Out of Sorts, Walk along Southbank & Globe Theater Show

Aug29

Monday, August 30, 2011
London

It was bound to catch up with me, I suppose. Jetlag, late (very late!) nights and the excitement of being in London again. Never did an adage feel truer to mine ears–The Spirit is Willing, but the Flesh is Weak”. So when I awoke at 7. 15 am (really late for me!) with a pounding head and the sort of weakness washing over my body that makes me feel hot and cold in quick succession, I groaned. I was well and truly ill. Although I did want to join my hosts for breakfast before their departure for the Pottery Towns, I simply could not drag myself out of bed. It was best to be sensible about it and not fight nature. So I dozed myself with an aspirin for the headache, slid under the covers and went right back to sleep thinking I would nap for another hour.

But I did not awake till after noon! Shocked but happy to discover that my headache was history, I showered and washed my hair and ate a pizza lunch. With a bit of food in me, I felt much better. Of course, it had to be a gorgeous day, the sun pouring down in warm profusion over London. Text messages from Shahnaz and Azra urged me to get out and enjoy it. I did not need much arm-twisting. They came over to Amen Court, Edward (still enjoying a lazy Bank Holiday weekend) decided to join us and we went for a walk, determined take it very easy.

A Walk in Southwark:
Of course, that’s easier said that done. Thebest laid plans of mice and men and all that…London is too walkable a city to encourage sitting around–unless, I suppose, you are lounging on a green striped chair in a park with a book. So past St. Paul’s and on to Wobbly Bridge we went, joining vast throngs on tourists taking the air. No sooner was I striding across the Thames than I noticed a new building on the Southbank skyline towering like a modern-day Eiffel Tower into the clouds. It is the Shard, explained Edward, a new structure comprising office buildings. Hmm…it is still incomplete and I’m not really sure I like it…but I shall withhold judgement until it is ready.

Past the Tate Modern Gallery we went and into the precincts of the Globe Theater where we discovered the Groundling tickets for standing in the Pit were available for five pounds for tonight’s performance of The Globe Mysteries written by Tony Harrison and directed by Deborah Bruce. Naturally, we had to go, especially since we had wasted the morning doing nothing. Within minutes, we had our tickets in our excited hands. Having studied ‘The History of Drama’ way back when as an undergraduate in Bombay, I was well aware that the Mystery and Morality Plays had preceded the Elizabethan drama cycles that had produced the likes of Shakespeare and Marlowe. I was also aware that Mysteries were used to educate the illiterate theater goer and were a very popular form of cheap entertainment. But I had never seen Mystery plays in performance. To be able to see them at th Globe was special and I couldn’t wait.

Our walk continued, under Southwark Bridge and into the territories of open-air wine bars until we arrived at the site of the infamous Clink Prison which is a museum today. It reproduces the torture chambers of old and not having a stomach for that sort of thing, we declined the impulse to enter. Next, we were gazing upon the ruins of the Bishop of Winchester’s Palace–only one wall of his private chapel remains. This notorious prelate was so corrupt hat he owned every single brothel that existed in the area. It was individuals like him who made the Reformation necessary, I strongly believe.

Just past the Palace stood Sir Francis Drake’s The Golden Hind (although the golden hind figurehead on the prow from which it derives its name has silvered from exposure to the elements) with which he circumnavigated the globe. A theatrical skit was in full spate on the deck and various costumed characters from Elizabethan days strode up and down the ramp leading to it.

After lingering a little for pictures, we soldiered on until we arrived at the flint walls of Southwark Cathedral, the area’s oldest structure. Indeed there has been a church on this site since 900 AD and every poet and playwright of the Golden Age of Drama worshipped here from Gower to Shakespeare to Marlowe. Inside, the holiday had suspended the collection of payment to tour the church and we were able to take in its attractions: the mortuary statue of Gower, the sculpture of the reclining Shakespeare just below the stained glass window that depicts his plays, the superbly carved stone altar with the gilded wooden statues below it, the carved wooden choir stalls. Yes, Southwark Cathedral offers a great deal to fascinate the visitor and I always enjoy my forays inside, no matter how often I enter.

Further on, we arrived at the famous Borough Market where, over the years, I have enjoyed several free lunches in the generous ‘tasters’ handed out by artisinal food retailers selling unique sausages, cheeses, chocolates, bread, spreads, preserves and the like. Alas, it was all shut down for the holiday although the strong aroma of meat surrounded the space.

Then, we were crossing London Bridge Road and making our way to The George, London’s only remaining 16th century ‘galleried’ coaching inn, now maintained by the National Trust. It continues to run business, though, in “victuals” and since it was almost 5 pm and we were rather peckish, it made sense to chow down over good British pub grub. Edward had a pint, I had cider, Shahnaz and Azra chose to eat a full meal–fish and chips and a tuna salad, both of which were so huge that we all tucked in. Replete with our meal and having enjoyed the aged ambiance of a space that has featured in the novels of Dickens, we set out again noticing a marked drop in the temperature. I hoped it would not get too chilly during our open-air evening at The Globe.

Since we were still early, we strolled to the Tate hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the ground floor installations only to realize that it was past 7 pm and the museum had long shut down. The clear light of English summer evenings can be so deceptive–it is impossible to believe it is so late when there it is still so bright.

A Performance at The Globe Theater:
Into the Globe we went to join the short queue of Groundlings eager to get the best ‘seats’–although you really do not have any. The doors open half a hour in advance. We sat on the ground (as the groundlings undoubtedly did in Shakespeare’s day) and arose when the curtain did. For the next two and half hours, we were enthralled by every theatrical element you can imagine–from slapstick, rough and tumble, crude puns, sophisticated double entendre, tragedy, comedy, tragi-comedy, comi-tragedy, farce, singing, dancing, instrumental virtuosity–you name it, The Globe Mysteries contained it. Part One (before the Intermission) dealt with the Old Testament and was beautifully done, while Part Two dealt with the New and was less absorbing. The spectacle of the Crucifiction was a set design marvel. I was curious to see how the Ressurection would be treated and handled but the playwright conveniently left it right out! I found the use of the heavy accents annoying because it made much of the dialogue unintelligible to me, but overall the production was highly entertaining. Our position, at center front, could not have been more strategic–we were so close, the actors actually spit all over us! Blood from Jesus’ torture flew towards us and when, as in classic Elizabethan style, we were made part of the action, by dividing ourselves into two halves, we were pleased to discover that, unwittingly, we had taken sides with The Saved (rather than The Damned) on Judgement Day.

Having decided to stand for just a half hour to 45 minutes, I was shocked that I had managed to survive the entire performance while on my feet after having begun the day feeling distinctly out of sorts, Still, I felt a bit wobbly while crossing Wobbly Bridge once again to get home to Amen Court where I reached on foot ten minutes later.

I had salvaged the day rather superbly, I thought, and it was with a song in my heart giving thanks for the restoration of my health and spirits that I went to bed.

Chelsea Pensioners, Chutney Mary Lunch, Notting Hill Carnival

Aug28

Sunday, August 28, 2011
London

Who’d’ve thunk it? When I awoke this morning, all set to attend Sunday service in a historic Christopher Wren chapel in Chelsea, how could I have known that I would be occupying a seat right opposite Baroness Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister of Great Britain? And yet, that was exactly what happened! I’m still beside myself with awe! At 86, she still carries that imperious air that would have been more appropriate half a century ago in the colonies than it was in the small, intimate friendly space of a chapel. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Virgin Atlantic Offers a Gift:
My day began with the bleak news from Virgin Atlantic that the earliest confirmed seat available to me was a week away–next Sunday. When I recovered from the shock of being stuck in London for another week, I put my Positive Thinking Hat on and figured that if the weather gods had conspired to gift me a bonus week in my favorite city, well…who was I to complain? So on I marched towards what turned out to be a glorious day, weather-wise. After breakfast, I hopped on the bus to Chelsea while most of London was having a lazy lie-in on August Bank Holiday Weekend.

Browsing Through Chelsea:
Because I had arrived too early for morning service at the Chapel of Chelsea Royal Hospital, I browsed through my favorite interior design stores on Pimlico Road (Linley was closed for renovation but Joanna Wood is having a sale!). I thought of the newly-wed Clintons, Bill and Hilary, who many moons ago, on their honeymoon, while browsing in similar fashion through Chelsea, on a similar deserted morning, had so fallen in love with the hamlet that they’d decided then and there that if they ever had a daughter, they would name her after one of London’s poshest areas. Well…the rest is history.

The Chelsea Pensioners’ Parade:
By and by, I did make my way to the grand green precincts of the Royal Hospital whose grounds boast the work of some of Britain’s best-known architects (Christopher Wren designed the main buildings and chapel and John Soane designed the stable blocks). I was headed for the 11 am service but before it begins, there is the ceremonial Sunday Morning Parade that starts at 10.30 (another one of London’s most closely-guarded secrets, unknown to the run-of-the-mill tourist). I positioned myself on the lawn to get the best pictures. Not a lot of people were present to watch an old British custom that involves the Inspection of the Pensioners (retired army personnel) by their Sergeant Major. At 10.30, the many pensioners who were dotted around the premises smartly attired in their red jackets, black tricorn hats, white gloves and medals tinkling on their lapels, rose to attention and took their positions on the main lawns as a drummer kept up a marching tattoo. The sergeant major in black uniform with an elaborately white feathered helmet barked orders at the troops who then were inspected individually. Each one gave him their names and rank. The ritual lasted about 15 minutes and had all the pomp and ceremony at which the British usually excel. When a whistle blew to end it, the pensioners trooped back under Wren’s giant columns and all but disappeared. Only the few female pensioners (who raised many an eyebrow when they joined the retirement community a couple of years ago) entered the chapel and stayed for the entire service.

That’s when Lady Thatcher walked–or rather limped–in. With the assistance of a walking stick and the company of an equally imperious companion (slim, straight-backed, poker-faced–think Diana Rigg playing Miss Danvers in Rebecca), she slid slowly into her seat wearing a vivid green coat-dress, a string of pearls, matching button ear-rings and a pearl brooch. I noticed that although she participated in the service, she did not respond verbally at all until it came time to sing God Save the Queen–and then she was active! Although she is now visibly only a shadow of the Iron Lady we well remember, there is no mistaking her sharp profile and the sweetness of her smile–which I saw when she placed her offering in the circulating bag. I gathered later that it is four weeks since she has felt well enough to attend service. She is a regular worshipper in this chapel and, in recognition of her patronage, has the Margaret Thatcher Infirmary in the grounds named after her.

The service was superb. As always, you cannot touch Anglican clergy for the quality of their homilies and this one, by Chaplain Dick Whittington (yes, that is really his name!) who as seen active combat himself, was inspiring–the sort of homily that makes me wonder if the preacher has me in mind when he is delivering it. Great singing from a wonderful choir, great playing from a wonderful organist, great reading from a wonderful Lector–I mean everything was just perfect. The Wren mahogany altar was richly carved with a splendid ceiling fresco by a father-son team of Italian artists (one did bodies well, the other did good faces!) but their names eluded me as the tour guide pensioner called Tom (who had befriended me before the parade) could not remember it!

As soon as I’d entered the chapel, I spied Jane, the lawyer from Yorkshire who had combined a meeting in London (or T’Smoke, as she calls it), to meet me. We’ve been Twitter friends for about a year. Her mother is an Anglo-Indian and given our common background and my current research, she was keen to meet me. Well, there she was, as she had hoped, in the chapel in time for service. We instantly recognized each other and sat together through the service.

A Private Tour of Chelsea Royal Hospital Grounds:
When it was done, we trooped out and there was Tom Mullaney, a pensioner who had offered to give me a private tour of the premises. I introduced him to Jane and off we went from one lovely quadrangle to the next and to Soane’s stable block–each brilliantly gilded in the sunshine. At the mess, Tom offered to buy us both a drink because “he was dying for a pint”. Jane, who was driving opted for OJ, I had a coffee and in the company of a hearty lot of pensioners and their family members or friends (the premises are not open to the public), we found out a bit about Tom. After the parade, pensioners are expected to change out of their red jackets and into pale blue shorts with navy blue pants–a more casual form of dress and that was how Tom was garbed. At the end of our time together, he gave me his very stylish buisness card and urged me to give him a call to schedule another complete tour later inthe week (which I shall probably do with Shanaz and Ara).

Lunch at Chutney Mary:
Then, it was time for Jane and me to enter her spiffy nautical blue Prius and off we went to lunch–her choice was the very classy and very appropriate Anglo-Indian restaurant called Chutney Mary in Chelsea. It had been years since Llew and I had dinner there once and it brought back sharp memories for me of a very companionable time we had spent there with Llew’s brother and his wife at the tail end of one of our superb London summer holidays. The food was just fantastic especially the starter we both chose–grilled scallops with a tomato chutney on a delicately saffron-flavored bed of sauce that was so good it deserved to be sopped up with naan (which we requested). Jane chose a terrifically fragrant Chicken Biryani done in a green masala and I went for the Calcutta Prawn Curry with Naan which offered about six plump prawns in a delicious sauce. With garlic naan, the meal was made memorable. For ‘pudding’, we both chose Srikhand Eton Mess–an Anglo-Indian take on Britain’s famous Eton Mess that usually features whipped cream, meringues and strawberries. This one had saffron srikhand with fresh mangoes and meringues. So creative and so yummy! I am happy to see that Chutney Mary has lost none of its excellence although Jane was adamant that far better Indian restaurants exist in Bradford where she lives. I found her compoany fascinating. She is a warm, witty, highly intelligent and very polite person indeed–really lovely. I was so glad we met and that I was able to get to know her a little better.

The Noisy Notting Hill Carnival:
It was time for Jane to move on to her business meeting and for me to re-connect with Shahnaz and Azra who had arrived at the Chapel too late to find the great doors closed. They had strolled through the lawns and moved on and when I did call them, discovered that they were already at the Notting Hill Carnival which was the next item on my agenda. Jane obligingly dropped me at Notting Hill Tube station which was already swarming with crowds. For the Notting Hill Carnival is one of Europe’s biggest street fairs and attracts massive crowds. Since this was the first time I actually happened to be in London during the carnival and since it happens only once a year on August Bank Holiday Weekend, attending it was a no-brainer.

Police were thicker than flies (what with the fears that had arisen from the recent riots) through the Notting Hill area and as I made my way through the maze of streets with their beautiful terraced houses and gardens, I followed the sound of the Caribbean steel drums to the actual parade where floats and hundreds of carnival revellers went slowly by to the sound of soca and reggae music. The carnival has a Caribbean flavor and jerk chicken was being offered from food stands all along the route. Liquor was being openly consumed on the streets and young folks were clearly having a blast. I had been warned repeatedly by friends to watch my belongings carefully and the police on the streets also advised me to do the same each time I approached them for directions. Today happened to be the Children’s Parade and loads of little ones, gaudily costumed, were in the parade (with several full-grown people that I would hardly label children!). It was noisy, tiring (all that walking), a bit crazy. But at the end of the day, I’m glad I went and discovered what all the hype surrounding the Notting Hill Carnival is about.

On my way back, I veered far away from the crowds and noise and was fortunate enough to chance upon the Prince Edward Pub at Prince Square where I was able to use a loo because wild pachyderms could not induce me to use one of the Portapotties dotted around the place. Knowing that I was London-centered for the next week, I walked to Queensway Tube station (Notting Hill Station was closed) and bought myself a seven-day bus pass for 17 pounds–which regular readers of this blog know is my favorite form of London transportation (and so cheap too!)

Then, of course, I changed three buses, sat on the top deck at the picture window each time and made my way home. I spent the evening resting and catching up on email and discovering that Southport had lost TV, internet and phone connections–so Llew and I would remain incommunicado until further notice. His cell phone and electricity are still functioning, however, so we will be in touch no matter how long power restoration might take. With my hosts out for the day, their son Edward proved to be the perfect host, offering me dinner (Domino’s pizza) and his company as I sat back and chilled.

It had turned out to be a glorious day in more ways than one and I am thrilled that I was positive enough to make lemonade out of the lemon that had been handed me by Virgin Atlantic in the morning.

Tracy Emin, Fulham Palace, ATGB Locations

Aug27

Saturday, August 27, 2011
London

As phenomenal as yesterday was in London, today was lousy. I mean, first of all, the weather stank. Intermittent spells of sunshine fought for supremacy over annoyingly brief showers. And when it rained, it poured. After starting my day losing an entire blog post, I rewrote the whole account and delayed myself by a whole hour. The upside was that I was able to enjoy one of mine host Michael’s legendary oatmeal breakfasts with the rest of his family–wife Cynthia, sons Edward and Aidan.

Hurricane Irene Barges in:
There was much concern expressed over the possible cancellation of my Virgin Atlantic flight tomorrow as Hurricane Irene brings the entire US east coast to a stand still. I discovered that at NYU, Orientation, for which I was racing back home, has been cancelled. Somewhat relieved at the thought of enjoying an extra day in London, I completely forgot that today is my wedding anniversary, until my husband called from across the pond to wish me!

Discovering Britain’s Best-Known Female Artist:
Breakfast consumed, I took a bus to Waterloo Bridge to the Hayward Gallery in hopes of catching the exciting Tracy Emin retrospective that is ending in two days’ time. To my astonishment and delight, walk-in tickets were available and I could enter although reciprocal arrangements between the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the Hayward have been suspended for the last three days. I ended up paying 12 pounds–but it was so worth it. I intended to spend no longer than an hour on the exhibition; but to my surprise, three hours later, I was still inside the Hayward.

Although Emin’s name was known to me (together with Damien Hirst, she is the UK’s best-known contemporary artist), I was totally unfamiliar with her work and was shocked, disturbed and deeply saddened by her oeuvre and the life experiences that gave them birth. Hopelessly raw, alarmingly pessimistic, movingly stark, her world is one of loss and regret and her work is a desperate attempt to regain some of it. Using multi media in the most extraordinary ways, she has woven together the fabric of her life in a fashion that is personal, candid, stark and startling. There are line drawings, oils on canvas, quilts, embroidery, wooden sculpture and other installations, photographs, films, video conversations and props of every conceivable kind, including hospital wrist ID tags and used tampons, to bring to the foreground of her memory those events and circumstances that have dominated and scarred her life. Memorabilia figures emphatically in her work and at the end of the day, it is startling how closely and with what frank scrutiny she has documented every aspect of her life so as to create a composite whole. By the end of the exhibition, I felt I knew this woman intimately and my heart ached for her and the painful loneliness of her world. Never having been to the Hayward which is a part of the Southbank Center, I had planned to visit it on this trip…but I never expected that it was Emin’s work that would draw me there and have such a powerful effect on my own psyche.

Lunching at the Festival of Britain:
Despite being deeply overwrought by Emin’s work, I managed to make my way after a heavy downpour towards the Royal Festival Hall where the Festival of Britain was in full swing. By 1.00 pm, I reconnected with my friend Shahnaz and her daughter Azra who had also joined me at the Hayward (Azra is a student of Applied Art at the moment at a London School of Design and Shahnaz is a prolific porcelain artist). They too were reeling from the impact of Emin’s work and as we went out in search of sustenance, we tasted a few of the samplers being handed out before deciding on a Moroccan concoction: Chicken Harisa served with Tsaziki and a chili sauce over pitta. It was delicious but fiery and with tears streaming down our respective cheeks, we went our separate ways with plans to meet later in the afternoon at Fulham Palace. Shahnaz and Azra went off to run an errand while I hopped into a bus to get to Holland Park where my mission was to identify, explore and photograph the many locations associated with the TV show As Times Goes By. I am a die-hard fan of the series and I had waited one whole year to accomplish this!

A Decision to Detour to Fulham Palace:
But alas, with the Strand under “road works”, bus services were disrupted and I found myself walking from Aldwych to Charing Cross where I took the Tube. From Oxford Circus, I took buses again towards Holland Park, but halfway through my adventure, I realized that I would need to abandon my mission. You see, having decided to reconnect with my friends at Fulham Palace near Putney, I realized that I would need to abandon my ATGB mission. Seething with frustration, I found that a big game at the Chelsea Football Club (Chelsea Versus Norwich) had closed down the King’s Road and caused a major route diversion. I completely lost my bearings as the bus veered far outside the boundaries of my map! I stayed on the bus that was headed to Putney Bridge and after what seemed like forever, I was in Putney and striding towards the Palace where my friends had reached long before I did. A good fifteen minute walk finally brought me to the Tudor gatehouse of the Palace and into its grounds.

Fulham Palace: Another Huge Disappointment:
If Lambeth Palace awed me, Fulham was a major letdown. Traditionally used as the residence of the Bishops of London (although the current one, Richard Chartres, lives at Dean’s Yard near Amen Court, next door to my present home near St. Paul’s Cathedral), it was built in the time of the Tudors and added on in the 18th century and Victorian periods. Sitting strategically on the banks of the Thames, it saw occupation by royalty in Tudor and Elizabethan times (both Katherine of Aragon and Elizabeth I lived here at various times). Yet, it has clearly fallen into disuse and been allowed to go to seed. The grounds are unkempt, the gardens are merely a backyard full of ungainly weeds, a few desultory apple, pear and quince trees had thrown a few indifferent windfall fruit to the ground and although I was pleased to spy a perfect apple spared by the birds, there was nothing to impress about this space. Inside, most of the building, including the chapel, was closed for a wedding. We were allowed to peruse three rooms of which none was even remotely interesting. Overall, I was angry that I’d spent such a chunk of the afternoon trying to get there. It is certainly not something I will ever recommend to any visitor.

Operation Judi Dench:
With showers punctuating the evening, I hopped into a bus determined to get to Holland Park to pick up the threads of my ATGB mission while there still was light left to take a few pictures. Luckily, by the time I alighted from the bus (filled with rowdy Chelsea FC supporters–Chelsea had won!), the rain had stopped and the Holland Park area appeared freshly washed and subtly fragranced. I followed the contours of my map and after a slow and seemingly endless trudge north along Addison Road, I found the homesof Jean Pargiter played by Dame Judi Dench and Lionel Hardcastle played by Geoffrey Palmer in the TV show. The terraced home at 21 St. James’ Gardens (still sporting its navy blue front door and famous house number) and a few alongside it are clearly used only for location shootings for they seemed inhabited, the blinds in the front rooms pulled firmly down.

Across the street, in pretty St. James’ Gardens, stands the picturesque stone church of St. James Norland but, alas, the gates to the private park are open only to residents of the square. I posed for pictures on the famous stoop having pulled in an obliging passer-by to take them! I also found Julie’s Bar, the small neighborhood eatery around the corner which features prominently in the series. Having clicked several pictures, I made my exhausted way back to the bus stop and headed for Holborn.

Food Supplies:
I still had food shopping to do for my annual provision supplies and when the bus arrived at Holborn, I nipped into the new Waitrose to pick up a few goodies. By the time I got out and headed to the Sainsbury at Holborn Junction (which used to be a Sainsbury Central but is now a Local), the doors were well and truly shut and a curt notice said, “This store will open at 7 am on Tuesday”. Good job I had picked up at least a few items from Waitrose! If Hurricane Irene is shutting down the US northeast Atlantic coast, “August Bank Holiday Weekend” is clearly shutting down the UK.

Back on another bus, I reached Amen Court only to be greeted by Edward who confirmed that my flight had been cancelled. He told me that he had spent most of the evening trying to get me reinstated on a flight to Kennedy departing on Monday for Llew had called me several times during the day to tell me to try to place myself on the manifest. But no such luck. Meanwhile, Cynthia rustled up a dinner of fish cakes for me and over hazelnut yogurt (another one of my favorite treats in the UK) that I could not resist buying, I had myself a good meal. Alas, as a result of all the gum-chewing I have been doing (under medical orders), the sides of my tongue feel sore (while my mouth is still dry!) because a series of abscesses now lines the sides. I could barely eat my dinner so it was just as well that Shahnaz and Azra, feeling too exhausted after our Fulham expedition, had urged me to cancel our reservation at Locanda Locatelli. Oh well, perhaps another time.

I spent most of the evening trying to contact Virgin Atlantic, following the fortunes of Hurricane Irene and getting nowhere (literally). Much as I am delighted to be detained in my favorite city in the world and in a home full of people who love and care for me, I can only imagine how difficult it is for Llew who was so looking forward to my return after three whole months, only to have to wait for an indefinite period!

What a challenging day it had been! As I burrow under the covers, totally knackered, it feels chilly–more autumnal than August. I can only hope that my bonus day tomorrow will be less inconsistent.

Lambeth Palace, Wolsley Tea, Savoy Drinks, Love Never Dies

Aug26

Friday, August 26, 2011
London

If I could combine every wonderful ingredient to create a perfect day in London, it would turn out like the one I had today. Despite the day-long drizzle, I refused to allow my enthusiasm to be dampened and onwards I pushed towards one of my favorite kinds of London days. Awaking at 6 am on an adrenaline high to the tolling bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral in my Christopher Wren bedroom complete with twelve foot high ceiling and a marble fireplace, I arose to embrace a weepy morning. Ever the thoughtful hostess, Cynthia woke with me and over a shared Weetabix breakfast, she chattered with me after I’d showered and changed. Then, I was off within the hour on a bus to Waterloo Bridge to tick off the first item on my agenda.

Breakfasting with a Friend:
At the appointed hour, I met Murali, a friend, who had chanced upon my blog while I had lived in London two years ago and had become a faithful Follower. A mathematician by training and a financial whiz by profession, Murali and I settled down at Paul Patisserie over an almond croissant and a hot chocolate (two of my favorite London treats) and caught up on our common passions: poetry, travel, the art world, writing. Crumbly marzipan and liquid cocoa fuelled our peregrinations as the hour flew, we took photographs and said Au Revoir.

In Archbishops’ Territory:
Up on the grand concourse of Waterloo Station, I reconnected with Shahnaz and Azra and off we went to our next appointment at Lambeth Palace on a bus along the south bank of the Thames. Lambeth Palace, one of London’s most closely-guarded secrets, is not open to the public and visits are made strictly by appointment. There is currently a year-long wait list to get inside. Thanks to high connections in the Anglican Church, I was able to snag us a seat (or three) for an insider’s private tour of the premises at merely a few weeks’ notice. Past the Tudor Morton Gate, we were met and greeted by Gill, an administrative assistant, who also served as tour guide.

Not really equipped to handle my questions, Gil declared apologetic ignorance. Who built this place? When? Is that a Van Dyck? What building lies across the Thames in that 18th century painting? She tried really hard and what we did gather was this–Lambeth Palace is and has served as the London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury (currently The Most Reverend Rowan Williams) since the 12th century. Its initial Tudor architecture was added to over the centuries to incorporate a few modern bits. It vast grounds and gardens are beautifully maintained. They include 500 year fig trees that continue to remain fruitful.

Inside, Gill showed us the pink Drawing Room (where my friend Cynthia attends monthly Bishops’ wives’ meetings), the formal Dining Room in which the Archbishop dines with the Queen, the grand Reception Room, the crypt and the Archbishop’s private chapel where the choir stalls contain enamel plaques to represent varied parts of the globalized Anglican world including a Bengal tiger for India. Having suffered massive damage during World War II, the roof was completely rebuilt and painted with garish contemporary figures which clash awfully (in my humble opinion) with the reverential ambience of the space.The spacious rooms and massive stone corridors are filled with historic artifacts, displays of gifts collected by the Archbishop on his international visits, loads of oil portraits of the most significant prelates and sculpted busts of the most eminent of them. Overall, the space–a working series of offices and several private residences–was hushed and reverent and we almost felt like intruders as we strode the wide corridors of ecclesiastical power.

Inside Lambeth Library:
The piece de resistance of our visit was the Library with its splendid hammered timber oak ceiling. Here we were met by librarian Mary who proved to be an excellent tour guide and answered all my questions: Where is the King James Bible stored? (In one of two strong rooms on the premises). Can one handle the leather-bound volumes in this library? (No, they are much too fragile). Are there archivists on the premises? (Yes). She gave us a ton of material–literature, postcards, posters–to carry off with us and armed with these goodies, we made our delighted way out of the imposing walls of this fortress of religiosity and returned to 21st century London with its red buses plying along the Thames Embankment. All three of us agreed that it was an awesome experience and we were very grateful to my connections with Bishop Michael that made such an extraordinary privilege possible. Outside Lambeth’s Tudor Gatehouse, we parted company having made plans to regroup at 4 pm at Fortnum and Mason.

Serious Retail Therapy:
It was time for shopping and, climbing into a bus, I headed off to Oxford Street where I spent the next couple of hours acquiring a new fall wardrobe for the new academic year. When my Mastercard was declined at Marks and Sparks, I seethed in frustration and resentment (having taken the trouble to inform them that I would be traveling for three whole months). Refusing to let that hiccup shatter my soaring spirits, I consulted the helpful folks in Customer Service and within an hour, I had it sorted.

Laden with bags, I walked out into the drizzle, tried to find Inspector Lewis DVDs in the HMV store, had an another disappointment when I discovered that the store does not carry them, then clambered into another bus to deposit my belongings at home. Barely did I dump my bags down than I was out the door again, heading to my next appointment–at Fortnum’s.

Shopping at F&Ms and Tea for Three at Hotel Wolsley:
However, seriously seduced by retail therapy, we were all running late. Regrouping via mobile phones, we decided to press on towards our next appointment–Afternoon Tea for Three at the Hotel Wolsley. However, I managed to buy an oak tea caddy filled with F&Ms assorted teas and a top hat-shaped tea strainer which, after I grabbed the last one, went right out of stock! Armed with my newest tea accoutrements, I popped in next door to the Wolsley where Shahnaz had already reached.

For the next two hours, we gave ourselves up to the very propah English delights of Afternoon Tea served to us on a private balcony overlooking the grand but very noisy dining hall. On a sugar high, we nibbled at fluffy sultana scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, a selection of yummy finger sandwiches and an array of pastries: chocolate mousse petit fours, Battenburg squares, coffee eclairs, fresh strawberry tartlets, pistachio and chocolate macaroons–the treats kept popping themselves as if by magic into our mouths in between bracing sips of the Wolsley’s Afternoon Tea House blend with lemon and honey. And just when we thought we could not partake of another morsel, no matter how seductive, I went on to my next appointment.

Drinks at the Savoy:
Rosemary, an English friend whom I know affectionately as Roz, was awaiting me in the lobby of the Adelphi Theater. As we hugged and kissed, a perfect rainbow formed high above the steeples of St. Mary in The Strand. There was nothing for it but to hop across the street to one of the city’s classiest watering holes for a drink–the newly refurbished Savoy Hotel. Having been shrouded under scaffolding for the entire term of my London tenure, I was keen to see what the 600 million pound refurbishment had acomplished. And we were not disappointed. As we swanned through the lobby, we passed the exquisite cuppolla-ed Palm Court and entered the swanky Beaufort Bar where we settled down with drinks–chilled Sauvignon Blanc for Roz, cider for me and a selection of nibbles comprising Marcona almonds, candied cashewnuts and miniature olives–as we caught up on our lives. Time, as you know, flies when you’re having fun. We had soooo much to talk about…but the hour flew. We made plans to meet again at her place in Battersea for dinner when I am in London in January of next year and then we parted company to go our separate ways–she to dinner with friends in Kensington, I to a musical across the street at the Adelphi.

We Saved the Best for Last–Love Never Dies:
Just when I was convinced that my day could not possibly get any better, we were joining the ranks to enter the theater to see the sequel to The Phantom of the Opera called Love Never Dies. For the next couple of hours, we gave ourselves up to the magic of Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber as the composer simply swept us away. There was everything one expects of stupendous West End theatrics–stirring musical virtuosity, incredibly lush sets and costume design, magical performances, superb choreography and a plot line that tugged repeatedly at the heart strings. As someone who has long believed that no musical will outshine the perfection of The Phantom, I have to say that this one comes pretty darn close. No, it does not have the hummable arias of the original, but this was vintage Lloyd Webber and showed convincing evidence of his musical genius. Combined with the lyrics of Glenn Slater, it made for the most scintillating hours in the theater and we were thrilled to pieces that we had managed to get seats–even if they were nose-bleed ones way up in the rafters, just on the eve of the show’s closing. If there were just two elements missing, they were Llew and Chriselle. How I wish I could have shared this amazing experience with them.

On the way back in the bus as we headed home, we giggled helplessly over nothing and kissed goodnight promising to try to make tomorrow surpass the brilliance of what had been a Phenomenal Day.

Doing Dover

Aug26

Thursday, August 25, 2011
Dover

As long as I can remember, my imagination has been stirred by the phrase “the white cliffs of Dover”. And when I had gazed upon them for the first time, during a ferry crossing between Dover and Calais in France, many moons ago, I remember how awed I’d felt.

So you can imagine how thrilling it was not just to look at Dover’s chalk cliffs but to walk through them, like a rabbit through a hole, to touch them, both on the outside and within, to scratch at them and find remnants of them in my nails and to see fallen chunks of them everywhere.

All this was possible today when my friend Shahnaz and her daughter Azra joined me at 7 am at Victoria Coach Station to journey to the east coast of Kent to explore Dover. Shahnaz was doubtful about the sagacity of the expedition. As long as she can remember, she has passed through Dover Ferry Port and dreaded it. Not knowing that the seaport is vulgarly rich in British military history, she was dubious about enjoying our day trip. But as she said at the end of the day, it was fantastic and her faith in my excursion decision-making was restored.

Scaling Dover Castle’s Towering Walls:
We arrived in Dover at 10.00, waited for a half hour for a local bus to take us up the famous white cliffs to the entrance of Dover Castle, a great hulking mass of stone that sits high above the English Channel providing a strategic lookout for invading ships. Indeed, it was used for precisely that reason from Roman days. It was they who built a pharos or lighthouse–actually two of them–to shine like beacons across the waters and guide ships safely home. Today, the ruined remains of one of them continues to be battered by winds out on the water and sits cheek-by-jowl with a beautiful Anglo-Saxon church that dates from the days before William the Conqueror led his mighty fleet across the waves to bring England under Norman sway. The lighthouse and church are the oldest structures within the vast walled complex of Dover Castle, the town’s chief attraction, and are also two of England’s oldest buildings. From an exploration of these structures, the visitor is swept upon a rapid tour of British military history that brings us all the ways to World War II when Vera Lynn penned her famous song, “There’ll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover…”

The Medieval Keep:
The gods smiled upon us for sure, providing blue skies and bracing sunshine as we scaled the hillside and began surveying Dover Castle. We followed the Highlights tour as suggested by my guide book and entered the Keep, built by Henry II, a wonderful medieval part of the Castle where young men and women in courtly garb (including His Majesty and his sister Marie de France) greeted visitors in courteous manner. Rooms filled with real and reproduced medieval furniture gave us a glimpse of English life under the Plantagenets. Of the many artifacts on display, the one that caught my eye was a gigantic leather bag (that looked like half of a saddlebag) that was filled with the silver pennies (the only coin minted in Henry II’s day) by the taxes of peasants who swarmed upon the land. The Keep is in remarkably good condition, inside and out, and is the tallest structure in the complex. For some amusing reason, I kept recalling scenes from Blackadder as I walked through the darkened rooms.

Up the Ramparts:
Cannons dot the environs of the castle and gaze upon the waters of the Channel. Having been blessed with a clear day, we could easily see across to the infamous beaches of Normandy on the shores of France where the seaport of Calais glinted in the sunshine. I recalled many a flight across the Channel when I have seen both ports and the waters between them, punctuated by sea craft, from the air. The cannons provided perches for photo ops and to rest, because striding across from one building to the next, is exhausting.

The War-Time Tunnels of Dover:
By the time we realized that we needed to join a queue to enter the famed Wartime Tunnels, we were fatigued. It took us half an hour to join a tour guide who gave us a fascinating one hour tour of the chalky maze built in the mid-17oos as a military hideout. They were dug through with hand tools (no dynamite was used) and when we scratched the walls, we realized how easily that feat might have been accomplished. The walls are soft and moist and, not surprisingly, the tunnels were extended during World War II in order to create a useful labyrinth for the master-minding of Operation Dynamo that, under the command of Ramsay, brought English troops back home from Dunkirk. The entire historic achievement is re-created underground through a good short documentary film that is projected on the inside walls of the cliffs themselves. It was probably the best part of our visit.

Exploring the Medieval Tunnels:
Another exciting thing to do in the Castle complex is explore the medieval tunnels (but they pale in comparison to the War-time ones) and the army barracks which provide exhibits on British military history through the ages. Refreshment was sorely lacking within the complex that is administered by English Heritage, although we were pleased to taste spirits from the Middle Ages (mead and elderberry wine and sloe gin) in the gift shop where they are sold in pretty bottles together with more contemporary preserves such as Raspberry Curd and Strawberry Jam.

Walking Along the White Cliffs:
It took us five hours to explore the castle and we were grateful for the ‘train’ that takes visitors around because the walking was killing. By 4 pm after surviving only on a scone and date and walnut cake, we took a lovely winding wooded path to the ferry port from where we followed the National Trust-maintained White Cliffs Walk to the great East Cliff at the feet of which sits a row of pretty houses. We took our lives in our hands, as dodging huge trucks making their way across the Channel, we crossed the road to the beach-side Promenade to dip our toes into the waters of Matthew Arnold’s famous Dover Beach. The ‘sand’ here is non-existent for, like Brighton, Dover’s beach is pebbly, made up mainly of fat flint stones. They provided a superb natural foot massage for me while Shahnaz and Azra dunked their feet in the English Channel.

The Town of Dover:
A few minutes later, we returned to the town of Dover which is a completely post-war creation as the city was bombed repeatedly by the Germans during World War II and all but flattened. (Surprisingly, the Castle was left untouched, probably because Hitler intended to use it as a look-out point, in the same way that it had been used through the ages, when he, ultimately, got his ambitious hands upon Great Britain. Happily the Jerries were stalled in that endeavor by Churchill’s masterminds, who operating from another series of burrows and bunkers at London’s Whitehall–the Cabinet War Rooms–had brought the Fuhrer’s plans to nought). Since every business establishment in the land downs its shutters at 5 pm sharp, we had no option but to enter MickeeDee’s for filet of fish burgers which we wolfed down before we entered the 6. 15 coach back. Not one of us could keep our eyes open as we stopped at Canterbury and, like Chaucer’s pilgrims, returned to London.

Dinner at One New Change:
A quick switch to the Tube brought us to St. Paul’s Cathedral where we decided to explore London’s newest shopping attraction, One New Change, right opposite Wren’s stunning dome. With only a few stragglers around, we were grateful to find Zizzi Restaurant still open for business. Since a glass of Prosecco was urgently called for, I sipped deeplyof its revivifying bubbles before delving into a plate of Penne Alla Vodka (which, alas, was much too al dente for my liking) and half asleep over our bill, we made our fatigued way back home–me across the street to Amen Court, my companions on Bus 15 to Limehouse.

The expedition had provided the perfect English History Fix. We were glad we ‘Did Dover’. One more item can be ticked off my To-Do List. Tomorrow, our appreciation of English History will continue in London–but I have promised myself to leave time for the more mundane aspects of a holiday–shopping!

Sauntering Through Somerset

Aug24

Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Somerset–Cheddar, Wells and Longleat

I awoke before the sun gilded the rooftops of Bristol. Gazing upon the panorama spread out before me from the picture window in my bedroom, I checked email, made a few calls and got carried away on my computer. By the time I washed, dressed, packed and descended several floors to the kitchen, the rest of the Tweet-Up party were half way through a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, crisp toasted croissants, preserves, OJ and coffee–thanks to the generosity of our hosts Elizabeth and Andrew.

Driving Through Cheddar Gorge:
We had to make a quick start of it but I could not resist a wander through the tiered garden all the way to the Mediterranean section designed and executed by Andrew. The sun was bright and glorious in the skies as we said fond goodbyes and thank-yous and drove out of Bristol, through the Mendip Hills and into Cheddar–the town which gave the world Cheddar cheese from the bottom of a spectacular ravine known as the Cheddar Gorge. It was Barbara’s idea that we drive through this picturesque part of Somerset–and what a great idea it was too.

Not half an hour later, we were negotiating the hairpin curves of the gorge whose granite rocks tower on both sides of a narrow roadway. There were caves, caverns and cows–all the requisites for the production of fine cheese. We stopped to take a few pictures and were off along our route, headed this time to the medieval city of Wells.

Wandering Through Wells:
Wells is best known for its magnificent Gothic cathedral that occupies a sizable parcel of real estate right in the heart of the medieval city. A warren of narrow lanes leads to the vast Cathedral Close past crenellated turrets that form attractive gateways. A weekly street market was in progress which allowed us to browse through a few stalls, pick up postcards from the National Trust shop and walk through the Bishop’s Gate to their private gardens approached across a narrow moat. Ordinarily ducks feed hungrily from the hands of charmed visitors, but for some reason today they were scarce. The bread, thoughtfully provided by Elizabeth, went uneaten as we proceeded towards the front facade of the Cathedral.

The exterior of Wells Cathedral is closely carved. It sports twin towers and a single spire at the back. Saints are seated all over the entrance. We took one of the side doors into the cathedral. This brought us to a small private garden dotted with a few old gravestones and thence to the cloisters. Inside the cathedral, there are the usual distinctive Gothic elements that make such architecture distinctive–the octagonal Chapter House was special as were the Quire and the Crypt. An astrological clock dating from the 1100s and supposedly the second oldest clock in England was interesting for the fact that knights on horseback joust and knock each other down every quarter hour! Tour guides pointed out interesting carved details that provide a great deal of sociological insight into the lives of the medieval carvers who created this masterpiece.

Longleat House and Gardens:
It was almost 1.oo pm by the time we left Wells to drive along the lovely country lanes of Somerset past pubs and stone villages and what Barbara called “bosky places”–bits of road through which dappled sunshine poked between low trees on both sides. By 2.oo pm, hungry and excited, we arrived at Longleat House near the town of Warminster. The approach to the estate is down a winding road and into a valley where the house, an ancient country pile, awaits the perusal of visitors.

Regular readers of this blog know that nothing thrills me more than the exploration of English country estates–so I was in my element as we made our way through the Cellar for lunch. We were ready for an enormous meal of lasagna with mashed potatoes and baked beans. In ordinary circumstances, I’d have wanted a nap after so gargantuan a lunch; but I couldn’t resist exploring the mansion right away.

As in most English country estates, the house and gardens have a long and colorful history. Suffice it to say that it originated in the 1100s through the Viscount of Thynne whose descendants–all 13 of them–added considerably to the family wealth and land holdings and were rewarded with more impressive titles. The current owner and resident is the Marquess of Bath who is in his 80s. His portraits adorn the walls of the house which is so grand that it beggars description.

We went on a self-guided tour through sumptuous rooms decorated in the Italianate style mainly by Crace who imitated the look of Italian pallazos and even the Vatican galleries. Ceilings, walls and floors were ostentatiously adorned in close detail. Paintings–mainly portraits of various family members through the ages–crammed the walls and after a while the eye could take in no more. Cararra marble fireplaces, gorgeous chandeliers, embossed leather wall coverings, Sevres porcelain dining services and superb examples of period furniture lent stature to the rooms. Ironically, despite the presence of many lofty portraits dotting the walls, the one that caught most attention was the worthless “The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies” that had featured in the Britcom ‘Allo ‘Allo, a few years ago, in a series of episodes involving the discovery and hiding of a priceless painting by a certain Van Clomp. The current Marquess was a dedicated fan of the show and when it ended, the producers presented him with the notorious work. It was on display at Longleat to coincide with a special anniversary of the show and a planned revival.

By the time we reached the gardens and made our way to the Orangery, we were already a bit jaded. The rose gardens were quite lovely but obviously past their prime. A few bits and bobs of statuary–some rather odd–caught the eye. At the end of the day, Longleat (often used as the location for period films) was fascinating for the varied styles and eras of decoration and architecture that it reflected–from Elizabethan to contemporary with most of the decor dating from the 18th century.

By 4 pm, we left the vast environs of the estate and hit the motorway for the return drive to London along the Salisbury Plain over which the sun was slowly setting. To my enormous surprise and delight, we passed right by the stones of Stonehenge and then we were close to the M25. That was when we became caught up in serious traffic snarls and inched our way slowly into the city. A quick stop at the Art Deco Hoover Building (now a Tesco) and we were on the road again, arriving in Holborn at about 7. 30 pm. It had been a long day and I was knackered.

On to a Dinner Rendez-Vous:
Tim and Barbara were kind enough to help me load my luggage into their car and drove me to my friends, Bishop Michael and Cynthia, at Amen Court on Ludgate Hill, so close to St. Paul’s Cathedral that its tolling bells enchant me every quarter hour. I merely hugged Cynthia, stashed my stuff inside and then Tim was driving me again to Farringdon where I’d made 8 pm dinner plans with yet another friend, Loulou.

I arrived at her loft–one I had occupied for two memorable summer months two years ago–had another fond reunion with her, explored its vast dimensions for old times’ sake and then we set off for Carluccio’s, my favorite chain of Italian restaurants in London. Over caponata and prosciutto and Peroni beer, we caught up by chatting nineteen to the dozen. Suddenly the months that have gone by since we last saw each other melted to nothingness. After dinner, Loulou hailed a cab to get to Suffolk from Liverpool Station and dropped me off at Amen Court where another lovely reunion awaited me–this time with the rest of the Colcloughs included sons Edward and Aidan.

Of course, we spent the next hour chatting. There was ever so much to talk about. But I was tired and badly needed to unpack and take a shower. Cynthia took me up the Christopher Wren-designed stairway to the room I love so much and it was there that I unpacked, unwound and set my alarm for an early start tomorrow.

White Cliffs of Dover, here I come…

A Tweet-Up in Bristol

Aug24

Tuesday, August 23, 2011
London-Bristol

Surveying High Holborn from her living room window, Barbara wondered if I had brought the Bombay monsoon along with me to the UK. It was coming down in sheets when we awoke, as, umbrellas held high, commuters poured out of the Tube tunnels of Chancery Lane station. After a quick bowl of Jordan’s cereal and coffee, I braved the downpour to dash into Barclays to change dollars into pound sterling and buy myself a new Lebara SIM card for my UK mobile phone. But not before I was bear-hugged by both the janitor, Martha, and the concierge Arben of my building–the latter looked like he’d seen a ghost and was convinced I had sneaked back into my flat in the middle of the night. Believe me, I wish I had!

A Drizzly Drive Westwards:
Having connected to the internet, checked my email and Twitterfeeds, we set out in the rented car that Tim drove expertly out of London and on to the M4 headed towards Bristol. Carol Kirkwood on the BBC Weather had forecast clearing skies as we drove westward and she was on the money. By the time we reached a rest stop at Membury (about 1.oo pm), I was starving and treated myself to what I thought was a little snack (Waitrose smoked salmon sandwich, toasted hazelnut yogurt–my favorite kind, not available in the US–a packet of potato chips in sea salt and malt vinegar flavor that was vaguely reminiscent of a plateful of fish and chips and a pack of dark chocolate ginger biscuits, all from Waitrose. Tim and Barbara thought would see me through my entire stay in the UK!

Tweeting Up:
England gives me an appetite and I was still peckish enough to eat a starter of toasted multi-grain bread and smoked mackerel pate when we reached the River Station Cafe on the River Avon in Bristol, an hour later, having made superb time to our destination. This was the planned rendez-vous for a bunch of “Tweeps” that I’ve met over the last couple of years on Twitter! Little did I think that one day I’d be sitting in Bristol and getting acquainted with them over drinks. Elizabeth, our hostess and chief organizer of the “Tweet-Up”, joined us first. Hugs and kisses followed all around each time one more Tweep joined in. By 3. 30, we were all well and truly acquainted and a jolly group we made too as we set out on a Harborside walk of the city.

A Walk Along the Avon’s Banks:
Bristol is criss-crossed by a network of waterways–canals and a river, the Avon–and a number of bridges, cute and impressive such as the famous Clifton Suspension Bridge that I was keen to span. But that would require a bit of driving to and from the city–for the moment, we crossed foot bridges besides waterfront accommodation that took us in a large and very neat loop around the city. For the most part, our saunter was quiet. We headed towards the S.S. Great Britain which Isambad Brunel had sailed–a rather spectacular vessel with newly-refurbished prow and figurehead. Not too far away was the Matthew, a much smaller vessel that explorer John Cabot had sailed around Nova Scotia. I recalled that one of the world’s most picturesque drives is called Cabot’s Trail (Llew and I almost drove it when planning a holiday in Eastern Canada not too long ago). Elizabeth confirmed it was the same Cabot.

On we went, along the river banks to take in the twee one, two and three bedroom boutique apartments that have mushroomed in recent years to provide accommodation to the city’s yuppies, many of whom are apparently fine gardeners. Tiny balconies spilled over with bright container gardens. Swans dodged every manner of watercraft that plied the river. The city, easily the most colorful I have seen in the UK, presented itself in varied hues–building fronts were painted in ice-cream pastels rather like the rows of houses that comprise every Irish village.

Bristol is built on a series of hills. It has its own rather distinctive character, but being so closely situated to Bath, is also reminiscent of the Nashes’ Georgian city. Certainly the wide open square that sports an equestrian statue of King William III of Orange also bears the same name–Queen Square–as the striking one in Bath where Jane Austen’s family had once rented a house. Seeing Bristol on foot with as expert a guide as Elizabeth was really fortunate and I was grateful for the introduction. As we trotted along, companionable chatter flowed as Tweeps–strangers only an hour previously–got to know each other better. It was difficult to shake off our Twitter names and I had to work hard not to address someone as doclorraine (she had driven in from Southampton) and mikejulietbravo (who had made his way from South Wales’ Gower Peninsula via Hereford) even as they occasionally addressed me as southportgal! As always happens, we discovered that it is only six degrees that separate it, no matter which curve of the globe we call Home.

Spanning the Clifton Suspension Bridge:
Back at our starting point near the River Station Cafe, we piled back into our cars and followed Elizabeth’s to the Clifton Suspension Bridge, built by Isambad Brunel in the great age of engineering, the late Victorian. We parked our car just before we reached it and walked across the narrow Avon George at a height guaranteed to give my Dad vertigo. Striding over it, I was reminded faintly of two bridges: the Brooklyn Bridge in New York and the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Panoramic views of the city of Bristol meant frequent camera stops, but span it we did–twice, on both sides. The experience was thrilling and contributed to the huge appetite we’d worked up on our three-mile walk.

In An 18th Century Hilltop Home:
Mindful of the fact that I have been sagely instructed by Chriselle “not to overdo the walking”, I was concerned about my protesting feet as we got back into the car to drive to Elizabeth’s hill-top perch on Kingsdown Way on very narrow cobbled Somerset Street that overlooks the city as if from the vantage point of an eagle’s nest. She and husband Andrew (who opened the front door to us) own the house that dates back to the mid-1700s (“Not quite Christopher Wren”, as Barbara put it–“but close enough” as I added!). Inside, the kind of architectural details that make me drool over period houses (marble fireplaces, hollowed out stairwells and striking wooden banisters) kept me enthralled as we received the sobering news about the earthquake in Virginia. It seems I have stayed away from American accents too long as I was convinced the reporter on CNN said that Obama was on “the Gulf coast” when the earthquake occurred, although every other listener in the room knew he had said “golf course”!

A Feast Fit for Caliphs:
Nibbles and drinks consumed, we trooped a table to the basement kitchen where Elizabeth and Andrew had laid out many bottles of wine and a Moroccan feast fit for the Caliphs–Lamb Tagine with Couscous fragrant with North African spices like cinnamon and cumin and the sweetness of stewed apricots and prunes. It was simply delicious. Dessert was am embarrassment of riches as we tucked into French Apple Tart and Pear and Lemon Roulade with its crispy edged folds of fluffy meringue. Cheese, what was termed an “ostentatious” box of Godiva chocolates (courtesy of Tim and Barbara) and coffee followed before Mike decided to call it a day and broke up a memorable dinner party. Jetlag had long caught up with me and it was with difficulty that I kept myself from nodding off all over my pudding. But then the feeling passed away and I felt revived on a sugar high.

It was time for Elizabeth to show us to our rooms, each one more charming than the next, as we climbed the tiers of one of the UK’s typical “terraced” houses–each room sits on a different floor. Mine was perched at the very top and offered a stunning view of the city and, closer to home, tantalizing glimpses of Elizabeth’s tiered garden stretching down to a red-tiled shed. I cannot wait to explore it tomorrow.

Who’d have believed that only a year ago, I had not known Elizabeth?…and yet over a year filled with so few ups and so many downs, she had stood by me in prayer across the Atlantic to cement a cyber friendship that has flourished over only two meetings. I am so grateful to Barbara who, sharing a room next-door with husband Tim, had brought us together in the nicest possible way.

Tomorrow, when jetlag wakes me up at the crack of dawn, I shall take some fabulous pictures of Bristol and frequently recall my brief encounter with an ancient sea-faring city that strikes a very chic contemporary avatar.

A demain…

It’s Deja-Vu All Over Again!

Aug23

Monday, August 22, 2011
Bombay-London

1.oopm is a great time to fly out of Bombay and, fortunately, it wasn’t pouring as I made my way by car to Sahar airport past pot-breaking Govinda revellers out to make a killing on Krishna’s big day.

Good flight on Jet Airways–really helpful, very pleasant cabin crew, edible food although the best part was the Baskin Robbin’s Honey Nut Crunch ice-cream! And I saw two movies: The Adjustment Bureau with Matt Damon and Emily Blunt and Just Go With It–with Jennifer Anniston and Adam Sandler.

Good touchdown at Heathrow under dry skies. Spied the Thames Barrier, Millennium Dome, Canary Wharf and London Eye although I was in an aisle seat! The Immigration queue snaked along for a whole boring hour although my time at the counter took precisely 10 seconds!

What’s it about me, cabbies and Heathrow arrivals? We never seem to connect at first shot. Finding my driver always takes a call…which means borrowing someone’s cell phone…and a few minutes later spying an equally confused driver with a placard in his hand that bears my name.

Lovely drive through Central London. Always love it when they take Cromwell Road because then I get to pass through some of my favorite London architecture–The Natural History Museum, The Victoria and Albert Museum, Harrod’s. Around the statue of Eros at Piccadilly Circus and then we were in the Theater District and on High Holborn. Such a strong sense of deja-vu made me forget I had single-handedly raised the stock value of Kleenex by the time I said goodbye to my Mum and Dad in Bombay.

And then, I was ringing the buzzer on my former building and entering the lobby and riding the elevator (with all the rocks of India weighing down my baggage) and walking right past my flat. And then, what a homecoming from my former neighbors Tim and Barbara! A real, old-fashioned dinner party was in progress in their flat, much to my astonishment. Well, there was nothing else I could do but go in for a swift shower and come out looking halfway decent to face a bunch of female mathematicians–Barbara’s classmates from her college days in Cambridge. And what a brilliant bunch they were too–a mechanical engineer, an actuary, a lawyer and a fourth bright person who described herself modestly as “nothing really”.

And when Tim cooks, a feast follows. This time it was an authentic English roast dinner–a splendid cut of beef brought in resplendently under an old-fashioned silver dome (I don’t even know the word for the sort of flourish you would expect at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand or some such legendary place). Needless to say, there were all the trimmings–Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes and sides of carrots and cabbage with just a hint of panceta. And as if this evidence of culinary genius were inadequate, along came the puddings (dessert to us Yanks)–Tim’s Brown Bread Ice-Cream hiding a delicious secret inside–Strawberry Sorbet! And if one pudding is good, two can only be better…so along came the Lemon Tart and very elegant Champagne Raspberries. And then the cheese board and the chocolates with “Crunchies” (chocolate-covered honeycomb) and coffee. The goodies just kept on coming! After spending a whole day eating airline meals, you can quite understand that I was in Seventh Heaven!

I fell asleep thinking (as I have done countless times before), how lucky I was to have been situated near such great guys when NYU decided to post me to London two years ago.

I am so excited to be back in London…and now may the good times roll.

Last Day in London

Aug3

Monday, August 2, 2010
London

Excitement of getting home to Southport after 6 weeks kept me awake half the night. I awoke at 6. oo am with the intention of getting my bags ready for the cab which was supposed to arrive at 7. 30 to get me to Heathrow at 9 am–traffic is awful in the morning, the cabbie said. We’d best be off early. Last-minute stuff was thrown into my backpack, more edibles I’d stored in the freezer were stashed in my bags and just as I sat down to a bowl of cereal at 7. 15 am along came the overly-enthusiastic cabbie, 15 minutes too soon!

Goodbye and Thank-yous all said, I was on my way, not along Cromwell Road (my favorite way out of the city) where the cabbie assured me there’d been a accident, but along Euston Road (less interesting). Of course, because we were early, there was no traffic at all and I arrived at Heathrow at 8. 30 am for my 12 noon flight! Once I’d checked in and re-distributed weight (my bag was three and a half kilos too heavy), I had all the time in the world to shop duty-free–so off to Harrods I went for mementos for Chriselle (found her the cutest Ferris key chain) and a Christmas pudding for our family and off to Jo Malone I went (for Pomegranate Noir perfume for me–saved almost $20 on a bottle) and off to the cosmetics counters I went for more sample spritzes and off to the Bacardi counter I went for a complimentary mojito (which after all the tension over my baggage I sorely needed) and then I was ready to make my way to the gate and sink down in my seat.

There was time after I’d whispered a prayer for a safe flight to reflect on my two weeks in London and to realize how singularly fortunate I’d been that I hadn’t seen a drop of rain in 2 whole weeks! I’d covered almost all the items on my To-Do List including visits to the National Trust’s out-of-the-way Hidcote Manor Gardens in Oxfordshire and Hever Castle in Kent, had eaten in a few of the restaurants I’d wanted to visit (St. John’s Bar & Restaurant where I went specially for the Roasted Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad) and Cafe Spice Namaste where I had the chance to hobnob with the chef Cyrus Todiwala and his wife Pervin and Patisserie Valerie where the Tarte de Citron is not half as good as Carluccio’s. I’d visited 4 of the 6 new museums on my list (the London Transport Museum, the Science Museum, the Foundling Museum and the Serpentine Art Gallery (the only one I didn’t get to was the newly-reopened Florence Nightingale Museum but I shall keep that for a later visit and the Brahma Museum of Tea and Coffee has closed down). I saw two good plays (the outstanding All My Sons with David Suchet and Zoe Wannamaker and Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors at the Regent’s Park Open Air Theater. I reconnected with so many close friends over pub grub and longer meals or shorter drinks. But perhaps the Highlight of my visit this time was the tour of Lord Leighton’s House in Holland Park. And another highlight was that despite being ill and fighting a terrible flu-like lethargy, I managed to make it to the Anglo-Indian Mela in Croydon which was really the main purpose of my visit to London during this time of year.

On the flight back, the UK slumbered brownly under partly cloudy skies. We flew westwards along the northern coast of Devon before skimming over the Atlantic. As soon as we broke land again over the Northern coast of Canada, I spied the jagged edge of Newfoundland and the region around Halifax (how pretty it all looked) before we flew over the Gulf of Maine, the Massachusetts coastline and along the vertebra of Long Island (did not realize how many swimming pools there are on the island–almost every house seems to have one the further east one goes) before we made a smooth touch down at Kennedy airport under cloudless skies.

American Airlines made me wait a whole hour at the conveyor belt for my baggage and as I sweated bullets wondering how Chriselle was faring on the other side (and hoping she wasn’t despairing of ever hooking up with me), I finally did sail through Customs and made contact with her. Apart from our affectionate reunion after 2 weeks, I received the most uproarious welcome from Ferris–indeed it is worth being away from home for 6 long weeks when one has this sort of welcome to anticipate. Chriselle drove on the way home which gave us a chance to catch up on all the happenings of the past couple of weeks since we’d parted in Bombay and then it was time for us to pull into the driveway of Holly Berry House as my travels came to an end and I surveyed all that I had left behind.

We had a cuppa in the garden which is badly weed-ridden–what with all the rain–and I realize I have exactly five days to bring it up to snuff before Llew and I leave on our trip to Canada at the end of the week.

As I bring this blog to yet another close, I say Au Revoir and Many Thanks to my followers. If only you (apart from faithful Feanor) would write me a line back sometimes to reassure me of your presence!

As they say in the UK, Cheers!

Anglo-Indian Mela in Croydon

Aug3

Sunday, August 1, 2010
London

The cough I’d been fighting with medication all week developed into a full-blown cold during the night. I awoke with stuffed nasal passages, a scratchy throat, a headache and bodyache to boot. Felt really disappointed as I wanted so much to make it to St. Etheldreda’s Church at Holborn Circus for the 9.00 am mass. Especially after learning the history of the church through the DVD that Michael had presented me in May, I was keener than ever to get there. It was my former ‘parish’ while I lived in Hoblorn and for old times’ sake, I was keen to worship there again.

But when I made my way down the stairs like a zombie, Cynthia took one look at me and packed me straight off to bed. “You are not going anywhere this morning,’ she said, “except back to bed.” It was advice I gratefully heeded as I had some cereal, dozed myself with paracetemol and climbed back into bed expecting to have an hour’s nap. I had an important assignement to cover–the World Anglo-Indian Day celebrations in Croydon and had made arrangments to spend the day with my friends Gerry and Corinne Gilbert and be picked up at Croydon mainline station by Bash.

But to my enormous shock, I did not awake until 1.00 pm. Feeling terribly dopey and drugged, I made the effort to get out of bed and into the shower which cleared my head and made me feel far better. Cynthia and Michael had set a semi-formal table, expecting the morning’s preacher, one Felicity, and her husband Justin from Wembley at lunch. They suggested I join them before I made further plans for the afternoon and that was just what I did. Over Cynthia’s excellent chicken in mushroom sauce with vegetables and steamed potatoes, I felt my energy return and half an hour later, I took my leave of the party as I boarded the bus to London Bridge from where I took a train to East Croydon, as instructed by Bash. He, unfortunately, being from Harrow, was totally unfamiliar with East Croydon and on asking for directions to the station, ended up at South Croydon station–miles away from where I was waiting! It was going to be a long and difficult afternoon!

Long story short, Bash found his way to East Croydon but not before inadvertently driving on tram lines which earned him a fat fine and ruined his mood–though I have to say that he recovered it quickly enough! In a few minutes, we were at the Bishop Lanfrancs School in Croydon where I had expected the Anglo-Indian Festival to be winding down–it was almost 4.00 pm by the time we arrived. Reluctant to waste any more time, I got on with my reporting, took the pictures I wanted and circulated around the stalls where I met a bunch of the interviewees I had talked to throughout my year in the UK. There were stalls selling Anglo-Indian specialties such as Karthi Rolls as well as pickles galore–I am particularly fond of Prawn Balchow and Brinjal Pickle but being afraid of spillage in my baggage (I have runied enough clothing trying to carry pickles back to the States from India!), I resisted the temptation to buy them. You can’t have an AI Do without the jiving, so there it was–the old-time rock and roll favorites and there they were, the aunties and uncles, having themselves a ball! My friend Owen Thorpe who has a new book out (The Lion and The Chakra, his first work of fiction after his excellent autobiography Paper Boats in the Monsoon) sold me a copy and introduced me to his wife, Patty, who appears on the cover. I was particularly pleased to hook up with Henry Holley and his wife Marion who have been extraordinarily supportive of my research. He brought me up to speed on his various charities in India–which never fail to inpress me. Right now, he is working hard to save St. George’s School, his alma mater in Madras and the oldest AI school in India, from the demolition squad which is out to sell the valuable teak wood that comprises the building’s structure! It was a wonderful reunion all round and since my nose and throat were still all stuffed up, I was grateful when the Gilberts made a move about 2 hours later. Bash drove me back to Central London and by half past seven, I was back with the Colcloughs.

They suggested a light TV dinner for which I was grateful–we had fish cakes and corned beef sandwiches as the newest version of Sherlock Holmes with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin (The Office) Freeman as Dr. Watson appeared on the telly. I sat around with the family on my last evening in London before I retreated to my room to complete my packing. Earlier in the evening, I’d contacted Farringdon Cars for a cab to take me to Heathrow, the next morning, as I simply couldn’t face the thought of fighting peak hour crowds on the Piccadilly Tube Line.

For the next hour, I worked steadily, managing to fit all the edibles I’d purchased over the next few days in the single bag that American Airlines permits me to carry “as free allowance.” Edward carried my suitcase downstairs as I fell asleep hoping my cough which has developed into a cold would not ruin my air travel in the morning. I had been so dreading getting sick in the UK and despite the best precautions I took, what did I end up with…but a cough and cold! Oh well…at least it did not compltely ruin my stay in London.