily.
Service at St. Bartholomew The Great Church:
            St. Bart’s, as it is commonly known, has stood in one form or the other since the 1100s, which makes it one of London’s oldest churches. It certainly looks its age, both inside and out, and is often used for movie shoots. Shakespeare in Love and Four Weddings and A Funeralare among the many that come to mind. I remember visiting the attached St. Bart’s Hospital Museum, a few years ago, from which one can get a very good idea of the origins of this institution—hospital and church which came up simultaneously. Suffice it to say that it was founded by a monk named Rahere (1100s) who made a vow to start a home for the care of the ill in Smithfield—the rest is truly history. In the church, there is a very hallowed grave stone and an effigy of Rahere—but it is the interior construction of the church that is amazing. It is Romanesque and built in three tiers—all of which makes it very photogenic. Having had its origins as a monastery, it still has one side of its cloisters (used today as a café) and a number of ancient monuments that proclaim its age. The hospital is still thriving next door.
            The service was High Anglican—which is to say, partly in Latin. So, for the most part, it was like watching a theatrical show with excellent singers and actors (preachers). The priest, One Fr. Mark Young, preached an excellent sermon (What is it about all these Anglican priests that makes them such eloquent speakers?). Although there wasn’t a full choir, the one man who did the singing was excellent. A great deal of incense floated about. I might have been back in the 1100s in the Lady Chapel (at the side) but for the fact that a female priest assisted. The readings were also quite brilliantly done. Overall, I loved every minute of what was rather a lengthy, very dramatic, service—but, at the end of the day, every second seemed fully worthwhile.
A Walking Tour of Smithfield:
            Since I was in Smithfield, I decided to use my DK Eyewitness Guide to wander around it and take in its antiquity. It is one of London’s oldest parts (what used to be the called The City—meaning The City of London as opposed to the neighboring City of Westminster) and retains some of its oldest monuments (the said church and hospital of St. Bart’s), the Victorian Smithfield Meat Market which gives the entire area its character and the warren of little streets, one of which is Cloth Fair.
            So a word about Cloth Fair would be in order: The name of the street originates from a medieval three-day Fair that brought every citizen of the city to this venue—it is basically a long and narrow street that lies right outside of the Church. Drawings from the era show thousands of people clustered together attending the fair which combined trading with amusement. The fair went on right until 1855 and was the subject of a famous play by Ben Jonson (Shakespeare’s contemporary) called Bartholomew Fair.
            So after I circumnavigated the church and took all the pictures I wanted, I stepped outside into the small side garden and from there into the street called Cloth Fair. There are two houses (Nos. 41 and 43) that remain from the 17th century—their windows are clearly Elizabethan although their ground floor has been modified. Next door at No. 45 lived one of my favorite English poets, St. John Betjeman. His home is marked in a side alley with a blue plaque. Until four years ago, when I used to live nearby in Farringdon, London, a pub-café named Betjeman’s was just below; but it has since been replaced by an organic vegetarian Italian restaurant.
A Stroll Around the Barbican Center:
            I walked the length of Cloth Fair and found myself staring at the tall tower of the Barbican Center. Since one of the items on my To-Do List for this visit was a glimpse into its famous Art Gallery, I decided to make a detour and tour the Barbican instead. I have been here before but only briefly and I had only skimmed the exterior. This time I discovered what a huge ‘’complex’ this is and how well it was planned in the 1960s to include residential, commercial and cultural enclaves so as to become a miniature city in itself—indeed it even has a Waitrose as part of its conveniences.
            Touring the Barbican meant entering tis glass doors and finding myself inside a very modern building that contained a multiplex cinema and stage space for concerts and drama. I  asked a receptionist for the exact location of the Art Gallery and was directed to the third floor but she said that it was closed as there are no exhibitions going on there right now—the next one will start at the end of September. What a terrible waste of really great space, I thought!
            I then wandered out on to a great spacious patio with fountains and a restaurant (The Barbican Food Hall). People were nursing their morning coffees while overlooking the Church of St. Giles Cripplegate—one of the old churches of the City that do not seem to be active anymore and are purely retained as showpieces to record the history of the area—there might be the occasional once weekly service or Mass said there. The poet John Milton is buried in this church. I strolled around the very substantial restaurant but did not feel like eating there alone. My rambles took me to the third floor on the elevator to have a look at the Art Gallery space. There is a door across a walkway that leads directly to the Museum of London which is very close by built almost on the ancient walls of the City.
            I left the Barbican and made my way out on the street again, passing by Waitrosefrom where I bought a snack (Tiramisu—yummy!) and ate it outside in the sunshine for there was a brisk wind and it was a trifle too cool. My feet were beginning to protest by this stage, so I simply took a bus and returned to my refuge at St. Paul’s. I felt sorely tempted to have an almond croissant and a hot chocolate from Paul’s, but believe me, my feet were very tired and I simply needed to get back immediately. I made do with a really lame layered pasta salad from Sainsbury instead—what was I thinking???!
            I spent the afternoon taking a brief nap because my friend Murali had texted me to find out if I wanted to meet for a cuppa at 4.00 pm. It was a good thought and I decided to follow on it after a rest. We decided to meet at the Design Museum, located at “Shad Thames”. I had never been there and it seemed worth a visit.
Exploring Shad Thames and the East:
            Half an hour later, I was outbound again—this time I took a bus to Tower Bridge intending to switch to another that would take me across Tower Bridge. But the London cycle race had diverted a few buses and I ended up reaching there but late for my appointment with Murali who waited patiently for me. I found that Shad Thames in a very narrow street just behind the riverside Thames promenade that is now almost completely lined by restaurants at the base of fancy luxury apartment blocks that offer accommodation to London’s yuppies. It was also lively—filled with hordes of visitors cluttering up the many little boutique shops. The Design Museum is located right at the end of this narrow lane.
The Design Museum:
            London’s Design Museum is a paen of praise to its designers who, over the years, have brought their design genius to bear on everyday items of utility. The trouble with living in a city where most museums are free means you balk at the thought of paying almost 13 pounds as entry fee—which was expected in this one. They did not honor my Metropolitan Museum ID card either—Murali and I, therefore, decided to give it a miss and settled down instead in its café for a lemony cuppa and a lovely long chinwag. As always, he is full of ideas for things I should not miss and a mine of knowledge on what is happening. Single-handedly, he could edit Time Out London, I think.
            After a while, we arose to take a walk along the waterfront (part of the Thames Path) and climbing up the steps that brought us back on the Tower Bridge, we walked across us. Our aim was to get to Petticoat Lane where a colorful market is held every Sunday. Although it was too late in the day for the market, we did reach the venue and circled around the Church of St. Botolph’s Outside Aldgate—not to be mistaken for two other St. Botolph’s that also dot the area! Alas, it took wasn’t open, so we simply walked towards public transport to get back home—he on the Tube, me on the bus, after what had been a nice stroll in the sunshine.
A Slap-Up Dinner at Maze:
            I was left with only enough time to come home, shower, iron my clothes and get ready for the dinner for which I had reserved seats at Maze, a restaurant run by TV chef, Gordon Ramsay. I was taking the friends who have so kindly lent me use of their homes in their absence at Holborn and St. John’s Wood respectively—Tim and Barbara and Raquel and Chris.
     Unfortunately, Chris took ill and was not able to join us. Tim and Barbara were awaiting my arrival at the bar with drinks in hand at 8. 25 pm as planned (I took the Tube to Bond Street and walked about 10 minutes to Grosvenor Square where the restaurant is located).  We found our table and then sat down to enjoy the creations of this well-known swearing chef! His menu is based on the tapas concept—small morsels, very flavorful and very elegantly presented. The waiter suggested we order 3 to 4 small plates per head—my friends had a hard time making their choices but we all saved room for pudding. I left Tim (who was a top West End chef in a former life) to order a bottle of Pouilly-Fuse for the table and I settled with a glass of Yakima Red beer. Our meal was lovely and the conversation so much fun that time flew and, before we knew it, it was 11. 00 pm and then about 11.30 pm when we left. Raquel called a cab and got home and Tim and Barbara dropped me off at my place at Amen Corner before getting back home to Holborn.  It was truly a slap-up meal that made a lovely night to remember.
         Until tomorrow, Cheerio!

Exploring the Sussex Downs: Petworth and Arundel

Aug4


Saturday, August 3, 2013
Sussex Downs: Petworth and Arundel
           
            A very comfortable night again in Battersea saw me awake at 7.00 am and getting ready immediately for our daytrip into the Sussex countryside. Roz, my friend, who owns a car (a rare thing in London) and has Saturday off, decided to take me on a jaunt. I made haste and packed my belongings and placed them in the trunk of her car as we intended to make use of it to drop me and my baggage off at Amen Court for my last week here—at the home of my friends Cynthia and Michael. Once I went through the process of packing and making sure I had everything, I showered, we sat down to brekkie (muesli and yogurt with coffee) and we were off.
Into the Sussex Countryside:
            We had intended to go to Chichester and since it is not too far away, Arundel. But, as luck would have it, on approaching the South Downs, we realized that we were not too far from Petworth—a National Trust property that both of us were keen to see. Roz is a member of the National Trust and entry as well as parking are free for her. My own membership has elapsed but I never lose the opportunity to enjoy one of the gracious properties that this institution maintains.
            It was a glorious day—indeed we were blessed with fabulous temperatures. A blistering sun has given way to a far more benign one and as we drove past the far suburbs of London and into the Surrey countryside, we kept exclaiming about the freshness of the greenery and the lovely rural air. In less than two hours, we were at Petworth.
Getting to Know Petworth House:
I have to admit that neither Roz nor I knew much about Petworth other than that it is one of those ancient country piles into which the hoi polloi are now welcomed. I paid the 12 pounds entry fee that gave access to the house and gardens, but we only had time to view the house and its contents—which, if you did it with care, would take a day all by itself.
After Roz parked, we walked on the gravel pathway past interesting Greek follies to get to the entrance of the house. A short ‘Introduction to Petworth’ talk was in progress by one of the volunteers, and although we missed the first five minutes of it, we joined it. It gave us a slight clue as to the home’s pedigree. And this is what we discovered:
The home was built on vast land that belonged to the Percy family, ancient Dukes of Northumberland (bequeath to them by royal charter on winning the favor of the King). I remembered a Henry Percy in Shakespeare’s Richard II—and yes, he belonged to this family. Somewhere in the hoary past, the Percys became bankrupt and one of the more astute members of the family joined forces with the Seymour family (if the name is familiar, it is because Jane Seymour became the third wife of Henry VIII and mother of his son, Edward VI—he unfortunately died at the age of 9 and never acceded to the throne. Jane died while giving birth to him and is supposedly the only wife that Henry really loved.). Again, as the decades went by, one of the family members married into the Wyndham family–which led to the influx of a huge dowry. In marrying his title with her money, the grand manor was created. It is built in the English Baroque style—which, like Syon House, is very plain on the outside. Thus, most of the home is an early18th century showpiece of wealth and taste but the chapel and the undercroft kitchens are original to the 13thcentury. The current owners of the home are known as the Earls of Egremont—they continue to inhabit a small part of the property and the house although the rest of it passed into the hands of the National Trust that has run it since 1947.
The current state of the home derives from the vision of the 3rd Earl of Egremont who was a great art lover and who opened the home to some of the leading artists of the day—Turner, Gainsborough, Joshua Reynolds, etc. are known to have frequented the home and created studios for themselves on the premises. Turner spent large portions of time there and created a great number of works—both inspired by the grounds that were landscaped by the 18th century’s great landscape designer Capability Brown and by the large number of canvasses that had resided in the home—today, these may be viewed on the walls of the ‘galleries’. They are numerous and of varying quality and some are badly in need of cleaning. But they give a succinct idea of what money could buy in a bygone era. Large rooms today function as galleries for the showcasing of a massive collection of paintings, sculpture and decorative objects (furniture, light fixtures, etc.).
Although the art work by itself is stupendous, to my mind this house was fascinating for the Carved Wood Room—the brainchild of Grinling Gibbons, the great 18thcentury wood artisan who decorated some of the finest homes and cathedrals in the land. His genius is plainly evident in this long gallery decorated with Tudor portraits (Hans Holbein’s famous one of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, for instance) where flowers, fruit, skeins of leaves and garlands, cherubs, even portraits of children have been ingeniously carved and then pinned to the walls in a delicate form of decoration that has to be seen to be believed. Never have I been treated to such artistic extravagance and I was enthralled.
The Grand Staircase leading to the top floor (closed to visitors) was painted from floor to the ceiling by the French artist Louis Laguerre—and, honestly, it has to be seen to be believed. It presents worthies of the family enthroned in the heavens—I mean how modest is that? An exuberant presentation of color and pattern, no amount of pictures could possibly do justice to it. This room came after we had feasted our eyes in room after room on works by Turner, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Lely, Van Dyck, Ruisdale, Hobbema, even a rare Bosch. It was truly an incredible art collection—not to mention a treasure trove of sculpture—but for that, one has to devote an entire day.
Already tired, we decided to visit the café for a spot of lunch and settled on cheese scones with butter and cheddar cheese with a pot of tea for me and a cappucinno for Roz and then we were on our way. We admired the wonderful border of Queen Anne’s Lace punctuated only with the occasional blood red poppy—never have either of us seen a border that is so simple yet so arresting. A few minutes later, we were in the car and heading into the village of Petworth to explore it.
Endearing Petworth Village:
            Petworth Village is small and charming and crammed with antiques shops. It truly is one of those little red tiled roof villages of England that time forgot. Extremely narrow cobbled lanes wound towards an ancient church whose grave stones have turned grey with time and the weather. We entered a couple of shops by way of exploration but did not linger too long as we had more to see and the day was wearing on rapidly. Still, I know that although our visit was brief, I have been left with a load of pictures that will always bring back lovely memories for me of a place I have long wanted to explore (I had passed briefly through it, four years ago, by car with my friend Stephanie at the wheel—but we had no time to stop and explore it then) and felt very pleased to have inspected it at long last.
And On to Arundel:
By this point in the day (it was almost 3. 15 pm), both Roz and I realized that getting to Chichester was pointless—and we decided to get to Arundel first with the idea of exploring its lovely castle. Since Roz had never been there (I had visited only briefly with Stephanie, four years ago), it made sense to see the town together. And what a lovely town it is! Like Petworth, Arundel is old, quaint, charming and retains an abundance of character in his crumbling Tudor gabled houses, its antiquated stone shops, its slate and red tiled roofs and its winding streets, crammed with tea rooms and antiques shops. I have a special fondness for a multi-dealer shop close to the Castle that is perched high on a hill. Inside I went and out I came with another English porcelain Hammersley cup and saucer for my collection with darling little birds painted all over them.
Skipping the Castle:
            On parking our car close to the castle, we discovered that we had only an hour to see it—and the place needs at least two if one wishes to do justice to it. So we decided to visit the castle on another day and simply proceed into the town and browse in its shops. It was a lovely afternoon for such a mission and we had a great time together.
Visiting the Churches:
            Arundel is known for its churches: there is a small Anglican one called the Church of St. Nicolas but the great attraction is the Gothic Catholic Cathedral of St. Philip Howard which is also perched high up on a hill and can be spied, like the castle, for miles before arriving in the town. We made a visit to the Cathedral and walked around its towering nave and altar. A recent wedding had led to beautiful flowers crowding the altar and the lectern—it was truly very pretty in that stark stone interior. Similarly, we paused in the Anglican Church and found that a wedding had recently taken place there too.
Time for A Cream Tea:
            And then it was time for a traditional Cream Tea and we found a charming tea room in the heart of the village that offered scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam and cakes! Roz had Carrot Cake, I had the superb Coffee Walnut Cake that I never miss in England. All was delicious and, quite replete with our meal, we strolled to the stone bridge that spans the river that runs through the town before we got back in the car and started the drive back to London.
Settling down outside St. Paul’s Cathedral:
            Having finally reached the last week of my stay here in the UK, I have moved into the Christopher Wren-built home of my friends Bishop Michael and Cynthia who are like family to it. Cynthia and I consider ourselves to be sisters and it is always a bit like coming home each time I enter their gracious residence on Ludgate Hill right outside St. Paul’s Cathedral. Roz braved London traffic (thankfully, the roads have opened up after a huge cycle race that has closed all access to their place during the day) and deposited me and my belongings safely into Amen Court where I shall stay for the next 7 days.
            Roz stayed for a glass of red wine during which she got introduced to Cynthia and Michael and then she was off. I spent a while chatting with my friends and catching up with them, skypeing with Llew and then unpacking and settling into my room on the upper floor.
            Cynthia fixed a simple dinner—pea pullao, cabbage and carrots for veg, a small salad and Waitrose Chicken Korma which was just delicious. It was time to call it a day and at 11. 00 pm, we went up to bed.
             Until tomorrow, cheerio!

Trekking in Woodstock and Witney, Oxfordshire

Aug3


Friday, August 2, 2013
Oxford
Tearing All Over Oxfordshire:
            Today was quite extraordinary indeed! For one thing, I have set an all-time walking record having covered 12 miles in a single day! And I never expected my day would shape the way it did but then that’s what being spontaneous and ‘in the moment’ is all about, isn’t it?
            So I awoke at 7.00 am, showered, dressed and breakfasted at Sue’s generous table with muesli and yoghurt and bread and marmalade and coffee and then blogged a bit. At 9. 40am, I began my walk from Grandpont to Oxford City Center to meet Tony at Blackwell’s at 10.00 am. Being a retired don (a professor of Oxford), he has privileges that allow him to take visitors into New College (where he taught Chemistry for 20 years) which reputedly has one of the prettiest Oxford campuses and was the site of many of the Harry Potter film locations.
A Tour of New College, Oxford, with Tony:
            Indeed, New College is marvelous and historic and although all the Oxford Colleges are, this one is special because it is constructed on the ancient walls of the City of Oxford which are preserved and inspected each year by Oxford’s Lord Mayor to ensure that they are in good repair! Indeed a scaffolding a ladder are installed with much pomp and circumstance to enable him to climb to the top to make his pronouncement! This custom derives from the purchase of land by the founder of the college Robert Pope, who was informed by the City of Oxford that he could have the land to found a college provided he maintained the walls “in perpetuity”. He agreed! Hence, this unique custom.
            Tony was a fantastic guide—indeed he is an insider who took me through the chapel with its fabulous carved stone figures on the reredos and its stained glass window designed by the 18thcentury’s Joshua Reynolds. We were unable to see the Dining Hall which is under renovation but we were able to access the gorgeous gardens with their perennial flower beds that feature in many a movie. We also saw the huge mound that was built after the moat was dug out for New College has an amazing sunken lawn. To access the mound, there is a steep flight of stairs and up those we went. Yes, we did see the famous quadrangle with its cloisters which is the scene of a famous episode in the Harry Potter film that has to do with the breaking of a wand. We walked through them and enjoyed the views from all the angles of the university’s many towers and turrets and spires. It was fabulous and I felt very privileged to enjoy this amazing tour and I was grateful to Tony for making the time to guide me and provide so many entertaining tidbits.
Off on a Walking Tour of Oxford:
            Tony said goodbye to me and I sauntered off to see the Tourist Information Center when I discovered that free two-hour tours of Oxford were being offered by young guides. I have taken these tours in Berlin and Amsterdam and I can say that they are fascinating. How could I forego the opportunity of taking one of them?
            So off we went and, of course, there were so many new things I discovered. For example:
1. The exact spot at which the three martyrs, Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley were burned at the stake for heresy by Bloody Mary was not where the Martyrs Memorial currently stands but on Broad Street near the entrance to Balliol College. It is marked by a few stones in a cross-like pattern.
2. The five floors that comprise the tallest building in the quadrangle of the Bodleian Library are in the following patterns: Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and Composite.
3. The Bridge of Sighs was built in Oxford simply because there happened to be one in Cambridge and Oxford fancied it.           
4. All Souls College only admits people who are already specialists in their fields. They must hold graduate degrees and come there to do research.
5. Pubs in Oxford were divided among those frequented by Town Versus Gown. The King’s Arms is a Gown Pub.
6. Sir Christopher Wren, one of Britain’s greatest architects, invented the system of Insurance after the Great Fire of London, before he rebuilt the city.
7. It costs 9000 pounds for a year’s study at Oxford today.
And so it went. I enjoyed the tour immensely and when it ended, poked my head into Brasenose College where most of the early episodes of Morse were shot. Graduation celebrations were in progress, so I made myself scarce having taken a few pictures. Indeed, I was fortunate to see a typical Oxford scene with graduates in their black gowns and their mortar board caps which allowed me to take a few interesting pictures.
            I then popped into the Wheatsheaf Passage to find out who had taken over the premises that belonged to the hardware store called Gill & Co, which was had closed, four years ago, after 500 years—and I discovered, to my horror, that a Nail Salon called Oxford Nails had been installed there! Horrors!
A Bus Ride to Woodstock:
            It wasn’t the last bus to Woodstock (the name of the first Colin Dexter Inspector Morse novel which became an episode of the same name) but it was an afternoon one that was filled with young Asian students off to see Blenheim Palace (which is in Woodstock). Since I had seen the palace twice before and merely wanted to wander around Woodstock, Sue, my friend, had instructed me on the existence of a small nondescript gate. This allowed access on to the Blenheim Estate to the townspeople. It would allow me to walk on the grounds by the lake without needing to pay the hefty entry fee for the palace
            I bought a day pass (7.50 pounds) for the bus and took the S3 Stagecoach Bus to Woodstock (it was headed to Chipping Norton in the Cotswolds—which I felt strongly tempted to reach!). I was informed by a resident on the bus that it was not a village but a town—indeed, he said, it is the smallest Town in the United Kingdom by royal charter. He told me the townspeople feel very offended if you call Woodstock a village. Well, well, well. Live and learn, eh?
Wandering about the Blenheim Estate:
            I wandered around the town at will and enjoyed its lovely shops, Council Hall, Parish Church and cobbled lanes before I followed Sue’s instructions and found my way on to the Blenheim Estate together with joggers, walkers, babies in strollers, dog walkers, etc. I was already pretty beat by this time but pressed on in order to walk over John Vanbrugh’s famous Bridge over the river Glyme that flows through the estate. Soon the beautiful outline of the palace came into view as did a multitude of sheep. It is very bucolic indeed just as its landscape designer Capability Brown had intended it to be. I rested on a bench for a bit, did a few stretches and after five minutes, continued on my walk to the bridge. I got into conversation with a lovely lady who told me that she walked on the estate every single day—all the way to the entrance of the Palace. Finally the tall monument came into sight and a little later, I was on the Bridge taking a few pictures of the gorgeous building behind me—the work of the great John Vanbrugh who also designed Castle Howard in Yorkshire.
            I did not linger longer than a couple of hours (during most of which I walked)  as I had a long way to go. You see, in the morning, I had finally managed to make contact with Austin Fuller, the son of my Hall Stewart Stan Fuller who had mentioned to me that my old friend, now 81, was in a Care Home for the Aged in Witney. He was doing poorly and I felt that having the opportunity to meet him, I should try to do so.
On a Mission of Mercy to Witney:
            So, when I felt I had enough of Blenheim and because the sun was much too oppressively hot anyway, I made my way back to the town, found the bus stop and a bus that went directly from Woodstock to Witney and with the instructions and directions given me by Austin, off I went in search of Stan.
            I hopped on a bus going from Woodstock to Witney and, on making inquiries inside the bus, discovered that there was a young chap who was headed exactly to Madeley Park on which estate my friend Stan was resident in a home for the aged. I asked if I could follow him there and he readily agreed. The bus ride took about 25 minutes and just before we got to Witney Town Center, we hopped off.
            Then began another long walk of 25 minutes to get to the Home. It was hot and there wasn’t a bit of shade. I felt as if I was in the midst of nowhere and was grateful for the company of the sweet guy whose name was Leigh. We kept up a cheerful conversation until we reached the venue where my jumping over hoops seemed so worthwhile. All I have to remember is the look on Stan’s face when he saw me because he had no inkling that I would be arriving to see him. It was, therefore, a mission of mercy. I was pleased to see that my friend was mobile, not in pain, still his smiling self and although a bit forgetful, still very much in control of his faculties. He is not happy about being in the place and preferred to be at home, but he also told me that he had recently fallen from the bed at 2. 00 am and lay on the ground for 2 hours in the middle of the night before help arrived. He had to be hoisted from the ground in a mechanical hoist. Ever after that he has slept in an armchair out of fear. Old age is no fun, for sure.
            I stayed with Stan for almost an hour, then started the long trek back to the Town Center for the bus. I got lost and that added to my walk but at least I had a chance to see some of the factories that produced the famous Witney woolen blankets of which Stan was so proud. At that point (about 5. 30 pm), I realized that I hadn’t stopped for lunch and that I was starving. Needing something mobile, I found a vast shopping mall which contained a Marks and Spencer place from where I bought two sets of sandwiches. I wolfed them down in the bus that came trundling by in about 10 minutes and just before 7.00 pm, I was back in Oxford again after what had been a truly tiring day.
Back on the Coach to London:
I bid goodbye to my friends Sue and Tony in whose home I had been so comfortable. Although they urged me to eat dinner before leaving, I did not want to reach London too late—so I left at 7. 20, rode the Stagecoach bus to the Gloucester Green bus station in Oxford, hopped on to the 8.00 pm X-90 coach to London and arrived in Victoria at. 9. 45pm. I did not get a 44 bus to Battersea until 10. 10 but by 10. 30 pm, I was with my friend Roz who had cheese and leek quiche and salad ready for me with a lovely cold lemonade Perrier.
            Whew! I was knackered, let me tell you, and ready to collapse. But at the end of the day, it was worth the time and trouble I took to see an old friend who was extremely kind to me so many years ago. 
            Until tomorrow, cheerio!   

Being an Oxonian All Over Again!

Aug2


Thursday, August 1, 2013
Oxford
The heat in Oxford today was expected to reach record levels. Tony, who is a passionate walker (yes, there really is such a thing in the UK) and who recently walked Coast to Coast—all 200 miles across the UK—suggested a walk up Boar’s Hill before the sun became oppressive. 
            We had breakfast—Sue’s homemade multi-grain bread with elderflower jam (from Fortnum’s—my gift to them), muesli with yoghurt and milk and coffee—and then I was off with Tony. 
              Their home in South Oxford, at Grandpont, has a marvelous location. It is two ticks away from their allotments—plots of land that UK Councils rent out to garden-less folks so that they may grow their own veg–and close to a large park with a swimming pool and tennis courts—unbelieveable! We started off by surveying their allotment—they grow raspberries, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, parsley, corn—you name it. It was fantastic. Sue had recently organized a scarecrow contest and there were several including her female one dressed in a skirt! After she picked a few raspberries, I left with Tony for our walk.
Walking Up Boar’s Hill:
            Almost 30 years ago, the Hall Stewart at Exeter College here in Oxford, who became a good friend of mine, Stan Fuller, had driven us (my friend Firdaus and myself) in his car up Boar’s Hill to show us an old stone church containing a memorial plaque to his grandfather who had been killed during the war in Peshawar (in the North West Frontier Province of British India, now in Northern Pakistan). We never did enter the church as it was closed—but we did have a great view of Oxford’s “dreaming spires” from the vantage point from which Matthew Arnold had perceived them when he supposedly wrote “The Scholar Gypsy”. There is a field there called Matthew Arnold’s Field and I had taken a picture perched on it with hair as long as my knees and a pair of jeans and a wide smile. Well, I was keen to take a picture, 30 years later, at the same spot, so it was great fun to climb up the hill with Tony and try to find my younger self at that spot.
            The walk was fabulous—past the lake and over the railways tracks winding on to London, over a stile and across a field in which horses grazed, over a bridge and across another field until we got to a highway (the A 34 going both to “The North” and “The South”) and on to yet another field where we spied a man taking a census of the butterflies in the area—only in England, kids, only in England!  And about 45 minutes later after the sun had climbed rather high and was pouring its heat upon the earth, we arrived at a spot from where you could get reasonably good views of Oxford’s dreaming spires—or, as Tony cynically put it, its dreaming cranes. For Oxford is undergoing a resurgence and there is a great deal of construction activity going on—cranes can be spotted from a long distance.
            We entered the Chilswell Valley (colloquially named The Happy Valley) and sat down for a while to rest on a bench overlooking the downs. It was delightful and it brought to my mind the novel The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize a couple of years ago.  To reach Matthew Arnold’s field would take a walk of another half hour and we had already walked miles by then and needed to get back. Tony suggested he drive me there later in the evening and we started the trek back to Grandpont which took us another hour.
            By 11. 30 am, hot and tired, I sipped on elderflower water and felt deeply revived. Sue suggested I rest for a bit until lunch when she would walk with me into town so that I could visit the Ashmolean. And that seemed like a sensible plan. An hour later, we were sitting down to Tony’s delicious caponata, a tuna salad with celery and apples, olives and ham and potato salad. It was a very nice summer’s lunch indeed and an hour later, Sue and I headed for the Ashmolean.
Revisiting the Ashmolean Museum:
            The Ashmolean Museum is one of the great museums of the world and, being in Oxford, very much a teaching museum. I had last been there four years ago when it was being refurbished—its treasures were then grouped into two galleries so that seeing its highlights was a piece of cake.  
            This time round, I had a chance to peruse the new galleries—all glass and chrome—as well its older sections (which are really after my own heart). Yes, we did see the highlights: the Alfred Jewel is its biggest treasure: the head of a pointer used to read medieval manuscripts, it is made of gold and enamel and has a beast’s head’s worked into it. Incredible craftsmanship for that epoch. What is interesting is that it was found by a worker digging for peat! I also saw the cloak decorated with wampum (small shells used as currency) that belonged to Pocahontas, the wooden doors (carved in India) that belonged to T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) and the two famous paintings for which the collection is know: The Hunt by Paolo Uccelo and The Forest Fire by Pietro de Cosimo (both of which I have seen several times before). What I saw for the first time is the Lantern belonging to Guy Fawkes—he is supposed to have held it in his hand when he was exposed and arrested for the Gunpowder Plot to blow up Parliament in the late 1600s. I was also fascinated by the Marshall Collection of Porcelain that was bequeathed to the museum and is intact and arranged (according to the terms of the bequest) in exactly the same way as they were when Marshall owned them. The entire Italian Renaissance collection is wonderful and I spent a great deal of time there but then Sue had to leave and I wanted to see the new shop and the new extension (the South Asian section is enormous).  
 
A Walking Tour of my Favorite Parts of Oxford:
            Then began my tour of the places I most closely associate with my graduate student life at Oxford. I exited the Ashmolean and because I am a dedicated fan of the Inspector Morse series, crossed the street and entered the Randolf Hotel (location of many of the episodes). So famous did the Randolf become internationally, that it now has a Morse Bar named for the super sleuth, which, of course, I entered and dallied in. The Randolf was where our friends Peter and Susan Geib had treated my friend Firdaus and me to Afternoon Tea, many many moons ago (while the Inspector Morse series was actually in its infancy in the UK and the first episodes were being shot there) and seeing people having Afternoon Tea through the street-side windows brought back many happy memories for me.
            I crossed St. Giles and The Broad and entered the Covered Market (also scene of Morse episodes and the more recent series called Lewis) and poked around a bit in a vintage shop before exiting and getting to Exeter College. It was open to visitors and I entered its quad where I always feel a sense of homecoming. Pots of geraniums decorated the steps leading to the Dining Hall (which was shut) but the chapel was open, so in I went to feast my eyes on the mosaics, the wonderfully, newly-refurbished interior features including the tapestry of The Adoration of the Magi by Edward Burne-Jones (an alumni) and the choir loft (location of the memorable last scene in “The Daughters of Cain” in the Morseseries). I have recently become aware that Exeter College chapel was modeled after Sainte Chapelle in Paris, France—which explains the small pieces of stained glass on the windows (royaume) and the spindly spire reaching into the sky.
            I walked out to the Margary Quadrangle which, believe it or not, was under renovation! In 1987 when I was at Oxford, it was under renovation too!! I spied my room behind the cranes and other construction paraphenelia but did not venture to them. Instead I walked underground to the Saskatchewan Room where I had lectured during the International Graduate Summer School on the invitation of the university’s organizers. That too, brought back happy memories for me.
            I did not linger long in Exeter because, as I had realized earlier, part of the romance of that era in my life, derived from the wonderful company of the friends I had made then (and who have remained friends of mine—Firdaus, Annalisa, Josephine). Exeter always makes me miss them and want to be with them, so I left pretty soon and made a left at Brasenose Lane to arrive at Radcliffe Square where, lo and behold, I found the Radcliff Camera under renovation! I walked around to the quadrangle of the Bodleian Library past loads of American tour groups and saw the famous pendant ceiling of the Divinity School which I love behind the sculpture of Sir Thomas Bodley. I hurried then along the High Street to get to Magdalen College to meet my friends Alexander and Jessica for tea.
Tea by the Thames at Magdalen Bridge:
            One of the perks of having a friend who is a Fellow at Magdalen College is that one gets invited to afternoon tea to a café on the banks of the Thames where you can watch punters and swans sail past on the river as well as red buses on the bridge. It was idyllic and meeting my friend Alex and his girlfriend Jessica there was a truly memorable experience. We settled down to chat and to sip our tea and remember the past years when I had punted down the Thames with my class mates. Alex and Jessica were great company and I enjoyed discussing their current academic projects with them and the research in which they are currently engaged as Art Historians. After a long chat when they had to return to work, I pottered around the vast grounds of Magdalen College to take in its Deer Park and its wonderful perennial gardens, its chapel and its dining hall and its beautiful quadrangle filled with white hydrangeas.
Yet Another Walking Tour:
            I crossed the High to get to the Botanical Garden but, alas, they had closed for the day. It was time then to take on another one of my favorite walking tours of Oxford. And here is how it goes: I crossed the High once again and entered narrow Queens Lane (just to the right of Queens College). All the way down I went past St. Edmund Hall and New College to emerge at Hertford Lane in front of the Bridge of Sighs. The Sheldonian Theater was right in front to me and I managed to do something I had never done in all the years and all the times I have been to Oxford:  I managed to get the guard at the gate to let me peek inside Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece to see the interior. And there is was: the tiered stands (scene of another one of the Inspector Morse episodes that featured the great Sir John Gielgud playing the Chancellor of Oxford University). I observed the great ceiling frescoes (done by Richard Streeter, I was informed) and the spectacular organ. And this is why I have never been inside—entrance in restricted to those involved in Graduation ceremonies that take place in the Sheldonian and to classical music concerts which I have never managed to attend. So it was an achievement indeed to be able to see the inside of it–and I was thrilled.
            Across the street, I entered the famous bookstore named Blackwells—a massive and well-established Oxford enterprise. I was headed for one particular part of the store—the underground Norrington Room which occurs in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world’s largest single-room bookstore. It is so large that it goes down in graduated tiers way below Trinity College which lies next door. Indeed it was a fun place to browse in especially after I spied a book written by the Director of NYU in London, Gary Slapper, prominently displayed on its shelves.
            I also discovered from a book at Blackwell’s entitled Oxford, Then and Now, that the view of the dreaming spires could best be taken from the village of Elsfield and instead of going up to Matthew Arnold’s Field, I thought I would ask Sue and Tony if they could go on to Elsfield instead.
            Across the street I went and on to the end of The Broad towards Balliol College from where I walked back to Tony and Sue’s place. I was really tired but it was 7.00 pm and I had told them I would be back to take them for dinner—so without much ado, off we went.      
Dinner at The Victoria Arms on the Thames:
            Yes, we did make a detour to Elsfield because Sue and Tony thought it was right on our way—and no, we did not get to see much of the dreaming spires—just a rather hazy picture appeared but I was quite content with it.
            Were I twenty years younger, it would have been great fun to punt from Oxford on the Thames to the “Vicky Arms” as this famous pub on the banks of the Thames is known locally. As it was, Tony kindly drove us there. It is the scene of many an episode in Inspector Morse—in fact, it is the one in which he grows philosophical about the waning of life with the receding sun in the last episode The Remorseful Day. So I was doubly delighted that we were at this venue to celebrate my stay with a Thank-you dinner for my hosts Sue and Tony who had gone out of their way to make my stay in Oxford both comfortable and memorable. I was so moved by the setting and the lovely drinks (I had a Pimms—because how can you leave Oxford in summer without a Pimms, right?) and the great food. The punters were a-plenty as they rowed in and left, drinks were downed with merriment in a place crowded with jolly patrons. We had the perfect picnic table, right by the water’s edge where ducks swam past as the sun slowly disappeared over the horizon. I chose to eat a cod loin with Parma ham, Tony had the beef and ale pot pie and Sue chose the Fish and Chips and for dessert, we all had ice-cream—salted caramel and chocolate and honeycomb. Yummiiieee! Meanwhile, we discovered that the Vicky Arms is rich in Oxonian history—It appears in the Domesday Book and Charles II is supposed to have supped there while plotting the political Restoration.
            Because all great things must come to an end, we had to eventually tear ourselves away from that bucolic scene and return to reality—but what a meal and what a splendid evening it had been. I know I will not forget it in a long long time.
            It was about 11.00 pm  when we returned home, quite sated indeed, and although Sue and Tony sat up with mugs of tea, I excused myself and fell immediately in bed.
            Until tomorrow, Cheerio!

Yaay! In Oxford Again! Kelmscott Manor & Fairford Church

Jul31

Wednesday, July 31, 2013
The Cotswolds and Oxford


          Today, I made a 30 year old dream come true—again, a small one, but a dream nonetheless. I finally visited Kelmscott Manor, home of the Arts and Crafts Movement and Pre-Raphaelite artist, William Morris. But let me get back to the beginning.
            I arrived in Oxford on the X-90 coach—the first time I was using this service, but it was the most economical. I had left Battersea at 7.00 am, then taken the 7. 15 bus, arrived in Victoria at 7. 35 and got on the 8.00 am coach. Wifi on the coach allowed me to catch up with some work for an hour and a half. It was drizzling and mist made visibility poor on the M40 to Oxford. But before I knew it, we were on Magdalen Bridge and, as always, I recalled my first arrival in this glorious city almost 30 years ago—and how excitedly that tight knot of happiness had sat in my tummy—for then too, I had been experiencing a dream come true—that of studying at Oxford!
             My friends Sue and Tony live in South Oxford (in Grandpont) and in about 10 minutes, Tony arrived in a spiffy red car to pick me up. He took me over to his place where I had a nide reunion with Sue. We had a glass of elderflower water (which I really like) and then we were off—there was no time to lose as we were headed for Kelmscott Manor which is a good half hour’s drive away.
On the Road to Kelmscott Manor:
            When I was a student at Exeter College in Oxford, almost 30 years ago, an excursion had been organized to Kelmscott Manor, home of William Morris and then on to the Cotswold Village of Burford. Ignorant Me had never heard of him then and I had opted not to take the excursion. It is a decision I regretted through all that time because, as the years rolled by, I grew familiar with Morris and his great contribution to Art History as a founder/practitioner of the Arts and Crafts Movement and of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement with his Exeter College, Oxford, buddies Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Edward Burne-Jones (of whose work I am a dedicated fan).
            Well, like most such historic homes in the UK, Kelmscott Manor sits in the middle of nowhere—literally in the heart of the country in Lechlade in Gloucestershire, which is on the edge of the gorgeous Cotswolds. So every time I have attempted to get to it (on repeated visits to Oxford, over the years), I have never been able to as there is no public transport to get there and they keep the house open only for a few days a week. Well, long story short, this time, with Sue and Tony having a car, we could get there easily. So I was very excited, once again, and I could not wait to see the inside of the house.     
Finally Inside Kelmscott Manor:
            Entry to Kelmscott is 9 pounds for adults. You get a self-guided tour and the services of volunteer guides in each room as well as a printed guide leaflet that takes you through the rooms and points out its features.  I will try to keep the history of this house brief—so that I can remember it myself. It is a Tudor home, originally built in the mid-1500s, and belonged for generations to a Turner family (they made the turning rings for corn mills—hence their family name!). There are several members of the Turner family buried in the near-by church. The original home (so-called because it is in the village of Kelmscott) is small and dark with tiny rooms and low ceilings. In the mid-1600s, the Turner family came into some money and put an extension on to the house—this part is clearly different with higher ceilings, bigger rooms, larger fireplaces (one bears the family’s coat of arms that features mill-turners) and much more light.
           In the mid-1900s, when William Morris was looking for a country retreat away from his Red Lion Square home in London—a place where he could paint undisturbed—he got to know that the Turner family wished to rent their place near Oxford. Morris took a look at it—it was love at first sight. He co-rented the place with his best friend, the artist Dante Gabriel Rosetti, and moved into Kelmscott Manor with his family—wife Jane and their two daughters, Jenny (an epileptic) and May (who became an artist in her own right). It proved to be an extremely creative and productive phase in his life although it was marred by the romantic relationship that developed between Jane and Rosetti of which he was aware. The Morrises stayed married but every single painting you see featuring a beautiful young woman in it by either Rosetti or Burne-Jones or Morris himself is Jane.
            Kelmscott Manor retains the look of a simple domestic Tudor interior combined with decoration by an Arts and Crafts artist. There are wall-hangings that were designed by Morris and either embroidered by him (yes, indeed, he did embroidery!) or Jane, curtains made from fabrics whose patterns he designed, loads of wall-paper, lots of paintings—either by him or May. His style is distinctive in the close (some might say ‘busy’) patterns featuring flowers, fruit, vines, leaves, branches—all inspired by Nature and the profusion of plants in the neighborhood. There is a grand old bed in Morris’ bedroom that he loved so much that he wrote a poem on it. His wife Jane then embroidered the lines around the valance of the bed and his daughter May embroidered a counterpane for it. It is simply splendid. There is also a very unusual stairway—the only one of its kind I have ever seen—a sort of dual staircase. You put one foot on one side of it and the other on the other side. Unfortunately, no pictures could be taken in the house so I will have to try to commit it to memory. The décor is purely minimalist—remember those famous words of Morris: Do not have anything in your home that you do not consider both beautiful and useful. Words that we could all live by, aren’t they? Especially in these days when all you hear about is de-cluttering.
            At Kelmscott, Morris who adored books, founded the Kelmscott Press which brought out The Complete Works of Chaucer, among others. It had illustrations by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. It kept Morris busy for years as well as financially successful.
            The gardens at Kelmscott are also famous and quite beautiful for Morris was a passionate gardener. They completely surround the house and although small are impressive in their order and their beauty. It is a lovely place and I was so glad I finally had the chance to visit.
            Morris loved the house and passed away in it. He is buried in the neighboring village churchyard besides a bay bush. His wife and children were subsequently buried in the same plot. You can visit the old Tudor church which is in itself fascinating in its antiquity and then wander out into the churchyard to see the gravestone that is withering rapidly with age. After Morris’ death, his widow and daughters continued to live in Kelmscott Manor until Jane passed away. May became guardian to her sister Jenny and moved to their London home in Hammersmith where she lived until Jenny died. May ultimately returned to Kelmscott Manor and, watching it fade away, willed it to the Rector of Exeter College who held on to it for sometime. When it was found that maintenance was too expensive, the college passed it on to a London company of Antiquarians who restored it and have run it as a museum. Indeed it is thanks to May that her father’s memory lives on so vividly. The Pre-Raphaelite Movement was a brief moment in time but it left us a wonderful modern vision for the future that was both practical and beautiful.
Seeing Morris’ Grave:
            We walked down the lane outside Kelmscott Manor to the village parish church to see the graves of the Morris family besides a bay bush. The church itself is old and plain but memorial plaques to the Turners are all over the wall. Most visitors come in now because of the association with Morris. It is a rather plain grave and the lettering is fast fading through wind erosion—but it is worth seeing especially if one has read the account of his burial by his friend Murray and seen the portrait of Morris on his death bed by the same artist.             
Heading on to Fairford:
             Sue and Tony were keen for me to see the Parish Church of Fairford which is about a 15 minute drive away because it contains the only completely intact set of medieval stained glass in the UK. Indeed, the drive through the Cotswolds on the edge of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire was simply delightful and brought back to my mind memories of the lovely drives Llew, Chriselle and I had taken through the Cotswolds, several years ago—one of our loveliest family holidays. There were the narrowest pathways through the fields which made it difficult for two vehicles to pass together—but thoughtful bypass areas made it possible for cars to pass back and forth. Fields lying fallow lay on either side of the road and with the sun shining golden upon the earth, it was a delightful drive past the village of Lechlade and into Fairford.
The Stained Glass of Fairford Church:
            The church at Fairford dates back to Tudor times—the times of Henry Tudor who is also known as Henry VII, father of the infamous Henry VIII.   As a patron of the church, the stained glass panels that were designed and fitted in his time feature his daughter Margaret (in disguise and in Tudor dress) in two panels. They are full of the most exquisite detail because all stained glass windows were used for ecclesiastical teaching—as catechism tools at a time when few people could read.
            We encircled the church with the useful book that the lady at the entrance handed us and we were able to interpret the depictions from the Bible on glass. Of course, a large number of the windows have been restored through the centuries but it was still pretty remarkable to be in that space. Other Tudor features of the church are also noteworthy—a Baptismal font that dates back centuries, a carved wooden choir screen, pews and choir stalls. Indeed it was atmospheric and I am so glad my friends suggested we see this church to which people from all over the world come to catch a glimpse.
Drive Back to Oxford:
            The drive back to Oxford was wonderful—again, the Cotswolds are special and I feel thrilled to return each time I do. But while Tony and Sue relaxed, I headed to my next appointment.
Drinks with my Former Oxford Landlords:
            Five years ago, when I had a Fellowship of sorts at St. Antony’s College, Oxford, I had stayed with retired dons, Elizabeth and David Longrigg in their grand old North Oxford English Gothic mansion at 23 Norham Road right off Norham Gardens about which the English novelist Penelope Lively wrote a novel called The House at Norham Gardens. I had occupied the sun room just above the car port and I have the happiest memories of my time there.
            When I informed Mrs. Longrigg (which whom I have stayed in email contact) that I would be visiting Oxford, she invited me over for drinks. The long walk from South Oxford to North Oxford took me 45 minutes but I passed through some of my most beloved parts of the city—St. Aldates, Carfax, Cornmarket, The Martyrs Memorial, the two pubs that the Inklings popularized: The Lamb and Flagand The Eagle and Child, the War Memorial at St. Giles—and then I was at Parks Road and admiring the architecture of the North Oxford homes. How lucky I have been to have lived in such places and what warm and happy memories that have left in my heart!      
            The Longriggs were just lovely and I had the nicest time with them. They had drinks all set out—wine, elderflower water (which I had), and nibbles: taramasalata on crackers, chips with guacamole, pickled olives. It was so very nice of them. We stayed and chatted—there was so much to catch up on. I find them intensely interesting and their stories of family successes and their travels kept me enthralled. I discovered that their grandson Arthur Bowen, their daughter’s son, played Harry Potter’s son Albus Potter in the last Harry Potter movie and was interviewed in various magazines that they proudly display on their piano! How marvelous! Indeed, it was a fabulous evening and after spending over an hour with them, I left for the 45 minute walk back to Sue and Tony’s where I arrived just in time for dinner.
Dinner at Home with Sue and Tony:
            Sue had cooked salmon quite expertly indeed with chilli and fresh ginger—delicious! There were a variety of vegetables grown in their ‘allotment’—a patch of land not too far away where they grow their own veg. There were beetroots, broad beans (what Americans call Lima beans), boiled potatoes with mint. It was a very colorful plate indeed and everything was delicious. For dessert, there were fresh raspberries with Greek yoghurt—so healthy, so fresh. We chatted a whole lot and tried to plan our days together.
            And soon it was time to say goodbye and go to bed after what had been a tremendously productive day and one I will long remember.    
              Until tomorrow, cheerio!

V&A Museum Treasures, British Library & Battersea Dinner Party

Jul31


Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Battersea, London
V&A Museum, British Library and a Dinner Party in Battersea
            I am slowly getting accustomed to the trains passing outside my window—although a particularly long goods train in the middle of the night woke me up with a start. Still, brekkie done (muesli and Greek honey yogurt), I was ready to start my day. Rain all night and a drizzle in the morning fell in quite well with my plans to spend most of the day indoors.
            I also quickly mastered the bus routes at Battersea and found that not having a Tube station nearby was not a disadvantage at all as I could be in Victoria or at South Kensington in about 15 minutes on the frequent buses and the many routes that ply Battersea High Street.
            So off I went on the 345 bus to South Kensington directly to the Victoria and Albert Museum to start my self-guided tour of its highlights by using its very useful leaflet entitled “Twenty Treasures of the V&A”. I have to admit that it was a daunting task finding them all as the Cast Court was closed and access to the rest of the galleries that led from it kept me going around in circles. I have also forgotten a lot of what I saw as I am writing this installment of my blog a full week after seeing them. But here is what I remember:
1. Samson Killing the Phillistine by Giambologna—Sculpture in the new Renaissance Court
2. The Luck of Edenhall Medieval Glass Beaker—British.
3. Gloucestershire Candlestick
4. The Heneage Jewel—gold bauble with image of Elizabeth I engraved on it
5. The Bed of Melville
6. Marble Sculpture of Handel
7. Ardabil Carpet
8. Painting of a Paris Theatrical Sceneby Degas
9. Tipu’s Tiger
10. The Raphael Cartoons
Well, I can’t recall the rest but they were all quite fascinating. In my attempt to find them, I traversed some of my favorite parts of the museum—especially the Jewelry Galleries that I never miss and where I could spend an hour simply gazing upon the 18th century silver chatelaine.
            I was also delighted to come upon the three huge silver lions that are copies of the ones in the Throne Room of the Rosenborg Palace in Copenhagen where Llew and I had seen the original not even three weeks ago.
            I grabbed a bite to eat in the incredibly beautiful Morris Room—a scone with cream and jam and a pot of tea and then I was off.
Work at the British Library:
            I took the bus then to the British Library and spent the entire afternoon working at the British Library in the Asian Reading Room on the third floor. As always happens when I am at work, time simply gallops by and before I knew it, I had to leave and rush off to Battersea again. However, I managed to get a great deal of work in the several hours I spent there, so it was truly grateful for the opportunity to gain access to the India House Records that I needed to examine in connection with my book.
A Dinner Party with New Friends:
            My friend Roz decided to throw a dinner party at her place and to invite the new American friends I had made at the opening of her son Alex’s solo art exhibition.  They were Ginny (short for Virginia) and Richard. Roz also invited an old friend of her’s that I have met before and whom I really liked—Lizzie Rodgers. So we were a very merry group as we gathered for drinks in her lovely garden with its loads of colorful flowers and the regular whoosh of trains on the tracks behind us. We sipped our drinks and nibbled our nibbles and then we went inside to enjoy one of Roz’s great meals for she is an amazing chef. Roz’s Chicken Fingers with mixed roasted veggies were great as was her salad and her cherry and blueberry crumble that I helped her make. Conversation was fun and there was a great deal of laughter around the table.
            But because the best dinner parties must eventually end, her guests were off about 11.00pm. I had, fortunately, packed my backpack ready for my early morning departure on the coach to Oxford, so I excused myself and went straight up to bed.
         Until tomorrow, Cheerio!

Ambling in Albertopolis

Jul30


Monday, July 29, 2013
Battersea, London
            Waking up to the sound of trains is a novel experience but a nice romantic one. There is a railroad line that runs just outside my window here in Battersea and planes on the Heathrow Path, not to mention helicopters ascending and descending over the helipad poised over the Thames where river boats ply all day long—all these journeys, these to-ings and fro-ings are deeply romantic to me.
            I worked for three steady hours after a muesli brekkie. Waking early provides me with the opportunity to do focussed editing work and to redraft my proposal to the publishers. I also had a request letter for a transcript to draft and sundry other email correspondence items to complete. Before I knew it, it was 11.30 am—where does the time go? It was great to have Alexander, Roz’s son, for company as he pottered around on the lower level having come in after 2.00 am last night. He leaves for Oxford (where he lives) later today. As I worked on my laptop, I watched birds—a variety and a great multitude of them in Roz’s garden—Alexander informed me that the small yellow ones are probably blue tits—go figure! There were also large strange ones I’d never seen before—wood pigeons, he said. Llew would have loved it.
            At 11. 30 am, I was at the bus stop intending to get to Vauxhall to take the Tube to start my ambles around Albertopolis as the area around the Victoria and Albert (V&A) Museum is called. But I have become strangely proficient in the use of the red buses and when one came along proclaiming “South Kensington” as its destination, I was on it like a bonnet! It was a lovely ride—through Chelsea (I love the King’s Road and Fulham Road and could dally on them forever) and the Bluebird Cafe where I have been intending to eat for ages and into “South Ken” which is Little Paris, really, what with the plethora of French shops that have cluttered the area.
           
Revisiting the V&A:    
           It wasn’t long before I entered the V&A that looked very different from what I remembered. It didn’t take me long to realize that a whole new wing had been added to it on the right—a wing that was under renovation while I had lived in London—it turned out to be the new Medieval and Renaissance Wing that was opened soon in late 2009, soon after I left. Naturally, I had to take a tour of it and to my good luck, there was one beginning in just two minutes: a special tour of the Medieval and Renaissance Wing. It wound around the Museum’s treasures—from the court on the ground floor where the guide pointed out the Italian medieval stone wells, the stema (signature stone) of Pope Leo X and Giamdebologna’s Samson Wrestling the Philistine—which is one of the museum’s treasures. (Indeed, it did not take me long to discover a wonderful leaflet entitled ”Twenty Treasures of the V&A” that points visitors in the direction of its most notable items in a collections whose number is staggering. And naturally, I resolved that I would return tomorrow to do a self-guided tour of them as instructions and directions are very clearly marked on the leaflet. However, one does now have to pay one pound for the Floor Plan (as also in the National Gallery)—so it is now worth holding on to these after one’s visit instead of consigning them to the trash bins.  
            Upstairs, our tour took us to a stone Gothic Altar, to the Gloucester Candlestick (made of gilded base metal using the lost wax technique), to the stained glass window panels from La Chapelle in Paris (not clear how they got to the V&A), to completely different stained glass panels from the Church of the Stained Blood in Bruges in Belgium (also not clear how they got to the V&A), to the massive tapestry entitled The Boar Hunt—one of a series of four that details all kinds of medieval hunting (bear, boar, deer) among lords and ladies dressed to kill (pun intended), a most unusual marble bas relief of the Ascension of Christ by Donatello in a space devoted exclusively to his work (as the V&A has the most works by him outside of Italy) and finally a studiola with very interesting ceramic ceiling rondels by Lucca della Robbia that portrays the 12 months of the agricultural year.
            By then, it was nearly 12. 30 pm and I rushed downstairs to the Information Desk to join the Introductory Tour which is what the Museum’s Highlights Tour is called. This docent, named Deborah, was simply amazing—passionate and energetic and so knowledgeable. She started with the Ardabil Carpet which is dimly lit for just 10 minutes on the hour and the half hour—it is indeed the largest carpet of its quality in the world and arrived in the V&A via Persia and Los Angeles (having fallen temporarily in the possession of J. Paul Getty). Upstairs, we paused at the terracotta Bust of Henry Tudor that remained in the possession of his son Henry VIII and stopped at the Hereford Altar Panel—a confection of Victorian design in multi-media: metal, studded semi-precious stones, marble, gilded wood, terracotta (figures of Christ and the angels) meant for the church and designed by the great Sir George Gilbert Scott but never installed there. This vantage point gave us an opportunity to gaze upon one of my favorite works in the Museum—the softly colored Chandelier by Dale Chihuly that cascades over the Main Information Desk echoing the soft colors on the Victorian stained glass window panes from where Chihuly took his inspiration when commissioned the work.
            In the Renaissance and Medieval Galleries (constructed in imitation of the Millennium Dome installed in the British Museum), she pointed out the New Court(with its fountains and its sculpture), we skimmed past the Casts Court that was temporarily closed (the casts are taken from the world’s greatest sculpture so that the V&A has plaster casts of Rome’s Trajan Columnand Florence’s David, both by Michaelangelo and by Donatello and loads of Gothic altars from French cathedrals including the famous entrance to Chartres Cathedral. We saw the side of a timber building from Bishop’s Gate in London that was left untouched by the Great Fire of 1666 and then went on to the Back courtyard where we saw a new bronze sculptural installation named The Three Graces by a contemporary sculptor Georg Baeslitz—a truly ugly installation that the guide said was “like Marmite—you either love it or hate it”. And I hated it!
            From there, we moved on to the Indian Wing where she led us to Tipu’s Tiger (of course!)—maybe the museum’s best-known object: a music box that when wound plays the sounds of a tiger’s roars and the screams of the Englishman who he is mauling to death–really gruesome but a good indication of the hatred with which the English were held in Mysore where Tipu Sultan fought hard to keep them at bay. The large wooden music box is entirely Indian made and very impressive indeed. She also pointed out Shah Jehan’s nephrite Jade drinking cup exquisitely carved with a lotus base and the detailed head of a ram on the handle. And finally our tour ended at the Raphael Cartoons on long-term loan from the Queen to whom they belong. Commissioned by the same Leo X who built the Sistine Chapel, they are colored drawings in tempura by Raphael for the tapestry weavers who ultimately wove the masterpieces that hang in the Vatican. The V&A has one of the tapestries and it is hung right opposite its Cartoon illustrating the manner in which the finished tapestry was a mirror image of its cartoon.
            I cannot leave the V&A without visiting its splendid cafeteria which is probably the best in the world. It is composed of what is known as the Morris, Poynter and Gamble Rooms, each of which has been designed and decorated by one of the great Arts and Crafts practitioners of the day. I particularly loved the ceramic walls and the stained glass windows and I settled down with a cheddar, celery and apple scone served with butter and a lovely pot of Darjeeling—which served as my lunch, to enable me to take in the grandeur of my surroundings. How much I love the V&A, I realized, and what a treat it is to return to this place, time after time.
           
Off to Pick up my Suitcase:
            Leaving the museum unwillingly behind me, I arrived at South Ken Tube station (using the useful underground passage way that links the V&A with the station) in order to get to Abbey Road to pick up my suitcase from Raquel’s place. I was there in 20 minutes and was disappointed not to find anyone at home. I cleared out my case and the fridge that had a few of my food items in it and was on my way walking towards the Tube station in order to get my case to my new digs in Battersea when along Grove End Road came Raquel with son Jonas and a huge shopping trolley in tow—she had just gone to the supermarket. We had a long and affectionate reunion on the street but because my case was heavy, I did not return to her place. Instead, I carried on to Battersea and was amazed to reach there in about half an hour.
            A rest and a nap was called for after hauling my 20 kg case across London (although I have to say, given the lifts and escalator everywhere, I did not have a hard time of it at all) and curled up on my bed on the top level of the house for my 20 minutes shut-eye.
           
A Walking Tour of  Alberotopolis:
At 5. 15pm, I left the house with camera, map and Oyster card in my pocket and on the bus I went back to South Ken to start my Walking Tour of Albertopolis—as the area is known. It was the brain child of Prince Albert (Victoria’s beloved husband), a German who brought with him all the culture and polish of the German court to an England that was in the midst of the Industrial Revolution. Marrying England’s manufacturing genius with Europe’s artistry seemed like a no-brainer for Albert who came up with the idea of the Great Exhibition (of 1851) to showcase the amazing wonders that man was capable of creating. He was also a dedicated lover of architecture and in founding the Royal Academies of Music and Art and Geography and Organists and Science, what he created was a miniature town—full of wondrous red brick buildings with elaborate black wrought-iron balconies (slightly imitating the French windows of neighbors across the Channel), fancy stucco embellishments and often exuberant carvings. And that is Albertopolis. I thought so much of Chriselle, because on her last trip to London when she had visited the area with me, she had simply fallen in love with it and with its architecture and couldn’t get enough of it.  
Everyone knows the story of how heart-broken Victoria was when she lost Albert to typhoid when he was merely 41 and how determined she was to create a memorial to him that would stun the viewer. Well, my walk wound me around the spherical Royal Albert Hall where there was a serpentine queue waiting for Standing Room to see the BBC Prom concerts that occur throughout the month of July and into August. I was sorely tempted to stand in it myself because for a mere five pounds, I could have listened to a world-class orchestra—but I had told my friend Roz I would be home with her for dinner.
So instead I took pictures of the wonderful sculpture of Albert at the back of the Hall and made my way to Kensington Gore—the road in front which is dominated by George Gilbert Scott’s brilliant Albert Memorial designed to look like a medieval market cross—but lavishly gilded. Albert who has recentlty been re-gilded sits there in larger-than-life mode with the catalogue of the great Exhibition on his knee (brilliant idea!) on a dais surrounded by at least 200 personages from the past that represent art and science and learning and flanked on four sides by marble sculpture that represents Asia (elephant), Africa (camel), Europe (bull) and America (bison). It is a truly an extraordinary piece of work and I felt the same kind of awe that I feel at the Taj Mahal as I circumnavigated its splendor. Many many pictures later, I was finally ready to leave and take the bus back to Battersea where I reached at almost 7.00 pm.
Roz helped me throw in a load of laundry and then I was ready to go on a long walk again, at her suggestion, along the Thames Path. What a great suggestion it was! We strolled, on a perfect summer’s evening with only the slightest hint of rain in the air, to the waterfront, past the helipad to arrive at the lovely Georgian church of St. Mary where William Blake had married and on to her ‘local’, The Woodman of Battersea, where I had “a swift half” pint of Guinness and she sipped a Sauvignon Blanc and we gabbed non-stop as we tried to catch up on all that has happened in our respective lives since the last time we chatted. It was a simply fabulous evening with a dear friend of whom I am really fond.

          Back home, where Oscar, Roz’s beautiful Burmese cat is making himself very much at home on my lap, at nearly 10.00 pm, we had a very light but very delicious dinner: smoked salmon with buttered bread and salad with ice-cream for dessert. What a great day! At close to midnight, I reviewed and responded to email and fell asleep.             

Third Time Lucky—At Chiswick House Finally!

Jul29


Sunday, July 28, 2013
London
Third Time Lucky—At Chiswick House Finally!
            Today’s excursion occurred quite by chance. In fact, when the day dawned, all that struck me was that it was Moving Day again—this past week seemed to have flown! But my friends Chris and Raquel were returning from the States late in the evening and I intended to move out by 7. 30 pm. With most of my packing done yesterday, I awoke at about 6. 30 am today, blogged for a bit, then finished up the last odds and ends of my packing before planning out my day.
Sunday Service at St. George’s, Bloomsbury:
            Regular readers of this blog will know that on Sundays in London, I usually seek out a historic church in which to attend Service as I love the variety of services that the various churches offer and because it permits me to peruse the gorgeous ecclesiastical architecture of this city. Having seen St. George’s Church at Bloomsbury merely from the outside on my walk around Bloomsbury, the other day, I decided to attend the 10. 30 am service there (I discovered the timing of the service from the church’s website).
I left my place on Abbey Road at 10.00 am and by 10. 25am, I was at Bloomsbury. The church gates were open and I found myself inside a space that exemplified English Baroque to the T. This church is the work of Nicholas Hawksmoor, a pupil of Christopher Wren, who had learned everything he knew from Inigo Jones. Well, there it was—plainly visible to the eye: the classical discipline of Inigo Jones and the Baroque exuberance of Wren brilliantly combined in a space that was imposing yet austere. Anyone familiar with Hawkmoor’s work will recognize his style: I have seen his work at St. Alfrege’s Church in Greenwich and at Christ Church, Spitalfields—so it was easy for me to recognize his signature touches: broad Greek columns (his were Corinthian), classical proportions and 18th century symmetry, marquetry around the altar in woods of many colors, simplicity without too much color. The church was recently refurbished and it is a grand space indeed. The service was equally interesting. It didn’t have the full choral grandeur of the services I have attended these past two Sundays (at St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Queen’s Chapel at St. James Palace respectively) but it was still absorbing. The Rev. David Peebles preached a very stirring sermon, the Lectors were wonderful—clear and full of expression. As always, the pastor made it a point to introduce himself to me at the end of the service and say “Welcome”. I was invited to stay for coffee after the service but I had been on an empty stomach and it was 11. 45am. I needed something more than coffee—much more than coffee!
A Full English Breakfast at the Bloomsbury Café:
            It was time to go out in search of sustenance—big time sustenance! A Full English Breakfast, I thought, would be in order. It would be my Brunch since I was unlikely to eat anything again until dinner time. Bloomsbury—being the home of the British Museum and always crawling with visitors—has no dearth of places offering this most nourishing of meals. So it was not surprising that I found my way to the Bloomsbury Café on Bloomsbury Street to partake of the Full English Breakfast that was advertised on the blackboard on the sidewalk. That and an Americano coffee, I told the proprietor, would be my order.
            A few minutes later, it arrived—my Full-Blown Heart Attack on a Plate! Two scrambled eggs, 2 sausages, 4 rashers of bacon, baked beans, 2 slices of white buttered toast (yes, yes, I know the grilled tomatoes and mushrooms were missing, but this was still pretty humongous!) It took me a good half an hour to savor all of it and by 12. 30 pm (as Bloomsbury slowly came to tourist life), I paid my bill (8.25 pounds), thanked the owner for his excellent meal and made my way to my office at NYU to get some material printed—only to realize that it is no longer open on Sundays. Oh well!
Off To Victoria for a Ticket to Oxford:
            When I spied a 74 bus coming along with the sign stating that it would terminate at Victoria, I jumped into it to run my next errand: the purchasing of my return ticket to Oxford (as I will be heading there on Wednesday). I thoroughly enjoyed the bus ride along Oxford Street and into Mayfair and Belgravia before we arrived at Victoria Bus Station where I changed into another bus to get to the Coach Station. Thankfully, the queue was short and I ended up getting a return ticket at a cheaper fare than was being offered on the website; plus I did not need to pay the delivery charges that I simply could not get rid of on the site—I ended up saving nearly four pounds on my ticket and this pleased me absurdly!
Finally Getting to Chiswick House:
            It was about 1. 30 by then and quite suddenly, I decided that this would be the time to make a trip to Chiswick (pronounced ‘Chizzik’) to get inside Chiswick House, a grand 18th century mansion on the outskirts of the city. On two occasions in the past when I have made the trip there, my intentions of visiting the house were thwarted. Maintained by the English Heritage, a not-for-profit organization that preserves heritage properties in the UK, it is only open three days a week. When I had visited with my friend Amy, five years ago, we had arrived on a day when it was closed. Three months ago, when I arrived there with another friend Raquel, there was a Camellia Festival on that had closed down the house temporarily for a week. I crossed my fingers and hoped it would be third time lucky. And indeed it was!
            By the time I got to Chiswick High Street on the Tube (getting off at Tunham Green), it was about 3. 30 pm but I could not resist poking around the thrift shops that are plentiful in the area. I did find a lovely shiny bracelet and I was delighted with it. Then, fairly racing along Devonshire Road to the venue (which I remembered well from my last visit), I reached Chiswick House at 4. 00 pm. This left me one hour to see the house (I did not wish to spend time in the gardens which are free to the public). I paid the entry fee of 5. 40 pounds and began my tour of the house. But first, I think, a little historical information might be in order.
            Chiswick House was the brain child of Richard Boyle, 3rd Earl of Burlington (known as Lord Burlington), who was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, the son of landed gentry. His parents already owned vast property in Piccadilly including Burlington House (which became the Royal Academy of Arts). At the age of 21, as was the custom at the time, Lord B undertook the Grand Tour—a long journey through Europe which was felt to complete the education of any young aristocrat of the time (this was the early-18th century). This experience was life-changing for him as, in Italy, he became introduced to the work of Andrea Palladio whose showpiece city of Vicenza took his breath away. He resolved to build himself a villa similar in form and substance to the great work of Palladio and was fortunate to come upon the English architect Inigo Jones who had just returned from Italy himself and been completely swept away by Palladio’s genius.   
            Teaming up with Jones, Lord B created Chiswick House, a mansion that is plainly inspired by Villa la Rotunda in Vicenza: anyone who had visited the latter in Italy will easily spot the similarities at Chiswick House. Indeed as someone who was completely taken by Palladio’s work at Villa La Rotunda in Vicenza, I was profoundly interested in Chiswick House. There was a short audio-visual presentation that introduced Burlington’s vision and led one into the secrets of this amazing home.
An audio guide ably led us on a self-guided tour that I found intensely fascinating. The ground floor is a series of rooms that once accommodated Lord B’s library and his smoking room and led into the original home that his parents had owned (destroyed by the fifth Earl in the 19th century). We were also led into the basement cellar with its numerous kegs of wine.         But the true glories of the house are on the top story where room after room simply dazzles the eye—for Lord B was an avid collector who returned from the Grand Tour with 870 wooden crates containing Italian art including two priceless porphyry (rare purple marble quarried in Egypt) vases and two gilded wooden table bases with Florentine pietra dura (inlaid) marble tops. There are a multitude of paintings in the rooms—of which the Red Velvet Room and the Green Velvet Room are the most sumptuous. There is also a Blue Velvet Room which is much smaller and which served as Lord B’s private study. The paintings include contemporary portraits by Van Dyke and Stephano Ricci, landscapes and scenes depicting classical mythology. An abundance of gilding, grand brass chandeliers, innumerable marble busts of Greek and Roman personages punctuate the home. It is simply glorious and I am delighted, just delighted, that I was finally able to feast my eyes upon this home. Considering that it is so easily accessible from London (the No. 190 bus from Hammersmith stops right outside the main gate of the property from where the house is only a few steps away—so much simpler to get to it this way than walking all the way from Tunham Green Tube statin as I had done), I simply can’t believe that it has taken me so long to see Chiswick House. 
I did stop to buy a drink (Elderflower and Grape Juice) at the famous café attached to the house as I badly needed a cool drink. Then I felt ready for the journey back home.
Indeed, I found the bus stop (190) right outside the main gate and when I reached Chiswick High Street, I realized that bus No. 27 went all the way to Chalk Farm past Baker Street. Well, it was a grand evening for a long drive and on it I hopped. It took me about an hour to reach Gloucester Place from where I hopped into the 189 bus to get to Abbey Road. I was dropped just opposite my building, Neville Court.
Moving To and Settling In Battersea:
            By 6.45 pm, I was home. It took me about half an hour to settle the last of my stuff and to clean and tidy up behind me as I did want to leave the place looking welcoming for my friends upon their return (I did leave them a bunch of gifts with a Thank-you card). I also left my suitcase behind with the intention of picking it up tomorrow. By 7. 15 pm, I took my backpack with me and left the house on the Tube to Vauxhall headed to my friend Roz’s place at Battersea.
            In under an hour (at 8. 10 pm to be precise), I was ringing Roz’s doorbell. We sat in her garden and ate a lovely meal of chicken fingers with couscous and a salad of lettuce and tomatoes with the last of the delicious Elderflower water that I really enjoy here in the UK. She showed me up to my room and I settled down with a nice hot shower and made myself comfortable in her darling three-level home that is filled with paintings, sculpture and other wonderful art work. Although I will only be here for two days before I leave for Oxford, I am looking forward to some great times with her. My room overlooks her garden and the train tracks and occasionally I hear a train steaming into the night as I type this. It is wonderfully comforting to be in the company of a good friend and I know I will have a very happy time here.
            Until tomorrow, Cheerio!            

Hurray for Hampstead–and its Heath!

Jul28


Saturday, July 27, 2013
London
            Although I went to bed at 1.00 am, I was up before 6.00 am—what is it about my body that allows it to make do with so little sleep? There wasn’t a moment to waste, however, as I am still fighting a submission deadline for a chapter in an Anglo-Indian anthology that has been returned to me by the editors. So after brekkie (foraged from whatever I could find in the fridge as my food supplies have run low and since I am moving again tomorrow, I don’t want to buy anything more)—which ended up being cereal flakes with raspberry yoghurt—I began working. Must admit I could not resist switching on Saturday Kitchen on the BBC for a glimpse of the very dishy James Martin. Bonus was the BBC Weather Woman Carol Kirkwood with her pretty smiling face and lovely demeanor. I worked swiftly and was all done in three hours. I am happy to say that my essay is ready to be emailed to the editors after I have read it through one more time tomorrow.
            Since tomorrow is Moving Day again (I go off to Battersea to my friend Roz as my friends Raquel and Chris return from the States), I began packing and put away the bulk of my clothes. As always, only last-minute things will go into my backpack tomorrow. I showered and changed and before I knew it, it was 2. 30 pm and time to leave for my appointment with my friend Murali outside Hampstead Underground Station. A quick look at the Tube map told me it would take almost an hour and three changes to get there by Tube, Another quick look at the Journey Planner website told me that I could take a single bus there (No. 46) from Finchley Road and get there in 22 minutes! Go Figure!
            So off I went to the bus stop and in three minutes, along rolled the bus. The journey took me through parts of London with which I am unfamiliar—Finchley, Swiss Cottage and then we arrived in Hampstead. Murali was there on cue and we began a Walking Tour of Hampstead from the DK Eyewitness Guides.
Rediscovering Hampstead:
            Hampstead is a delightful part of London. Far from the madding crowd, in a sense, it is removed from the bustle of the city. It has always been a rather exclusive neighborhood—ever since curing spa waters were found in its vicinity. For lovers of Britain’s domestic Victorian architecture such as Moi, it is a dream venue with its red brick façade houses, elaborately designed gables and rich stucco decoration. I never tire of simply running my eyes over the structures that line its leafy streets as I wander aimlessly through this unspoiled village. Hampstead is also home to some beautiful and historic stately houses—all of which I have visited over the years (Fenton House full of Chelsea porcelain and a collection of musical instruments; Kenwood which is one of Robert Adams’ first creations filled with its Wedgwood-style plasterwork and an amazing collection of art including a Vermeer; Burgh House which houses a Hampstead Museum; “2 Willow Road”,the home of architect Erno Goldfinger whose Modernist vision revolutionized British architecture in the 1960s; Keats’ Housein which the poet composed his best-known poem and my favorite, “Ode to a Nightingale”, etc. ). I was there to simply amble around at will enjoying the ambience of a lovely summer weekend afternoon.
            So off we went, down Flash Walk (so-called because soothing spa waters were once sold in flasks along this lane) and Well Walk (so-called because it was the location of the well that was the source of the soothing waters) and passing by the 1888 Public Baths and Wash House. Few people know that when many of the Anglo-Indian immigrants that I interviewed for my forthcoming book first arrived in the UK, they had no bathrooms in their homes. They used Public Baths where for one penny, they were handed a towel and a sliver of hard carbolic soap and allowed to bathe! Naturally, the advent of indoor bathrooms made these public baths redundant. Many have been converted into community swimming pools but some (such as the building at Hampstead) have remained disused because many councils do not have the resources to refurbish them for other uses (this is probably not the case in affluent Hampstead, of course, and it is possible that it has been simply retained as is to preserve its vintage feel). I was charmed to come upon it so suddenly and took a picture.
            We pressed on towards the New End Theater where, five years ago, I had escorted my students to a play. I discovered that two years ago it was converted into a mosque—how things change! We climbed up Christ Church Passageway and arrived at the quaint stone church called Christ Church with its leafy yard, its fairy-tale wooden doors sporting big iron door knockers and hardware and its lovely steeple reaching out towards blue skies. This is the true essence of Hampstead—a church here, a corner pub there, a garden café in a Georgian museum from which the sounds of classical music faintly emerged in another bend). Around a corner, we arrived at Jack Straw’s Castle which was once a pub but is now converted to a block of flats. Not very appealing in its attempts to imitate the crennellated towers of a castle, it was nevertheless a fine landmark at a corner where an ancient white milestone stood not too far away to mark the distance from Hampstead to Holborn—4 and a half miles! A pretty pond filled with bulrushes and green algea punctuates this part of Hampstead and along Spaniard Lane (known for its old Spaniard Inn where highwayman Dick Turpin once waylaid innocent travelers and robbed them), we found a narrow set of steps leading down to the famous Hampstead Heath (a Heath is a wide open parkland and London has a few).
           
A Walk on Hampstead Heath:
          It was a lovely day for a picnic on the Heath and there were many people enjoying the outdoors—sunbathing, walking dogs, pushing babies in strollers or jogging. We strolled along hoping to get to Parliament Hill which offers lovely views of London from St. Paul’s dome (which was once the most prominent landmark in the city) to the Shard whose skinny contours now dominate the skyline. It took us some looking to find the spot as the Heath is not marked at all and maps are conspicuous by their absence (I believe it has something to do with keeping the outdoors unspoiled). Eventually, we did find the trail leading to the hill and when we were fairly close to it, the skies opened, gently, and the drizzle began. We took shelter under a tree studded with tiny pine cones for at least 20 minutes as we waited out the shower.
            In a few minutes, we were at the top of the hill joining other walkers in identifying the rooftops (St. Paul’s, St. Pancras Station, Anish Kapoor’s sculpture at the Olympics site—which had revived for the weekend to mark the first anniversary of Britain’s most glorious recent weeks, the Gherkin, the Shard).  Seen in a lot of movies (the last scene from Notes on a Scandal with Judi Dench sitting on a bench at this spot overlooking the city is memorable), this part of London is special. Parliament Hill was supposedly given its name from Guy Fawkes and his cronies who climbed up this hill to view the Houses of Parliament blow up through their Gunpowder Plot. Happily, they never did, the plot was exposed and the conspirators hanged. But Parliament Hill retains a name that brings back regular memories of the historical event (just as much as the traditional fireworks do on Guy Fawkes Night).
            It was time to try to find Kenwood House but without maps on the Heath to guide us, we were at a complete loss. That’s when we ran into Sophia, a lovely young girl who walked hand in hand with her husband Jasmeet and who guided us vaguely towards its location. Ten minutes later,  after we had walked through a meadow with knee-high grass, we asked directions from another Indian man who informed us that Kenwood House was closed for renovation for a couple of years. With our mission aborted, we attempted to find an exit from the park and realized that we had reached Highgate by this point and were far away from Hampstead—for the Heath stretches over two major London hamlets.
            That’s when we spotted Sophia and Jasmeet again—they offered us a ride in their car back to Hampstead because they saw how clueless we were about how to proceed! It was a very welcome lift indeed and off we went. In ten minutes, we were at Hampstead again and after thanking them, we proceeded with our walk by continuing where we had left off before entering the Heath.
            So one we went but as the walk was not too well marked, we did our own thing and arrived finally at Church Row which has one of London’s best-preserved Georgian streets with perfectly intact Georgian terraced houses lining it. At its end is St. John’s Parish Church where the artist John Constable lies buried in the adjoining church yard. It was lovely to take in this very pretty part of the village.
            In a few moments, we rounded a bend that brought us back on the High Street. In search of sustenance (a cup of tea would have been welcome at this point), we eventually found the place I was seeking: an American burger and milk shakes place that I remembered well from having taken my students there, five years ago. We did find it, right off the High Street on a slope leading up a hill—Tinsel Town reportedly serves 50 kinds of burgers and shakes. We settled down and had lovely milks shakes filled with rich chocolate sauce and Ferrerro Rocher chocolate. They were so delicious, satisfying and comforting after we had walked for nearly 6 miles!
            It was then time to get back home and Murali and I jumped back on the 46 bus heading back to St. John’s Wood. A thunderstorm had begun and as Murali walked to the Tube station, I (who hate getting wet in the rain, especially the cold rain of the West) took shelter under a bus stop and waited it out.
            About 15 minutes later, I was home and hunkering down for the night by 10.00 pm as I suddenly felt very fatigued indeed.
             Until tomorrow, cheerio!