A Relaxing Summer’s Afternoon at the Chelsea Physic Garden

Jun14

Sunday, June 14, 2009
London

I am making quick progress on Potter–hoping to finish the Half-Blood Prince in the next couple of days. I like it most of all the ones I have read so far and it is quickly marching to a conclusion. I read about fifty pages when I awoke this morning, after which I proofread my blog and left for the 9 am mass at St. Etheldreda’s Church. Yes, I was going back to a Catholic service after a long while and to his church after several weeks, but I really did not have the energy this morning to go scouting on the web for a new church to visit.

Right after Mass, I returned home to have my cereal breakfast. Then, I sat at my PC and made Eurostar bookings for the trip to France that I will be doing with Llew at the end of July. I was fortunate to get tickets for the dates I wanted because most of them seem to have sold already and my choices were slim. Then, I emailed our French friends to let them know about our plans and I am still awaiting their responses. Still, it feels good to know that I have taken care of that element of our July plans.

These past few weeks have been just gorgeous here and I feel grateful for these spectacular days. The perfect weather is all the more welcome as it appears as if the English had a lousy summer last year with endless rain and chilly temperatures. This summer is certainly making up for the last one. Droves of Londoners can be found all over the city’s parks and gardens. Indeed wherever there is a green patch, you can be sure to find a sunbather or a picnicer. We all know the English obsession with the sun and all I see everywhere I look are people soaking it in and let the cancer warnings be damned!

I met Barbara at church this morning and because she knows that I am always looking for sight- seeing ideas, she told me about the Open Garden Square Weekend. I googled it and discovered that all the private gardens (usually built around square residential terraced properties) that are usually accessible only with keys, are kept wide open this weekend for the perusing pleasure of anyone who cares to visit them. Since I am not going on my Houses and Gardens Tour this week, I figured this would be a good way to see a couple of London gardens–so I decided to start at the Chelsea Physic Garden which I have wanted to visit for a long while.

Soaking in Summer at the Chelsea Physic Garden:
Though Llew and I have wonderful memories of summer holidays we have spent in Chelsea when his brother was posted by his bank to London, about ten years ago, we had not visited these famed gardens. For one thing, they are only open to the public twice a week (on Wednesdays and Sundays) and for another, we always had more exciting things to do such as theater, museum and restaurant hopping.

So, I was pleased to have the chance to browse through this centuries-old garden on a day which seemed tailor-made for lazing in a green grove. I had spent a good part of the afternoon browsing in the thrift shops on the King’s Road in Chelsea and made a couple of good finds: a set of Coalport bone china place card holders and a pair of Louis Vuitton sunglasses. But, for the most part, the shops were closed or the prices were atrocious! When I was tired of traipsing from store to store, I took a bus to the garden and enjoyed walking through the beautiful Georgian terraced homes that make up this area before I arrived at the hidden garden gate.

Summer flowers are out everywhere–lavender scents the air softly, roses the size of quarter plates wave airily from towering stems, carnations appear sprinkled in flower beds like pink confetti, fox gloves sprout tall and stately and delphiniums add grace and stature to every herbaceous border. The Chelsea Physic Garden (so-called because it was created in the 18th century to grow plants that aided in the creation of remedies for the use of apothecaries) has a collection of plants with an emphasis on herbs and medicinal specimens from around the world, but there was enough color and interest in the beds to keep the home gardener happy.

Though rather small in terms of acreage, it is very well constructed to maximize use of space. Green pathways link the various sections together and landscaping is rare and unobtrusive. There is an ornamental pond or two and stone has been used sparingly in creating stepped tiers, but, overall, the space has been allowed to develop naturally. There is a stone sculpture of Sir Hans Sloan in the center of the garden–he, undoubtedly, was responsible for the development of horticultural interest in plants that were not native to the UK. Much of his botany collection is on display in the British Museum in the room entitled ‘The Enlightenment’. Indeed, we owe so much to the obsession that the Neo-Classical era had in learning and nowhere is this better illustrated than in a completely natural space such as the Chelsea Physic Garden.

When I had strolled through the beds and borders and taken a bunch of pictures, it was time for a cuppa in the tea garden where chairs and tables had been set out welcomingly to entice the weary. I had a pot of Darjeeling (I love the fact that tea is always served in pots in the UK–when, oh when, will we learn to do likewise in the States?) and a thick slice of fruit cake that was served with a luxurious dollop of creme fraiche and seated myself at a table where I sipped and nibbled and enjoyed the buzzing of bees and the distant chirping of birds. Indeed, it was blissful out there on this glorious afternoon and I felt blessed to be able to enjoy this much leisure.

I have often said that there is nothing more beautiful than a summer’s day in England and I know why Shakespeare once wrote:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate…

This is the essential difference between a summer’s day in England and one on the North Atlantic coast. If we are very lucky, it will be both lovely and temperate in Connecticut or in New York. In most cases, it is blazing hot and oppressive and after five minutes in the open air, one is rushing inside to find relief in the coolness of air conditioning! It is the extremes in Connecticut weather that I find so difficult to endure–the biting ruthlessness of those endless winters and then the humidity of the summer when sweat runs down my back and I feel at the end of a walk like a fried chip–and I mean a soggy one!

At 6 pm, when the garden closed, I found a seat on Bus Number 11 and returned home–still tired and with a restless tummy (perhaps from having overeaten last night). At any rate, email, blogging, transcribing an interview I did with Dorothy in Wembley and reading a bit more Potter kept me busy as did a call to Llew. I decided to stay light and skipped dinner and made a fairly early night of it.

Ah, I do LOVE summer in England!

Trooping of the Color, Wallace Collection and Dinner at Sarastra

Jun13

Friday, June 13, 2009
London

The Trooping of the Color:
I guess that after all the exciting, fascinating, marvelous experiences I have been having in London, I had to have one disaster–and it came today. I decided that I would go off to the Trooping of the Color–supposedly one of the most important events in the royal calendar. Free tickets are distributed by lottery several months ahead of the event and the lucky ticket holders have assigned seats on the Horse Guards Parade where they watch a series of military manoeuvres (or something of the kind–nobody seems very clear what goes on there!).

The Queen herself is present on this occasion and she arrives at the venue in a golden carriage from out of Buckingham Palace with other members of the royal family in attendance. I had heard, from the garrulous web, that non-ticket holders were welcome to line the Mall to watch the parade pass by. Apparently, after the military troops finished their ‘show’, the royal procession returned to the Palace and just a little later, they would appear on the first floor balcony to wave at the crowds who then raised their heads upwards to the skies where a fleet of planes then zoomed above them and all the way along the fluttering flags of the Mall. It seemed a worthy sight to witness and if I, Samuel Pepys-like, was going to provide an accurate account of my year in London, I figured it had to include this red letter day!

So I left my flat at 9. 45 after a hasty cereal breakfast, took two buses to arrive at Trafalgar Square from where I walked briskly to the Mall already despairing at the sight of the vast, (and I mean mammoth) crowds that had gathered there ahead of me. If I had any hopes of seeing anything at all, they were rudely dashed to the ground. People were standing at least six thick all along the Mall, their kids propped up on their shoulders. It was just impossible to gain a glimpse and I almost abandoned my plans to stick around and half thought of turning back right then and there…when I decided not to give up so easily.

So I walked the length of the Mall hoping to find some crack open somewhere through which I could squeeze. No such luck. By the steps leading up to the pedestal on which stands the sculpture of the Duke of York, I attempted to join the throngs and for a few minutes actually did think I might see something. A few people had found a way to get to a terrace (private property apparently) and sit themselves on it and I joined them. Of course, it wasn’t long before at least fifty more people climbed a ladder that took us up to the terrace and that was when all hell broke loose.

An aggressive and really irritating policewoman came shouting at the top of her voice and demanded that we get right off as we were trespassing on private property and she threatened to arrest all of us if we did not get down at once. Oh blimey, I thought! That would make a story, wouldn’t it? Getting prosecuted in London??? The sad part was that most of the folks up on that terrace were foreign tourists who could not understand English anyway and had no idea what she was yelling at them! You can bet I chickened out and, with the rest of the crowd, scrambled down that ladder before you could say “Trooping the Color”. Well, talk about adventures– I seem to collect them like stamps!

Well, after that fiasco, try finding a spot! It was simply impossible. The totally irritating policemen and women seemed to find only that part of the parade route to monitor and they were at it constantly, urging people to get off the steps and keep the paths clear and growling out all sorts of instructions in the rudest fashion possible. In all my time in London, I have never seen nor heard more revolting and insulting policemen and women and I can just imagine how they must have treated those protesters at the G20 summit meetings. All people wanted to do was a get a glimpse of the proceedings, for heaven’s sake. Where was the need to be so mean about the whole thing?

Being the obedient idiot I am, I did what they said and kept the stairs clear and left the throngs to deal with them. I simply wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and those barking lunatics who suddenly seemed to feel empowered by the fact that so many vulnerable people were at their mercy. I found a spot much further down the mall but I have to say that I didn’t see very much. There were contingents of soldiers on horseback (and god knows I have seen enough of those during my year in this city) and then I caught a fleeting glimpse of Princess Anne, the Princess Royal making her way to the venue, but I did not see anything else beyond that.

In a few minutes (make that seconds), it was all over and I thought to myself, “I cannot believe I was threatened with prosecution for this bit of nonsense!” Of course, it might have been a case of having consumed a whole bunch of sour grapes. I bet those folks who had the prime spots along the route did not think the whole pageant quite so stupid. Anyway, I turned to leave when I heard an Englishman announcing to his family that if they had the patience to stand there for another hour, they would see the procession in reverse (returning to the Palace) at which point, they would see the planes fly up above.

I had, however, more than I could stomach for one morning. I have seen the Queen twice in the past year (once at Crathie Kirk near Balmoral in Scotland when the entire family except Anne had been present not even two feet away from Llew and me) and once on her way to the Opening of Parliament in November when I was much closer, had a chance to take pictures, etc. So, no, I did not feel disappointed that this morning turned out to be such a damp squib. I just felt annoyed with myself that I had even bothered to come out to the Mall on a morning like this. How so many tourists had descended on the city of London was beyond my comprehension.

It was nice, however, to see the Mall all festooned in Union Jacks, each flag post topped by an impressive crown! I did get a few pictures by holding my camera aloft but they only give an idea of the number of heads that were in front of me! It reminded me of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade that I had once attended in Manhattan where hundreds of people standing in front of me meant that I saw nothing of the floats–the balloons, however, soar high up in the air, so those I did see. However, I had sworn then that I would never attend the parade in person again and that it made much more sense to watch it on the box in the comfort of my family room…so, I have never gone out again to brave the autumnal cold in New York at the end of November. In recent years, of course, we have been too concerned about getting our turkey roasted on time to even bother about what the telly has been bringing into our homes.

Browsing Along Marylebon High Street:
I took a bus from Piccadilly that took me through Regent’s Street and on to Marylebon where I jumped off to walk along one of my favorite of London streets–Marylebon High Street. This one street has so many of my best-loved shops–great for browsing, window shopping or buying (Cath Kidson, Rococo Chocolates, Daunt Books, The White Store) and a lovely bunch of coffee shops (Patisserie Valerie, Paul’s Patisserie, Le Pain Quotidien, etc.) that it is always a pleasure to wander down it at leisure.

As it turned out, within moments, I came upon a garden market named, cutely enough, Cabbages and Frocks. Inside, there was the usual arts and crafts stuff–beautifully tailored coats, leather bags, one-of-a-kind jewelery–and stalls selling foods (there were some really pretty cupcakes). But most things cost an arm and a leg at these places and, I suppose, the prices are justified when you consider that everything is handmade, not mass-produced. I was very lucky indeed to come upon a stall selling nothing but cashmere garments–from scarves to full-length sweater jackets and coats. I almost bought a cashmere coat but then it was too large for me and I had to pass it up–bummer! However, I was very pleased with the two cashmere scarves I found (one for Llew and one for me) and a very swanky pair of Versace sunglasses. Those were truly a steal at the price I paid and I was delighted.

Wandering Through the Wallace Collection:
More rambles down the High Street took me in and out of my favorite stores until I arrived at my next destination: the Wallace Collection. I had last been here about five years ago, but had only seen the Highlights then and had no time to study the rest of the items on display. This afternoon I intended to linger at leisure and to wander through the vast rooms that make up this grand mansion.

The Wallace Collection–perhaps the country’s finest and most opulent private art collection–is
housed in an elegant mansion just off Marylebon High Street and right behind Oxford Circus. It is truly a pity that but for the art connoisseur and the well-informed, so few people know about this place or visit it. Yet, it is stunning, to say the very least, and anyone with a love for the 18th century and its ostentation would find themselves in a private Mecca. And entry is free to boot! A recent Restoration has brought renewed grandeur to the place (as if it needed any!) so all special exhibitions are temporarily on hold.

Inside, there is an abundance of fine and decorative art works collected by the Dukes of Hereford, especially the 3rd Duke, who, amassing these works, spent almost the entire fortune he had gained from his wealthy wife. They have been left to the nation which explains why there is no charge. It is, therefore, one of the cheapest treats you could ever have in London and it is a mystery to me why so few people know about it. I guess you can call it one of London’s best-kept secrets.

If I was sorry that I missed the special exhibition on Sevres porcelain at the Queen’s Gallery when Chriselle was here (it was scheduled to begin a week after our visit there), I need never have worried. The collection of Sevres porcelain in this one place–Hereford House–is enough reason to visit it. Indeed, what is thrilling about it is not just the exquisite beauty of each piece but the interesting provenance–so many of these tea and coffee services and dressing table sets belonged to Europe’s royal families including such colorful historical figures as Madame de Pompidour herself! In fact, she single-handedly saved the porcelain factory from becoming bankrupt by getting the King (Louis XVI) to bail it out and, in doing so, made it fashionable again.

There is also a great deal of Boule and ormolu furniture and if your taste runs towards the OTT (Over The Top), the ultra-decorated and the Baroque, you will be thrilled at the wealth of bombe chests, writing desks and bureaus and staggeringly massive armoires that you will see in striking inlaid and marquetry designs. But, for me, of course, the greatest aspects of any such collection are the paintings and there are any number to make your mouth water in this one building.

Take for instance, two of my favorite paintings of all time: The Swing by Jean Honore Fragonard is here and so is Miss Bowles and Her Dog by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Again, it is worth getting to Hereford House just to see these two canvasses and these were the ones I had seen when I was last here five years ago.

But there is also Franz Hals’ famous The Laughing Cavalier (a huge misnomer as the subject is neither a cavalier nor laughing!), Nicolas Poussin’s A Dance to the Music of Time, Reuben’s Rainbow Landscape (one of the largest landscapes he did–its twin is in the National Gallery) and at least two really lovely paintings by Pieter de Hooch who is one of my favorite artists of all time–A Boy Bringing Bread and A Woman Peeling Apples. These are on current display and I spent a great deal of time just gazing at them as I wandered into 17th century Delft on the brush of this charming painter. There are also a bunch of Watteaus and Velasquezes but by far, the most prominent artist present in the Wallace Collection is Francois Boucher. From small canvasses to really gigantic ones that dominate the stairwell on the way upstairs past the ornate wrought iron balustrade and marble staircase, his women are seen in their fat, pink, buxom glory together with charming cherubs, skeins of fruit and flower and a number of pastoral vignettes.

There was a Highlights tour beginning at 3 pm but by then I had seen most of the rooms on my own and was just too tired to take it. There was also a vast crowd of people (who had probably come just in time for the tour) and if I have a chance, I shall return there on a week day when I can take the tour with fewer people.

I sat in the sunshine outside on what was another spectacular summer’s day in London and ate a makeshift meal composed of walnut bread, Wensleydale cheese with ginger and fresh strawberries that I had purchased at Waitrose on the high street. And then, I returned inside to see a few more of the brilliantly stocked and superbly curated rooms. There was a fine restaurant out in the marble courtyard but my extempore picnic lunch was much better enjoyed, I thought, than a formal meal at a table.

Dinner with Tim, Barbara and Hannah:
Then, because I was suddenly so fatigued, I decided to return home and get some rest as I had plans for the evening as well. As soon as I arrived home, I simply threw myself on my bed and curled up like a baby and went off to sleep like a light. When I awoke about a half hour later, I felt re-energized and ready for a nice long shower. I washed and dried my hair and dressed and at 7. 50, I walked back to my former building at High Holborn to keep my date with my former neighbors Barbara and Tim who had suggested I join them for dinner.

Barbara’s niece Hannah was present and Tim settled us down well with wine and beer and some snacks as we watched videos of their recent drives through Yellowstone Park and then we set off for the ‘Restaurant Surprise’ as Tim did not tell any of us where he had made reservations. As we walked past Lincoln’s Inn Field, we cut into Great Queen Street and Drury Lane and then the surprise was revealed. We would be eating at Sarastra, a very theatrical restaurant opposite the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. Isn’t it marvelous how I can simply walk to all these places and get dinner?? I still can’t get over the convenience of the location of these flats in which I have lived.

Well, the decor of the restaurant reminded me a bit of Hereford House because it too was OTT and ostentatious–but not in an ancien regime sort of way–more in a theatrical, contemporary, gaudy sort of way! It had opera boxes along the sides and several diners were hoisted up near the ceiling to eat their meal. We were placed in a cozy niche out of the general din for there were several celebrations on including one rather rowdy hen party. The restaurant could not quite make up its mind what sort of cuisine it served–presumably it was Turkish, but there were maybe two Turkish items on the menu! The rest was a pastische that included Steak Frites and Fish and Chips!

The food, however, though it remained uncertain what exactly it was, was delicious. My Boeuf Bourgignon was absolutely scrumptious and though my portion was huge–it was served over creamy mashed potato–I finished every last bit of it because it was so good. The appetisers that Tim ordered (Scampi Meuniere and Turkish style Aubergines) were passable–the scampi better than the aubergine. None of us had room for dessert and we decided to have coffee back at their flat, so left soon after with me feeling slightly too stuffed for comfort. The walk back home was a good idea and the peppermint tea that followed lulled me well into sleep after Tim escorted me back home to my flat. I need not have worried–the area was buzzing with the many pubs, clubs and restaurants that line the Farringdon area around Smithfield Market.

I fell asleep after a chat with Llew as I had forgotten to carry my cell phone with me and thought that I ought to take it easy tomorrow as I am suddenly quite inexplicably tired.

Browsing in Bermondsey and Touring St. John’s Gate

Jun12

Friday, June 12, 2009
London

With only a few weeks left before I return Stateside, I am making, on the one hand, a rapid dent in my List of Things To-Do in London–but, on the other hand, I am adding new items daily! Wonder if I ever will be finished!

So, this morning, I set my alarm for 6. 15 and was out of the house by 6. 50 am to catch the 63 bus to Fleet Street from where I transferred to the 15 to get to Tower Hill from where I took the 42 to get to Bermondsey. If it sounds like a a hike, it really wasn’t. In fact, Bermondsey is far closer to the heart of the city than I had imagined. It is only because all guide books suggest that earnest shoppers get there at the crack of dawn that I waited until the summer to make this excursion. It seemed much too dark a place to wander into in the heart of winter or even in early spring and I am glad I waited–not only is it much brighter now (I am told that daylight arrives by 4 am, but, of course, in the past few weeks, I haven’t been waking till after 7am, so I wouldn’t know!) but the items to be considered for purchase can be so much better scrutinized when there is daylight to aid the search for flaws!

Browsing in Bermondsey:
So Bermondsey (which is now known as the Caledonian Market) is just beyond Tower Bridge on the South side of the Thames and was far smaller than I imagined it to be. There were about sixty dealers, if that, each occupying a tiny amount of space (like one horse cart). I arrived there at about 8 am when so few customers were in evidence. I guess the serious dealers finish their business by 5 am.

At any rate, I found the quality of the merchandise extremely disappointing. I have to say that I see far better stuff at American fairs and estate sales and tag (garage) sales. So much of the items on display were damaged or in poor condition and so much of it wasn’t antique at all. In fact, I saw loads of much more recent reproductions and so much junk that I wondered why I took the trouble to get there so early. Oh and the good stuff, if you were lucky enough to come upon any (and I saw some good 1920’s Bakelite jewelery) was priced so atrociously that I can’t imagine anyone buying anything. Despite the fact that the dollar is doing so much better now in relation to the pound, when I did the conversion, the prices were still far in excess of anything I would pay in the States for the same (maybe even better) stuff.

So, all I got was a tiny little Herend hand painted ring-dish (which was a steal at five pounds, since I know for a fact that a new item of the same kind would cost no less than fifty pounds and the design La Vielle Rose is no longer being produced by the Hungarian manufacturer). I also found a junky pair of ear-rings for a pound but then they were just tin that had been beautifully twisted to look like the handle of a spoon and I quite liked them.

Bermondsey must have been an antiques shopper’s paradise in its heyday but I have to say that it has been reduced to nothing today. So I was very disappointed but not sorry that I had make the trek and saw for myself the quality of the goods on sale. I know that I will never go there again.

I had quelled hunger pangs with a lovely bacon butty (the breakfast of the London working class, I am told–basically a crisp round roll–what the English call a bun–filled with fried bacon!) which was being sold from a wagon at the market and was pretty good. Then, I got back on the bus and tried to find my way home but at Tower Hill, I got hopelessly disoriented and caught a 15 going in the opposite direction. I was also daydreaming on the upper deck and it only when I saw that the population demographics had changed drastically and that everyone on the streets looked like they had just gotten off the boat from Bangladesh, that I realized that I was headed in the wrong direction!

So, I hoped off, caught a bus on the other side of the road and by the time I reached Fleet Street, I was literally drooping on my feet. For some odd reason, I was so drowsy that I felt as if I had taken some sleep-inducing medication. So I abandoned my more ambitious plans of going to the Freud Museum in Finchley which opened only after 12 noon and went straight back home instead.

When I got to my flat, I found that Minda, the house cleaning lady, had arrived and started her routine cleaning. She had, fortunately, already finished with my room and was in the process of cleaning my bathroom, when I checked my email. As soon as she finished with my bathroom, I curled up on my bed and in broad daylight, at 12 noon, I fell fast asleep, much to my own astonishment. I awoke about 45 minutes later, feeling deeply refreshed and decided to write my blog before stopping for lunch.

A Guided Tour of St. John’s Gate and Other Properties:
Lunch was a hurried affair–just some pasta and a salad and at 2. 25 pm, I left my flat to walk down St. John’s Street to get to St. John’s Gate. I have to say that my new route from Clerkenwell Road to my building takes me under this medieval gateway that I find simply thrilling. Naturally, I had to find out all about it, so when I made inquiries about how I could find out more about its history, I was told to join the guided tour that is offered thrice a week (on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 11 am and 2. 30 pm). Well, today seemed as good a day as any other and since I simply lacked the enthusiasm to wander too far off, a historic archway just five minutes down my street would be a safe sight seeing bet, I thought. So off I went.

The tour was given by a staff member of what is currently called the Museum of St. John’s Gate. There was a total of five folks (including myself) taking the tour. I have to say that I have taken far better tours in my time. The quality of the commentary and the information contained in the tour was extremely disappointing. I guess I have become accustomed to the superb quality of the tours given at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and other world-famous museums which involve year-long training of the docent volunteers, etc. that anything short of perfection makes me feel rather cheated. There was no consciousness of time and the guide just rambled on with no attempt to offer information in a chronological manner (or indeed with any structure) at all. In fact, all the material was presented in a haphazard fashion and I often got the impression that she was seriously ill or drunk as she actually did seem alarmingly breathless on a couple of occasions.

The best part of the tour, however, and the only reason to take it is that it leads you to some incredibly hidden, tucked-away gems of the city of London that you would never gain access to unless accompanied by one of these staffers. These included the Church of the Priory of St. John (it dates from the 1500s and saw enemy bombing during World War II when its roof was destroyed and replaced). We actually entered this place of worship that is no longer used for regular Sunday services but only on special occasions and only by the privileged families of the Members of the Order of St. John. The Priory Church is on the opposite side of Clerkenwell Road (from the Gate side) and was once built in a circular fashion (like Temple Church in Middle Temple) off Fleet Street. It is very atmospheric indeed, hung with a number of colorful heraldic flags, each of which carries a white flag on a red background, which is symbolic of the Order of St. John.

The tour then took us into another hallowed area–the Crypt. This, being underground, was saved from the blitz and has remained intact from the 1100s when building first began under the Normans, though it continued into the 12th century. More modern-day stained glass windows (dating from the early 20th century) contrasted well with the effigies of knights that were brought back from the Cathedral of Valladolid in Spain (the choir screen of this Cathedral is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and is included on my Highlights Tours). The low barrel vaulted ceiling is an interesting feature of this subterranean church and I felt privileged to see it.

The tour then crossed the street again to take us back into the Museum attached to St. John’s Gate from where we were led upstairs to the secret rooms and chambers used by members of the Order of St. John today. I realize that a bit of explanation of this “Order” might be in order! So here goes:

The Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem originated at the time of the first Crusade to offer comfort and rudimentary medical care to pilgrims en route to the Holy Land. The members were knights who actually took Holy Orders which included the vow of celibacy. Their primary responsibilities were the support and help of patients who were healed by the administration of herbal remedies (0ne of which, St. John’s Worth, is actually named for the order). So it was a religious order of ordained men who administered to the sick in the fashion of monks, in that they actually lived in a Priory.

In 1504, during the reign of the Tudor King, Henry VII, the current Gateway was built of Kentish stone on a red brick base–meaning that Kentish stone is only a facade as stone was not easily available and had to be carted from a long way. After the next monarch, Henry VIII, dissolved the Monastries and closed down the Priories (in 1588), the Order ceased to be a monastic one or indeed a religious one. It evolved into a medical order that provided succor for the sick and the injured and found a base in Malta where it became very influential. From this development came the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade with branches all around the world. The main function of this body is to provide emergency help and services to the sick and the suffering and their achievements are still recognized by the Order. Women are now accepted into the Order. I should add here that this Order has no connection whatsoever with the Knights Templar or with the Round Temple Church and that the Order of St. John is not and never has been a secret society in the Dan Brown vein!

The rooms that are the most fascinating are built into the Tower and Gateway that is known today as St. John’s Gate and this is the 0ne under which I pass on my way to and from my flat from Clerkenwell Road. It includes rooms built in the early 20th century by the son of George Gilbert Scott in imitation of the Tudor style. This means a huge vaulted ceiling with dark exposed beams, loads of stained glass windows bearing the heraldic crests of the various members, a richly carved throne-like seat that is still occupied by the Grand Prior at the monthly meetings of the Order, finely wrought oil portraits of the current Queen, her grand father, George V and in another room (the Chamber), portraits of Queen Victoria and her son Edward VII (under whose patronage these rooms were commissioned and created)–all of whom are members of the Order. Despite the fact that they are only a hundred years old, they are so finely furnished and maintained and with the sun streaming into them on this lovely brisk summer’s afternoon, they were truly a joy to peruse. The tour took over an hour and by the end of it, I felt tired again.

Transcribing Another Interview:
Though I had plans to do something else exciting for the rest of the evening, I decided to be good and go back home and get some work done.With five interviews waiting to be transcribed, I could not afford to waste any time–so there I sat at my PC transcribing the interview with Oscar that I did at Wembley yesterday. I also caught up with my blog and responded to email.

It was about 9 pm when I stopped for dinner (leftovers from our summery meal of last night) and decided to do a spot of laundry. Only I could not get the washing machine to work, so I ended up handwashing a number of garments and throwing them into the dryer, which, fortunately, I could get started!

With laundry done and another interview in the bag, I jumped into the shower and decided to call it an early night–which was 11. 30 pm!

Interviewing a Bunch of Anglo-Indians in Wembley

Jun11

Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wembley, London

Neither the continuing Tube strike nor the horrendous traffic jams that engulfed the city of London today stopped me from getting to Wembley to do the two interviews I had scheduled–one for the morning, the other for the afternoon. Though it took me all of two hours, get there I did and I discovered, to my surprise, that it was not just the one lady (Dorothy) present at the first venue, but a whole lot of people that she had rounded up for me to interview. Of course, I was as pleased as Punch that I suddenly had so many subjects…but I have to say that people were indulging in a number of separate cross conversations that made it impossible for me to catch everything they were saying and I am afraid that much of the really good bits of information that were given me, might have been lost because half the time I could not hear what one person was saying while another two were talking between themselves.

When this was over, I was picked up by my next respondent, Oscar, who then drove me to his place. Interviewing him was a piece of cake because he was a single individual and there was peace and quiet while he was talking (but for the lovely chirping of the birds in his garden) and I was able to hear and take down every word. This is the sort of interview that is most helpful to me and I have little doubt that transcribing it will be just as easy.

In both homes, I met with very hospitable people who offered me substantial snacks and in the latter case, a full lunch with fish curry and rice, dal and salad and delicious prawn balchow! There was red wine for starters and for dessert, a big box of chocolates. Oscar’s partner Elaine, an Englishwoman was just lovely and in the many years that she has spent with her Oscar, she is now considered “an honorary Anglo-Indian!” I truly enjoyed meeting the lot of them and digesting all the experiences they recounted to me and the information they shared with me.

Then, it was back on the bus for another excruciating ride back to the city. Considering that I did about six interviews today, however, it was completely worth my while and I am glad for the
goldmine of information that they shared with me.

Dinner at Home with Paul and Loulou:
I stopped en route at Sainsbury’s to pick up mixed greens and a pear to make a salad. In the morning, I had pulled out from the freezer my Penne with Peppers and Prawns with the intention of sharing it with Paul and Loulou who had suggested we all get together for supper.

Back home at Denmark House, I found the kitchen counter all laid out with the lovely summer time supper that Loulou had organized–foccaccia, salad with tomato and mozarella cheese, parma ham and hummus. With my penne and my pear and blue cheese salad with balsamic vinaigrette, we had ourselves a lovely meal washed down with the crisp and very fruity white wine that is actually made on the vineyard that Paul and Loulou own in Tuscany, Italy.

We had such a great evening together as we shared our meal and sipped our wine and talked about a vast number of things. Dinner was sandwiched between the viewing of a film on their architect friend Francis Machin who passed away prematurely but left a body of unique architectural and terracotta sculptural works behind him in Europe and in England. He is the architect of this building in which I currently live and it was deeply moving to gain an insight into his professional mind and his personal life through this very well made film in which so many of his close friends and associates reminisce about their lives with him.

After we cleared up and stacked the dishwasher, it was time to say goodnight. I will be leaving the house early tomorrow morning to get to the Bermondsey Antiques Market (now called the Caledonian Market) and so decided to set my alarm and try to get to bed early. I will catch up on my blog over the weekend.

Highgate Cemetery, Kenwood House and A Get-Together at Sushil’s

Jun11

Wednesday, June 10, 2009
London

I decided to visit Highgate Cemetery because travel writer Billy Bryson had raved about it on his video Notes from a Small Island. He had said that it was as good a place as any other to begin an exploration of the history of London as so many eminent figures from her colorful past were buried in this graveyard. Having surveyed Brompton Cemetery at the end of last year and been deeply impressed by the quality of the funerary statuary on the grave stones, I had decided that Highgate would be just as significant and off I went.

Remnants of the Dick Wittington Legend:
I have to say that Highgate Cemetery is not the easiest part of London to get to–for one thing, it involves a long bus ride or a Tube ride to Archway. Then there is a steep climb up a hill that is fatiguing and not considered very interesting. What made it fascinating for me, however, were the many reminders of the life of Dick Wittingdon scattered around the neighborhood. There was the Wittington Stone, for instance, with a black stone cat perched upon it. Carved on the stone were the dates during which Wittington was Lord Mayor of London (four times–in the 1300-1400s).

Just a little ahead lay the Turn Again Pub–the obvious reference being to the Bells of Bow Church which pealed, “Turn Again Wittington, Lord Mayor of London”. And further up, I saw another reference to Wittington at The Wittington Arms Pub. Well, then, my curiosity could not be quelled any longer and I inquired of a female passer-by: “Why all these references to Wittington?” And she responded,, “Well, when he ran away from London, it seems he arrived here on Highgate Hill and sat down on a stone because he was weary. It was at this point that he heard the bells of a church ring out “Turn Again, Wittington, Lord Mayor of London”. So, since it was on Highgate Hill that Wittington was inspired to return home, the place is chocful of reminders of that fateful day. Charming indeed and it made the trudge up that dreary hill on a rather dreary day (it was drizzling almost non-stop) tolerable.

Just when I thought I would be climbing forever, I passed by a stately mansion called Lauderdale House which was, for a short time, the residence of Nell Gwynne, beloved mistress of Charles II (remember the famous line, “Be Kind to poor Nell”–the instruction that the King left on his death-bed to ensure that she would be well looked after following his passing).

Just a few yards ahead, I saw the tempting entrance to a garden–a green oasis that beckoned. Unable to resist entry, I asked a strolling passer-by if the path through the garden (called Waterlow Park) would lead me to Highgate Cemetery. “Yes”, I was told. “Just follow this path and you will see a gate leading to the cemetery”. A few people walked in the park with their dogs, and toddlers skipped around in their little wellies–despite the bad weather–so I did not feel uneasy about being all alone in a wide open space.

Discovering Highgate Cemetery:
Before long, I was at the gate of the cemetery which is divided into two parts. The Western side (the older part) was closed and can only be visited on a guided tour that is given once a day at noon costing five pounds. The Eastern side (the newer part) can be visited for a 3 pound fee. I paid up at the entrance, received directions from the clerk there, though when I asked if there were any graves that I absolutely ought to see, she replied, rather airily, “Well, we don’t do fame”. She then went on to say, “It was only rich people in the 19th century that could afford to be buried in this cemetery…” She left her thought hanging in the air, but I guess her implication was that all human beings are equal in death and she couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to see the grave of one person and not another.

Well, I was hardly in the mood to be philosophical on a rainy morning and, leaving her to her sense of proprieties, I decided to try to find my own way to the graves of three people:
–Karl Marx
–George Eliot (Mary Ann Cross Evans)
–Ralph Richardson (husband of Vanessa Redgrave and father of the late Natasha Richardson)

There were a few interesting bits of sculpture featuring angels and Celtic crosses right at the entrance which were rather worthy of a photograph. Some of the graves were beautifully landscaped, new roses bringing vivid dashes of color to the cemetery. Then, the lanes curved this way and that and it really was a matter of the lottery whether or not you would actually hit the grave you were seeking.

A leisurely ramble through the rather silent space brought me to the grave of Marx which is unmissable. There is a gigantic bust of the activist-philosopher atop a large pedestal which alone makes it the most prominent grave in the entire cemetery. Not too far away, a simple pink stone obelisk denotes the grave of Mary Ann Evans who had married a Mr. Cross and was known for a while as Mary Ann Cross. Of course, she is better known to us, her literary fan following, as George Eliot (the pseudonym under which she wrote). Her Middlemarch is one of my favorite novels in English Literature and it was more a matter of tribute to the writer rather than just tourist curiosity that took me to her final resting place.

I did not, however have the same luck trying to find the grave of Ralph Richardson and after wandering for a while past many Victorian graves but very few really noteworthy monuments, I returned to the main gate and then departed. I have since learned from my friends, Paul and Loulou, that the western side of the cemetery is certainly worth a visit on the guided tour as the mortuary sculpture is striking and far better than anything to be found in any other London cemetery. So, I shall, time permitting, try to make another trip there to catch the 12 noon tour one afternoon.

Following instructions from the clerk at the cemetery, I climbed another steep hill again that took me to Highgate Village where I caught a bus (the 210) that took me a few steps deeper into Hampstead to Kenwood House which was my next port of call.

The Glory of Kenwood House:
Another Robert Adam masterpiece (I have already seen Syon House and Osterley House, both on the Thames), Kenwood House came into the possession of Lord Guinness, the Earl of Iveagh (pronounced Ivor), in Ireland, who in 1927 bequeathed it to the nation with the clear stipulation that no money should be charged to any one wishing to view the fabulous art collection that he and his ancestors had amassed. Therefore, though it is managed today by the English Heritage, entry to Kenwood House is free of charge to the public. Because it is so close to the city of London and so easily accessible, I was surprised that I did not see more people on the afternoon that I was there.

My exploration of the extensive property that surrounds this marvelous 18th century mansion started at the Brew House Cafe where I ordered a cafe au lait and sat myself in the garden under one of the wide canvas umbrellas and ate my homemade parma ham and blue cheese sandwich and sipped my coffee which was wonderfully warming on the rather chilly day. Though the rain had stopped and blue skies had become evident by this point, it was still rather damp and I was glad I was exploring an indoor space.

And so began my exploration of Kenwood. It is a grand mansion to be sure, its imposing entrance beckoning the visitor with its Neo-Classical columns and a portico. Once inside, the Robert Adam entrance is enchanting and so easy to view as the ceiling is lower than most grand manors. This brought the plaster work almost within reach as also the medallion paintings by Italian Antonio Zucci who worked closely with Adam on these classical interiors.

A tour of the rest of Kenwood involves a leisurely walk through its magnificent rooms that are filled with Adam designed furniture pieces, a plethora of quality paintings featuring the English artistic giants of the era such as Sir Joshua Reynolds (there are loads of portraits by him) and several large canvasses by Thomas Gainsborough.

The Dining Room has the best collection of works centering around a totally charming canvas by Vermeer, one of only five Vermeers in Great Britain, entitled The Guitarist and supposedly a portrait of his 15 year old daughter. His wife had sold the painting to pay household bills and Vermeer was determined to gain it back–confirming scholarly opinion that it was quite possibly a portrait of his daughter that he wished to retain within the family. There is also a superb self-portrait of Rembrandt in middle age which I have seen reproduced a gazillion times in several different places. To see the real thing was for me so moving and the beautiful manner in which it has been lit truly did it justice.

The Robert Adam Library is really the high point of the house as is the Music Room, both of which have a clutch of high quality paintings and some really fabulous furniture. Everywhere, the collaboration between Robert Adam and Josiah Wedgwood was clearly evident as Wedgwood was so completely inspired by Adamesque interiors that he made his famous Jasperware in imitation of Adam’s look and for those of us who cannot have Robert Adam decorate a room, well, there is always Wedgwood pottery that can be purchased to replicate the feel of it!

Kenwood House also has a large collection of 17th and 18th century paintings of aristocrats close to the monarchy during what was its most turbulent time–The Puritan Overthrow of the Monarchy and its subsequent Restoration. This collection, known as the Suffolk Collection, is beautifully exhibited in a series of rooms and each of them has also been brilliantly curated. This allows the viewer to make a study of each one and receive a composite idea of the history of the period and the doings of its key players.

There is also a fascinating collection of 18th century shoe buckles–an accessory that played a very functional role, as well as a decorative one, at a time before laces came into vogue. Indeed, there are a series of paintings of the period that depict ladies and gentlemen wearing them on their high heeled, velvet-lined shoes, just as the presence of genuine old Turkish carpets are placed right beneath paintings in which they have been depicted. Called Lotto Carpets, they are named after the Italian Renaissance artist Lorenzo Lotto who usually portrayed his subjects standing on such Turkish gems and was able to replicate their intricacy so perfectly in his many works.

A word about the gardens: They are widespread and natural in the Capability Brown style–vast manicured lawns punctuated by occasional clumps of trees and the requisite lake not too far away. There were flower-beds filled with briar roses as well as the hot house varieties and large tall hedges formed out of rhododendron bushes that were blooming mauve the afternoon I visited. However, I was tired and unable to roam through the gardens though it was blissful enough to admire the property from the porch of the house.

So do go to Kenwood House if you can. I am surprised that I waited so long to get there. Though I have been meaning to visit this stately home for years, somehow I kept putting it off and how delighted I was that I finally did get to traipse through those marvelous rooms and see for myself how the other half lived in a bygone era.

A Get-Together at Sushil’s:
It was a long way home on the bus but I had enough time for a shower. I tried to get partied up as I had to attend a get-together at the home of my friend Sushil at Holborn on Theobald’s Road. Stepping into my new Prada shoes, I realized what a long time it has been since I have worn any kind of heels–my plantar fasciitis having forced me to live in flats! I was a little wobbly on my feet and rather nervous but the shoes were very comfortable indeed and despite the fact that I had to walk to the bus stop, jump into a bus on a day when the Tube strike was going strong and the crowds at the bus stops were chaotic, I did manage to get to Sushil’s which was just three stops away.

I had a great evening as the gathering featured folks I had met before and folks I was meeting for the first time. I had a long chat with two lovely girls named Isabella and Helen who have been friends of Sushil for a long time and share a flat in Greenwich. They were friendly and very interesting and we did hit it off quickly. My other new friends Mike Anderson and his wife Nirmala were there too as was Cecil and we had a good time as we remembered Sushil’s brother Romesh (whom I did not know) who passed away exactly a year ago. The get-together was a way of remembering his life and celebrating it and I felt privileged to be invited.

Sushil had been slaving for days to cook and clean and get his flat ready for the gathering. The red and white wine that Sushil had picked up on his “booze trip” to Calais, to which I had accompanied him several days ago, flowed copiously. There was rice and his signature beef curry, a dry fish fry, some fried chicken, a lovely delicious raita and a salad. And I realized how very long it has been since I have eaten Indian food on a regular basis. Funnily enough, I do not miss it at all. Indeed, my palate has become so cosmopolitan that unlike most Indians who simply cannot adjust to eating Continental food on a regular basis, I have taken to it almost without a thought. I realize that the only reason I eat Indian food at home in Connecticut is because Llew cannot do without his rice and curry. I, on the other hand, am more than happy with good Italian pasta, toasted sandwiches, hearty soups and salads and indeed that has become very much a part of my regular meals in London.

It was my friend Owen’s brother Matt who was driving back to Kent who gave Isabelle, Helen and myself a ride back home–they to Greenwich, me not even a mile away in Farringdon. When I got back home about 11. 30 pm, I discovered that Loulou and Paul had arrived sometime during the evening. We said a quick hullo and though they had a very early start, we made plans to meet over supper.

Towers, Gallows, Churches, Markets–Another Fascinating Walk

Jun9

Tuesday, June 9, 2009
London

I am sorry to have to spend so much time analyzing the vagaries of my sleep patterns, but they never cease to amaze me. Throughout the winter, when most folks tend to sleep in, I was awaking at the crack of dawn–even before dawn had cracked, in most days, i.e. at 4 and 5 and 6 am! Now, when summer is almost upon us and light appears in the eastern night sky before 5am, I sleep curled up like a baby until 7 and 8 am!!! This is the weirdest thing and I have never in my life experienced anything like it. Much as I am delighted that I am finally sleeping long and well, I am also sorry to lose the several productive hours I had at my PC in bed long before the rest of the world stirred.

At any rate, I awoke at 7 today, read Potter for an hour, called my parents in Bombay and spent almost an hour on the phone catching up with them about so many things, then sat to blog about my day yesterday. This took me a good part of the morning and it was about 11. 30 when I got out of bed!!! Since it was too late for breakfast, I fixed myself a brunch (toasted parma ham and blue cheese sandwich with some good coffee) and got back to my PC right after that to call my cousin Blossom in Madras. That chat when on for ages, then emailing back and forth with Chriselle in the States (after a long chat with Llew in the morning–we’re all about her wedding plans right now) and I found that it was about 4 pm when I finished all the things I wanted to do–most of which involved scheduling my projects for the next few weeks.

With time running out and my return to the States becoming imminent with every passing day, I feel pressured into completing all the items on my To-Do List as well as making time for my library research and for drafting the lecture that I have been invited to give to the international graduate students at Oxford in the middle of July! So you can imagine that I am beginning to feel as if I should make every second count–as if I haven’t been doing that for the past one year already!

The end result is that I have almost given up the idea of doing the Homes and Gardens Tour that I had intended as I find that most of the places I want to visit are way out of the public transport tracks and would take me ages to reach if I used the National Express coach services. Instead, I have decided to try and see just a couple of the gardens that can be reached by local train lines from London (such as Sissinghurst and Wisley Royal Garden) and to see the estates and mansions that lie sprinkled along the Thames. When I am in Oxford, during the third week of this month, I shall find it easier to reach places in the Cotswolds and in Wiltshire and at that time, I can try to see Blenheim Palace, Kelmscott Manor and the Hidcote Manor Gardens. So major changes in plans for me mean that next week I ought to be able to spend a whole week at the British Library with documents that will aid my understanding of negotiations that were carried out between the officials of the departing British Raj and the representatives of the Anglo-Indian Association.

I am, in a way, relieved that I have modified my plans. Everyone thought I was idiotic to aim at so ambitious an itinerary and I can now see why. At any rate, with so many wonderful places to cover that are so much closer to London, it makes no sense to be spending long hours in coaches, stuck in traffic when I would rather be out on my two feet exploring the country. So with those alterations in my plans all set, I could take a shower, dress and go off to cover one more self-guided walk in my book–this one entitled “Wanderings and Wizards”.

Wanderings and Wizards Walk:
There was much more than wanderings and wizards on this walk which turned out to be a sampler of sorts for it offered everything that the city of London has been known legendarily to possess–marvelous Wren churches, spooky graveyards, teeny-tiny tucked-away gardens, dim alleyways, atmospheric pubs and even a gigantic Victorian market–Leadenhall, so-called because its roof was made of lead and glass in the 19th century.

So, let’s begin at the beginning: I started off at Tower Hill (took another old Routemaster 15 bus there–I will never tire of the thrill of riding in these relics from a past era) and arrived at the Tower Hill Underground Station from where I walked across Trinity Square Gardens to arrive at the Memorial to the members of the Merchant Marine Corps who gave up their lives for their country–and then to a far older monument–the Memorial to the many men and women who were beheaded from 1381 to 1747.

The Tower of London is right across the busy road and I could only imagine what the last minutes of these poor ill-fated individuals might have been like as they made the journey from their prison cells in the Tower to this spot. Beheadings and hangings were public spectacle in those awful days and people gathered in vast numbers to take in these gruesome scenes. It was in 1747 that the last person (80-year old Lord Lovatt) was beheaded–thank God for little mercies! The monument is a poignant reminder of the injustice that so many of them faced in their last few years (individuals such as Sir Thomas More, for instance, who died fighting for their beliefs, their faith and their ideals, as heroes not as cowards).

When one considers the circumstances in which they died, it is curious (and I do not see the humor) in a pub across the street that is named The Hung, Drawn and Quartered!–but this is British humor, I guess. This pub stands right opposite the Church of All Hallows By-The-Tower (where I attended a recent Sunday Eucharist service) from which Samuel Pepys, the famous diarist who recorded the details of the Great Fire of London of 1566, watched the city turn into a bonfire–a scene of great desolation. There is a bust to his memory in a small garden in Seething Lane opposite the church.

Just a few steps away is the churchyard of St. Olav’s with its eerie stone gate that has three skulls and crossbones adorning its pediment. Apparently, these were designed to keep body snatchers away for it was not unusual for thieves to dig up fresh bodies right after they had been buried–these were sold to hospitals that needed them for the instruction of their student doctors as part of anatomy lessons. Inside, I found St. Olav’s to be equally spooky and I took a quick tour of the place before dashing out again. Somehow, with all the ghostly tales that I am reading as part of these tours, I feel rather uneasy in spaces that have not another soul in sight. I do not want my own brush with any of London’s ghosts and spectres, if I can help it.

Past St. Olav’s, the tour took me to very narrow alleys and unlit lanes that must have been the breeding ground for thieves in the not-too-distant past. They were reminiscent of the novels of Dickens and it was only when I was back on the main thoroughfares that I felt comfortable again. Office-goers were hurrying homeward though it was only 4. 45 and I soon realized that with the newspapers reporting a strike by Tube staff starting this evening, they were eager to get home before they found themselves stranded.

I pressed on, however, arriving at the splendid entrance to Leadenhall Market, a truly magnificent piece of Victorian architecture. It is a trifle reminiscent of Borough Market and Spitalfields but its fresh coat of paint makes it seem somehow much more striking. Whether this face lift is owed to its use by Hollywood producers of the Harry Potter films or not, I do not know, but the location was the setting for the scenes in Diagon Alley and there is actually a shop front in vivid blue that was the entrance of The Leaky Cauldron pub in the film. I enjoyed pottering (if you will forgive the pun!) around the market and its many shops that appeared like cubby-holes in the wall.

Right past this antiquated building is another that stands in peculiar contrast to it–the building that houses Lloyd’s, the British insurance firm. Only its building is like an industrial factory what with its steel facade, its glass elevators that ply along the exterior and its pipes that run the length and breadth of the structure. It reminded me very much of the building that houses the Centre Georges Pompidour in Paris, the location of the city’s collection of Modern Art. As anyone who has been reading this blog regularly knows, this form of Modernism is not my cup of tea at all and I was glad to leave the premises, though I rather marvelled at its design.

That was when I arrived at a series of churches, one after the other, that stood in small patches of green studded with ancient grave stones. There was the Church of St. Peter Upon Cornhill and then the Church of St. Michael. I have, by now, seen so many churches on these walks, that I have pretty much entered and perused all of the work of Christopher Wren that exhibits his attempts to rebuild the main houses of Christian worship in the center of the city after the Great Fire.

By the time I arrived at Bank Underground Station, commuters looked deeply harried and I could see why. Trains had already stopped running and I abandoned my intentions of getting to the National Theater to try to exchange some tickets that I am currently holding. Instead I did the sensible thing and hopped into the first 25 bus I saw that got me safely back home where I spent the rest of the evening writing this blog, fixing and eating my dinner (Chicken Kiev with soup and toast with chocolate mousse for dessert), making transport inquiries online for my intended trip to Highgate and Hampstead tomorrow and reading some more Potter before I retired for the day.

Two More Walks and ‘As You Like It’ at The Globe

Jun8

Monday, June 7, 2009
London

My day began with Harry Potter and then the transcribing of an interview with Coreen. Frustratingly, another interview that was scheduled for the morning with an Anglo-Indian was cancelled with no desire on the part of the lady to reschedule it. So, there it went! Another contact bites the dust! Still, I suppose I must be grateful for the many Anglo-Indians who have cooperated with me in my research, made the time for me and extended their legendary hospitality to me.

When I finished the transcribing and the proofreading, I decided to get out and finish two more self-guided walks from my Frommer’s Book. Perhaps it was for a reason that I had saved these for last–they are both based on the eastern side of the city and easily accessible by foot from where I live.

Ghosts of the Old City–Dick Wittington’s Influence:
This walk, though entitled “Ghosts of the Old City” took me to a number of Christopher Wren designed churches, each of which was filled with marvelous legends and folklore, not to mention ghosts! This walk began at the Church of St. Mary Le Bow whose bells are supposed to have rung out the ditty: “Turn again Wittington, Lord Mayor of London” to prevent the orphan Richard (Dick) Wittington from running away from his life of cruelty in London.

The legend of Whittington is all over this part of the city in the many churches with their lovely ornate Wren steeples. I stepped into this one right off Cheapside (so-called because a daily market was held on this street for the common man in the Middle Ages) into Bow Churchyard. Like all Anglican churches built by Wren, there is a quiet austerity about these interior spaces made more ornate by stained glass windows through which jewelled light streams on sunny days and the odd touches of gilding on plaster decorated ceilings. There is a crypt in this church (which is probably Roman) where a Healing Session was taking place when I visited briefly.

Out of Bow Churchyard, I stepped into Bow Lane in search of the Williamson’s Tavern and found it in a little alleyway. This building used to house London’s Lord Mayors (until Mansion House was built) and the pub that is on the ground floor proudly reveals this fact. I also discovered that this pub serves traditional English ales and is on The Ale Trail–a series of well-marked walks that allows the ale-lover to sample the ancient brew in rather quaint surroundings. If you order a pint of ale at any one of the pubs on these routes, you get a stamp on a card. Five stamps and you are entitled to an Ale Trail T-Shirt! Now had I known about this earlier, I might have tried to do this as well and perhaps there might still be time for me to do one of them–let’s see.

A Haul of Roman Coins and Pottery:
It was while I was getting out of this pub and heading towards another one called Ye Olde Watling Pub that stands on the crossroads where the old Londinium Roman Road intersected those going off to Canterbury and Winchester, that I spied another church. This one was not mentioned in my walk (I wonder why???) but my eye was attracted to a notice outside the church that said: “New stock of Roman coins on sale. Inquire within”. I entered the Guild Church of St Mary and was stunned. You have to see the fan-vaulted plasterwork ceiling to believe it. I mean, it is gorgeous!!! And yet, this church was not on my walk! How is such a thing possible? I spent a long while inspecting the interior and taking pictures and then ran into the Verger who took me into the sacristy to show me the haul of Roman coins.

Now I have to say that, in my ignorance, I thought he would produce some museum-shop style reproductions. But, get this, he had a haul of real, genuine Roman coins that have been found in digs all over the London area. It turns out that the Vicar of this Church, one Rev. John Mothersole, has been a dedicated antiquarian since the age of seven. He spends his free time traveling to sites associated with the ancient world and brings back genuine souvenirs of his visits that he is able to gain access to, thanks to his clerical collar!

Well, not only did I find each Roman coin (which he has collected from the many people who have found them in the basements of their London houses or wherever there is a dig of some sort going on in the city) but he categorizes them, gives you detailed provenance of each of them, dates them, etc. and sells then to raise funds for the church. I saw a beauty–a silver coin from the reign of Antonious Pius (first to second century AD) that I wanted to buy right away because I was so excited that I was actually holding a genuine Roman coin that had been working currency in the ancient world!!! However, the Verger did not take credit cards and I did not have enough cash on me, so I will have to return to pick it up.

When he saw how interested I was in the coins, the Verger took me to his safe and showed me fragments of pottery from archaeological sites that his Vicar had collected and labelled and which he was willing to sell me for any donation I wished to give. I parted with a few sous and ended up with two fragments–one from the Bhir Mound in Taxila (the ancient Indo-Gangetic university town), now in Pakistan and another large fragment from the handle of a Roman amphora from Monte Tess…. in Italy! Can you imagine how excited I was? Now, I know for a fact that these things have no monetary value at all–but for me, history buff that I am, this is a part of the ancient world that is actually in my possession–a tangible reminder of the glorious past that I can hold in my hand and marvel at. That was all I cared about as I safely bundled my goodies in my bag and left the church. Just see where happenstance led me???

Well, the walk continued then to the Temple of Mithras, an underground Roman Temple which has been recreated at ground level and is nothing more inspiring right now than a heap of cemented brick. The actual marble statues of Mithras (that were part of this haul) I have seen in the Guildhall Gallery and in the Museum of London. The Church of St. James Garlickhythe, my next stop, was closed though it is located in a very picturesque square, so on I pressed towards College Hill to the church of St. Michael Paternoster Royal (mind you, these are all Wren churches) where there is a stained glass window depicting Dick Wittington and his cat! Wittington did indeed become Lord Mayor of London four times and donated large amounts of the money he made to this church. Just a short walk uphill, you come across a blue plaque that announces the actual site of his mansion, now long gone.

The London Stone:
The last really interesting item to discover on this walk is the London Stone. This is now ensconced in an ornate wrought-iron grilled receptacle near 111 Cannon Street. While no one knows exactly what this is, it is conjectured that it was placed at the very heart of the old city of London during the Middle Ages though it is also possible that it was a Roman Milestone used to measure all distances from Londinium to other parts of the Roman empire in the province of Britannia. Not a single soul stopped to look at it (probably because no one really knows anything about its existence), but to me this was a remarkable find.

Meeting a Fellow-Blogger:
Then, I went out on foot towards Liverpool Street Station where I’d made plans to meet a regular reader of my blog. He chanced upon it a few weeks ago and has been giving me wonderful suggestions on places to see in the city. Murali is a mathematician in a bank who shares my passion for poetry, travel, London, theater, history, art, old houses, etc. and it was decided that we should put faces to each other’s writings as I have been frequently browsing through his blog and gaining valuable information from it.

He bought me a peppermint tea and settled down with a hot chocolate himself as we talked about our backgrounds and the circumstances that brought us, both Indian-born, to London. After a good hour during which we got to know each other better, he left me with some more suggestions for things to see and do in this city, before we said goodbye.

I had a couple of hours before I would make my way to the Globe Theater to see Shakespeare’s As You Like It, so I decided to do a second walk as its origin at the Museum of London was not too far at all from where I was.

Remnants of Rome:
This walk entitled “Remnants of Rome” has been done by me in little dribs and drabs over the past few weeks (without my really meaning to do this). It started at the London Wall near the Museum of London and took me into a little Herb Garden attached to the Worshipful Company of Barbers (can you even believe there is such a thing???!!-only in England, kids, only in England). From there, I could see the tall steeple of St. Giles Cripplegate Church where the poet Milton is buried. But it was closed and all I could do was admire it from the outside.

Reading about the London Wall taught me that the Romans had built a wall to surround the city of Londinium (in the same way that they did in York–which still stands quite superbly enclosing the old city). While much of it was destroyed by the Middle Ages, successive kings did fortify it so that the walls of the city of London stood until it was no longer necessary to use it as a form of defence. The various parts of the city today whose names end in ‘Gate’, as in Aldergate, Bishopsgate, Ludgate, Cripplegate (probably because crippled people congregated outside this gate begging for alms) etc. were actually gates into the city through the old walls!!! At any rate, I shall try to visit this church sometime in the future. Its antiquity is doubly curious since it stands today right in the midst of the huge township-like community that has developed around the Barbican including St. Giles Terrace, a number of very modern apartment buildings built around artificial lakes and fountains whose balconies spill over with colorful geraniums. Dotted around the area are old gardens, all of which are still so beautifully maintained.

A Tribute to Hemminge and Condell:
This walk continued towards the Guildhall which I have covered on other trails, so I decided to skip it this time and take a rest in a small garden on Aldermanbury Square where I made another charming discovery! This was not in my book either, so it was another one of those happy spots to which only serendipity led me. I found myself in a small garden with a bronze bust of Shakespeare in the center. Now I was going to see As You Like It later in the evening, so I wanted to find out what Shakespeare was doing in the middle of London’s Financial District.

Well, it turned out to be a monument to John Hemminge and Henry Condell, two of Shakespeare’s earliest editors. It was they, Shakespeare’s friends and fellow-actors in the theatrical world, who after his death in 1616 decided to put together a volume of all his plays–his Collected Works as it were, to be made available to the public. Now you must realize that none of these plays were in any one place. They were scattered all over, in Shakespeare’s own handwriting, with theater notes made on them, any amount of corrections and changes made to the script as Shakespeare or his collaborators thought suitable. Hemminge and Condell painstakingly brought all Shakespeare’s Tragedies, Comedies and Histories together in one volume–what we call the First Folio of 1623 (the Second Folio came out in 1632) and were it not for their labors, the works of the world’s greatest playwright might well have been lost (since play writing was not considered a respectable profession or a high art form and these working manuscripts were usually destroyed right after a play had finished its run).

Can you imagine a greater catastrophe than that!!!??? I had, of course, studied all this during my undergraduate years from the late Dr. Mehroo Jussawala, a Shakespeare scholar par excellence at the University of Bombay so many years ago. But to actually see a monument that acknowledges their efforts was deeply moving to me and as I sat there and gazed upon the bust of Shakespeare, I felt a tear well up in my eye.

And then when I considered how unassuming and modest about their achievements Hemminge and Condell had been, I was even more moved. For this is what they write in their Preface:

“We have but collected them, and done an office to the dead,–without ambition either of self-profit or fame; only to keep the memory of so worthy a Friend and Fellow alive as was our Shakespeare”.

Awwww!

Yet, despite their huge contribution to the History of Dramatic Art, nowhere have I ever seen them publicly acknowledged in this form. It was not until 1896 that someone called Charles Clement Walker of Lilleshall Old Hall, Shropshire, thought it fitting to reward their endeavors by creating and funding this monument that he placed in their memory in a part of the old City that they might have frequented. Bees buzzed around a great big patch of yellow flowers and another great big patch of lamb’s ears that grew tall and stately and were full of purple flower heads as I contemplated the long journey of the Bard from the Globe Theater to the hearts and minds of people around the world.

Off to the Globe Theater:
So it seemed only appropriate that my next port of call was Sam Wannamaker’s new Globe Theater on the opposite bank of the Thames which I crossed by strolling over Southwark Bridge. I pulled my suede jacket a bit more warmly around me and wondered if I had done the right thing going directly to the play without stopping at home to pick up a warmer coat. Still, I imagined it wouldn’t be too bad.

It was the opening night of Shakespeare’s As You Like It, a play which I know really well from having studied it as a student of Eng. Lit. years ago. I have also seen it in performance on at least two occasions and both times I remember that the character of Celia had been far more memorable than Rosalind.

Anyway, I was meeting my NYU colleague Matt who teaches Drama at NYU-London and is also the Theater Critic for the International Herald Tribune. He had invited me to use his free press pass on press night, an occasion that included a lovely buffet with a bar and an opportunity to pick up freebies–like a programme and a free cushion! Matt arrived at 6. 45 pm as we had planned and we spent a lovely evening together filling up on quiches and pork pies and sandwiches at the buffet and sipping elderflower juice (which I have developed a great fondness for here in London) and white wine for him.

As for the play, gosh, it was good! We loved every second of this charming production to which all of the characters lent their histrionic expertise. This Rosalind was far better than Celia, I have to say, and by far the two most interesting characters were Touchstone the Fool and Jacques who in their supporting roles provided refreshing comedic nuances. We also loved Peter Gayle who plays Amiens and lent his very pleasing voice indeed to the songs that are so intrinsic to this play. I told Matt that years ago, during my life in India, I had served as Theater Critic for The Free Press Journal–I had done this for almost ten years and had seen every significant dramatic production (both international and indigenous) that had ever come to Bombay. This explains why Chriselle gravitated towards a career in Acting–it was because she had accompanied me for years on end as a child, from one play production to the next, as I took notes and then churned out my reviews.

At the interval, we were downstairs nibbling again (on some really outstanding olives) and socializing and then we were back in the ‘galleries” (and how very grateful I was for my seat for I felt really sorry for the poor groundling sods standing in the pit!).

Darkness had fallen when I returned to Wobbly Bridge to cross it and walk home. Matt who lives in beautiful Hampstead was envious of the fact that I could just walk back. He turned towards London Bridge and left. Though I had expected a chilly night, it really wasn’t bad at all. The lights illuminated the many striking buildings, their reflections dipping into the river and in less than ten minutes after I passed by St. Paul’s Cathedral, I was home.

Osterley Park and House–Another Adam Masterpiece!

Jun7

Sunday, June 7, 2009
Osterley Park, London

The Silence of English Rain:
It was only because I was awoken today by a series of thunderclaps that I realized how quiet really is English rain! I mean for all these months that I have lived in London and for all the dreary, drizzling, dull and dripping days I’ve dealt with, never have I ever woken to the sound of rain–unlike the din that the downpours make in Bombay or the drumming of the drops that come down in sheets outside my Connecticut windows. English rain is silent rain. You see it, you feel it, you taste it, you smell in—but you never never hear it! This fact came home to me this morning when I actually heard the thunder and realized how odd the sound felt and how long it had been since my ears had picked up those deafening decibels.

I turned over in bed, reached for Potter, read about fifty pages, then promptly turned over and fell asleep again–awaking this time about 8. 30. This left me just enough time for a fragrant shower but not time enough to linger over coffee. I fixed myself a breakfast to go (toast with raspberry jam), dressed in layers and a trifle too warmly (as we’ve had a few nippy days and I did not want to feel chilly on the Thames’ tow paths) and was off. I caught a bus from Charterhouse Street, then connected to the 8 on High Holborn, then to the 9 that got me to Hammersmith and then the 419 that took me to Richmond. See? I am becoming quite a pro at this bus route thing!

My friend John was awaiting my arrival at Richmond Station and, at my request, we checked out some of the thrift shops in the area (inspired by Mary Portas who has lent her expertise to a recent feature in Time Out in London magazine on the city’s best thrift shops). It seems the ones in the towns and villages along the Thames (Richmond, Barnes, Twickenham, Putney) are particularly good and since I was in the neighborhood–what the heck! It was worth a dekko, I thought.

Well, I was not disappointed. John knew them all. From Richmond to St. Margaret’s, the little village in which he has a very cute flat, he accompanied me like a trooper. And my sleuthing was not in vain. By the end of my foraging, I emerged with a virtually new pair of Prada shoes and two English bone china mugs that commemorated the wedding of Prince Charles with Camilla–in their original boxes! Needless to say, I got these enviable items at bargain prices but then we were too laden with my purchases and the drizzle continued intermittently.

We decided to abandon our plans to walk at leisure along the Thames; but instead crossed Richmond Bridge (I saw a lovely interpretation of it in Trevor Chamberlaine’s oil painting at the Guildhall Art Gallery recently) and took a bus to Osterley. Our aim was to tour the National Trust-run property that was designed by Robert Adam called Osterley Park and House.

Visiting Osterley Park and House:
Once we alighted from the bus, we had about a ten minute walk to the gate of the property, after which we had to walk another ten minutes to get to the entrance of the house. Once past the gate, the visitor soaks in the wide expansive property on both sides of the driveway–property in which cattle grazed placidly or chewed the cud for the weather kept changing every ten minutes and by the time we reached Adam’s imposing Neo-Classical portico, past the beautiful artificial lake, every raindrop had dried and the sun shone warmly upon us.

We released our coats and brollies and jackets to the safe keeping of the staff at the front door and launched on our discovery of the premises. The best thing we could have asked for was the audio wand that comes free with admission (normally 8. 50 pounds though it was free for me as I am a National Trust member) for this proved to be extraordinarily useful as we flitted from room to room.

But, first things first. Modern-day visitors (i.e. We) do not enter the house by Adam’s intended main door. We use a far more modest side entrance. Why this is so is beyond my comprehension. If the Trust wishes visitors to achieve as exact an idea as possible of what it might have been like to be invited as a guest of the family in the 18th century, they ought to have permitted us the holistic experience! Nevertheless, the entrance was impressive as we were carried up a wide staircase and on to the first floor landing from where we saw a superb ceiling medallion done by none other than Peter Paul Reubens in the early 1700s. Now the original was removed for safe keeping in the early 20th century (during World War II), rolled up and placed in a warehouse on the Channel Island of Jersey–which promptly caught fire so that Reuben’s original work was destroyed. What adorns the ceiling of Osterley House today is a reproduction but it carries none of the subtlety of Reubens’ coloring (as anyone who has seen the ceiling of the Banqueting House at Whitehall would tell immediately).

Be that as it may, the audio wand told us the story of the inhabitants of this house at this stage in the tour. The house was built by James Child in the 18th century to a design by Robert Adam who was recognized as the greatest architect of his era specializing in the creation of the English country estate. Child had inherited his fortune from his ancestors who were Directors of the East India Company and had made their money a century previously trading in tea, cotton, silks, spices and, yes–it must be said–slaves! In 1763, he married a woman named Sarah who gave him one child, a daughter named Sarah Anne. The family lived for at least 30 years in Osterley Park at the time when most of the interior decoration was undertaken by Adam.

The tour wound us through the exquisite taste and grandeur of Adam’s aesthetic. If you have seen Syon House (or any one of the other stately homes for which he is responsible–see my blog on my visit to Syon House written last October), you will see a uniformity in his designs–his use, for instance, of symmetrically formal arrangements inspired by classical motifs in the Palladian style–such as urns and pilasters, columns and Greek key designs on moldings, the lavish use of white plaster of Paris embellishments contrasted against the matt backdrop of what has come to be called Wedgwood blue, green, teal and puce (because it was in the same era that Josiah Wedgwood was imitating the classicism of plaster of Paris interior decoration on his ‘Jasperware’ pottery in his factory in Stoke-on-Trent in the Midlands).

Apart from this, Adam’s most striking signature feature, there are paintings galore in the house, executed directly on ceilings or as panels on the walls of each room or as framed canvasses then used to decorate them. Collections of fine European and English porcelain, marquetry work on furniture. impressive sideboards and other occasional seating pieces (a Robert Adam-designed bed is the most stunning centerpiece in the master bedroom) and other accoutrements make up the bulk of the house. Special mention must be made of the Tapestry Room whose walls are lined by Tapestries whose four center medallions are woven interpretations of a series of paintings by Francois Boucher called The Seasons. This work is so finely executed that were the visitor not informed that it was tapestry on the wall, he would well have believed he was looking at paintings. These tapestries were made in France by the famous Gobelin factory and they must be among the most valuable things in the place. Downstairs, visitors walked through enormous kitchens in which prodigious amounts of food were cooked and conveyed by a stealthy series of staircases and concealed doors for the gastronomic pleasure of the family and their privileged guests. Overall, not too bad an ancestral pile at all!

The audio guides were superb in pointing attention to each of the features of the rooms as well as providing a wealth of historical, artistic and architectural information to further enhance enjoyment of the visual feast. What came home to me on this visit was that the Neo-Classical architect needed to combine the genius of three varied disciplines in the execution of his work: as builder, engineer and artist. Indeed, all these elements combined to make this one of the most enjoyable tours of a country estate that I have ever taken. Though Osterley lacks the ostentation of, say, Vanbrugh’s Castle Howard near York, it is a magnificent building and one that I was very glad John accompanied me in visiting.

Tea in the Stables:
Our visit had rendered us ravenous and we were glad that sustenance awaited not too far away–in the picturesque Tea Rooms that extended out into the Tea Garden–a brick-walled enclosed garden with wrought iron furniture and green canvas umbrellas. We settled down to cups of steaming Darjeeling and a cheese scone and how welcome was that treat! Truly, if it was the East (China and India) that bestowed the habit of tea-drinking upon the English, it was they who gave to the rest of the world that charming meal called Tea-time. I often wish it were not the issue of the tea tax that had led to the loss of the thirteen North American colonies. It was probably out of defiance that the American colonists rejected the delightful customs of tea-time–which explains why we do not pause for tea at 4 o clock in America while the people of every former British colony everywhere else in the world do!!! Or maybe Anna, the Duchess of Bedford, who is credited with having started the delightful custom of tea-drinking by surreptitiously calling for the drink with a snack in her boudoir had not yet initiated her habit by the time the colonists dumped that shipload of tea in Boston Harbor!

A quick look at a film in the former stables and a browse around the shop and it was already 5 pm and the park was closing down for the day. John and I walked past the lovely lake, took some pictures together to commemorate our visit and then were walking along the rural pastures that had made agriculture such a lucrative pursuit for the 18th century aristocracy–it was not for nothing that they were called the landed gentry! If you could only see the endless acres stretching all the way to the horizon that surround this house! It wasn’t long before we said our goodbyes, parted at the bus-stop and went our separate ways.

I have begun to master the routes to Charterhouse Street and in an hour and a half, I was home. I had almost an hour-long conversation with Llew on the phone before I stopped to eat my dinner (a rather light one of chicken noodle soup and toast with chocolate praline ice-cream for dessert) as that scone still stood me in good stead.

It was soon time to write this blog, get ready for bed and go to sleep, my appetite entirely whetted for the feast of country estates and gardens that await me on my proposed tour.

Seeing Samantha Bond in Stoppard’s Arcadia and Liberty of London

Jun6

Saturday, June 6, 2009
London

In keeping with my resolution to always get substantial work done before I goof off, I awoke at 7. 30 am, read some Potter, proofread my blog, caught up with my email, then stopped for a spot of breakfast–make that a whole cup of coffee and some toast with preserves. I am trying to finish up all the odds and ends of food stuff left over from my pantry supplies as I do not want to take any of it back to the States. And time is flying…

Then, it was back to the drawing board for me as I began transcribing an interview I did with Gerry in Wembley. This neighborhood is quiet, quieter than Holborn, if that is at all possible. While Holborn did carry the occasional screech of tyres up to my third floor window even on weekend mornings, I do not hear a squeal here at all–the better to get my work done.

It was while I was hammering away at my PC that the email came–offering me free tickets to see Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia. This is a play I had toyed with the idea of seeing for a while–not only do I think Stoppard is quite the most brilliant living playwright in England (I speak here with knowledge of The Real Thing, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and, of course, his unforgettable Oscar Award-winning screenplay for Shakespeare in Love)–but the play stars Samantha Bond whose performance in Distant Shores I had loved when I saw her play the very feisty wife of a physician (played by Peter Davison) on a PBS channel in the States. So, when the offer of free tickets fell into my lap, I grabbed it. A few calls on my cell phone and I found company–my buddy Rosemary agreed to drop all her scheduled cleaning chores to go with me (I didn’t have to do too much arm-twisting!) and we decided to meet at the Duke of York Theater at 2. 15 pm. This gave me enough time to have a relaxed shower, get back to my transcription, dress, and leave the house at 1. 15 pm to pick up tickets outside Covent Garden at 1. 45 pm.

I have yet to figure out which bus stops are closest to my new roost, which routes they serve and how to make connections–but I am sure all that will be sorted soon. What I did find when I set out was that the entire Smithfield Market area was barricaded. Apparently, there were to be some major bicycle races there in the evening. I did find an odd Number 11 stop by (all buses were re-routed) and hopped off at Covent Garden and, against all my expectations, made it there on time to pick up the tickets.

London is just crawling with tourists right now and the attractions are buzzing with buskers. It is difficult to cut through the crowds and though, at most times, I do enjoy the travel energy associated with these folks (God knows I have enough of it myself!), I have to say it was annoying this afternoon.

However, I did pick up the tickets and a hearty ham and mustard sandwich from M&S Simply Food which I munched en route to the Theater on St. Martin’s Lane which kept the hunger pangs at bay.

Rosemary was waiting for me in the lobby. It wasn’t long before we found our seats and chinwagged until the curtain went up. She had bought a program while awaiting my arrival and I was glad she did. Not only did it have an extraordinary amount of information on the actors, but it was full of notes about the history of landscaping in England as the play is themed around the changing fashions in English garden design from the classical to the naturalism of Lancelot (Capability) Brown to the Picturesque style that followed. Hannah, in the play, speaks of Brown who was influenced by Claude Lorraine (French landscape painter) who was, in turn, influenced by Virgil (Italian medieval poet). She says:

“English landscape was invented by gardeners imitating foreign painters who were evoking classical authors. The whole thing was brought home in the luggage from the Grand Tour”.

These have to be among the most striking lines in the play and a perfect example of Stoppard’s erudition–and this is only one example. . Of course, those of us who have kept up with the trends beyond the 19th century know that in the 20th, English garden design continued to evolve with Gertrude Jekyll and Edwin Lutyens collaborating to create the concept of Garden Rooms–a venture in which they were joined by the redoubtable Vita Sackville-West who presented us with her famous White Garden at Sissinghurst.

I know I digress when I say that perhaps it was fitting that I should see this play the very weekend I am beginning to make plans for a week-long tour of the Grand Country Estates and Gardens of England. This is another one of the items on my List of Things To-Do before leaving England and since June is possibly the best month to visit English gardens, I can think of no reason to waste any more time. Besides, my friend Loulou in whose fabulous loft I am currently staying, was just telling me only a few days ago that she has to get her garden ready for a local garden club that is about to visit her estate garden in Suffolk. For she is a dedicated gardener and if her home (whose en suite spare room I am currently occupying while she spends most of her week in Suffolk) is anything to go by, her garden must be ethereal! I can’t wait to take her up on her offer to visit her there and see it for myself. By comparison, I am sure that my Connecticut garden, a tour of which is on my website, must seem like a blooming traffic island!

So there was I familiarising myself with the vocabulary of English landscape design from ‘hermitages’ and ‘hahas’ to ‘gazebos’ and ‘wilderness’ as much as I grappled with the more esoteric aspects of the script that derive from mathematics about which, I have to admit, an abiding ignorance–one of the characters deals with chaos theory and utilizes it to help figure out the grouse population on the estate. Infused into this rather abundant pastiche of allusions are those from literature–from Lord Byron (who is central to the plot) and Lady Caroline Lamb, to Mrs. Radcliff and Robert Southey–so that the creative arts constantly intersect the sciences. Newton is thrown in for good measure as are Euclid and Fermat and Carnot. Stoppard is nothing if not intellectual, so go prepared for a cerebral roller coaster ride in the theater.

After you have stopped gasping at the verbal and conceptual pyrotechnics of this play, you will have a chance to be swept away by the engaging performances especially of Bernard Nightingale (played very energetically by Neil Pearson whom we have all seen in the Bridget Jones films among other things) and Bond herself (who brings to this role the same mixture of sensuality and physicality I had grown to love in Distant Shores). The set design lends itself perfectly to the juxtaposition of two different eras (the early Romantic Age and our own early 21st) and the comings and goings of historic and more contemporary characters who waltz around each other literally and figuratively on the stage. Prepare to be enchanted.

Inside Liberty of London:
When the play was over, we went our separate ways. Having equipped myself with a map and bus guide, I found my way to Liberty of London which is on Great Marlborough Street just off Regent Street but closer to the Oxford Circus (not the Piccadilly) end. And what a building it turned out to be! Just charming! I mean, I had seen pictures of this store and was prepared for a Tudor building. But how cleverly the space inside has been employed. It is simply stunning. I have yet to read up a bit about the history of the building. Is it a genuine Tudor building? Or a Victorian masquerade made in imitation of the Tudor idiom? God knows…and I will find out, I know, soon enough from the garrulous Web. But for the moment, I have to say I was delighted I stepped in.

It really is a London institution and I cannot for the life of me explain why I haven’t been in here before! Why is it that I have always visited Harrods? Why is Selfridges always on my list of stores to sample? Well, better late than never—so I guess I can say Been There, Done That to Liberty to London and tick another item off my List. Needless to say, everything was screamingly pricey, but then what did I expect if not sticker-shock? And this is perhaps the very first store in which I have ever browsed where every possible precaution has been taken against those endowed with sticky fingers. I mean as if the CCTV thing (such a fixture in London) were inadequate, there are locks and long telephone coil-like extensions attached to all the big label items! Watch out Winona!

Nor did I walk out empty handed. Indeed I was presented with some pretty nice samples–Dr. Perricone’s skin care products for face and eye area–the deep penetrating night creams, said to work wonders in two weeks. I’ve seen the good doctor peddle his wares on the box in the States but never have I seen his range in a department store. Well, try them I will. Hopefully something lovely will come out of my gallivanting into Liberty!

I had half a mind to undertake one of my walking tours in the St. Paul’s Cathedral area but then it had turned nippy and I wasn’t adequately dressed (nor did I have the right walking shoes on) for a gad about the graveyards of the East End. I decided to get home instead and finish transcribing my interview as I have another full day ahead of me tomorrow (a Thames-side visit to Osterley House and Park), so I figured I’d better conserve my stamina for the hike that lies ahead.

The area around Smithfield Market had been transformed. Crowds had gathered to cheer the cyclists on and provided me with the opportunity to take a few pictures as the competitors warmed up. I do not believe that this sports meet has a name yet, but the commentator kept raving about the fact that it is becoming more popular each year and poised to take its place soon as one of the capital’s most exciting events. Well, if that ever happens, I will be able to say that I caught the races while the event was still in its infancy. For I did stand around and take it all in and then I continued to stay abreast of what was going on as the commentary floated up to my loft home while I ate my dinner.

Yes, indeed, back home, I ate an early dinner (chicken noodle soup out of a packet and pasta with Chocolate mousse out of a pot) and I returned to my room to continue my transcription. When it was all done, I stopped to brush and floss my teeth, get ready for bed and write this blog.

I’d say it was rather a productive Saturday, wouldn’t you?

June 8, 2009:
PS: Did have a chance to read up a bit about the history of Liberty of London and this is what I have found out (Courtesy of The English Home magazine):
Liberty of London was founded by Arthur Lasenby Liberty in 1875. “The creation of a recognisable look for the shop was always a conscious aim of its founder and his most shrewd move was the building of a Tudor shop, which was completed in 1924. This addition meant that the building itself became the shop’s trademark and a symbol of its founding values”.

I would also agree with writer Harriet Paige who says, in the same magazine, that:
” And it is perhaps the buildings themselves–Liberty’s timber-frame structure, Fortnum and Mason’s eccentric time-piece and Harrod’s Edwardian frontage–that has ensured Britain’s great department stores have become true London landmarks”.

I mean, I think this is absolutely true. Other than Macy’s which does have an iconic building all its own on an individual block at 34th Street and Sixth Avenue, none of the New York department stores stand out in any way in terms of their buildings. Each one looks exactly like the other–there is no character, no individuality, indeed no imagination whatsoever that has gone into their making. This is what, I suppose, has always made England so enthralling to me and the States…well, so blah!

Dallying in Dulwich! And Transcribing Another Interview

Jun5

Friday, June 5, 2009
Dulwich, London

It seems that either I stay up half the night with sleeplessness or I awake at 8. 15 (now this has to be the latest I have ever awoken here!) and panic. Because I had plans to meet my friend Janie at East Dulwich Station at 9. 30, I tore out of bed, washed, got dressed (no, I did not shower–no time!), threw two slices of bread into the toaster (to eat on the bus) and was out the door like greased lightning!!!!

The 63 took its time trundling along Farringdon Road, but I made the connection to the 176 heading towards Penge really quickly on Blackfriars Bridge and I was at the appointed place at the appointed hour–by some inexplicable miracle! And Janie was not there! It was then that I realized (quelle horreur!) that I had left my cell phone at home!!! I am now beginning to realize that I can get out of the house without my bus pass but NOT without my cell phone.

So, of course, all I could do was twiddle my thumbs and wait…and wait…and wait. Just when I was beginning to despair, I stepped inside and asked the ticket clerk if there was another entrance to the station. Nah. So there I was freezing slowly (because it was a really chilly day which felt like a normal summer’s day in England instead of the scorchers we’ve recently had). At a few minutes before 10 am, I began to consider alternatives. I could take a bus and get to the Dulwich Picture Gallery which was our aim and meet her there. Hopefully, she would still stick with our original plans and not go back home to Clapham (she was driving).

Well, just when my options began to become more concrete, along came Janie! Hallelujah!!! Many relieved hugs and kisses later (she was waiting at the wrong station–North Dulwich instead of East Dulwich!), we were off. Janie suggested she give me a little driving tour of Dulwich Village first. I requested a stop on the street on which Kamala Markandaya used to live. She is the late Indo-British author on whom my doctoral dissertation was based (which subsequently led to the publication of my first book, a scholarly criticism of her novels).

A quick check into Janie’s A to Z revealed that we were not too far away from her place at all and then within five minutes, there we were, in a street filled with lovely Victorian terraced homes with their plaster embellishments running all along the porches and the window frames. I stepped out, took a couple of pictures and then we were back again in the car, heading off to the Village.

My friend Janie is a lover of all things Georgian but mainly their architecture and she is also an authority on it–so it is always a joy to take an excursion with her as I end up learning so much and to see with informed eyes. Traveling with her means becoming aware of things I would never have found out on my own. For instance, she stopped outside a block of houses with blackened brick and explained to me how the windows were raised and lowered using a concept of weights and pulleys that were concealed in the broad window frames! Just next door was a later Victorian house that still used the same mechanism, but the apparatus was hidden inside the house so that the broad window ledges and crowning frames disappeared by the mid-1900s. Not only has Janie an eye for these things but she has the knowledge and the enthusiasm to explain every last detail and the awe and passion in her voice as she speaks is unmistakable.

Getting to Know Edward Alleyn:
She then went on to tell me about Edward Alleyn, a name that I knew was familiar but could not immediately place. When she mentioned Christopher Marlowe, something clicked in my brain, and I remembered he was the Elizabethan actor-manager (of the Rose Theater, a competitor of the Globe) who had taken the debut role of Dr. Faustus in Marlowe’s play. Well, like Shakespeare, Alleyn made a stack of ducats and ended up with a finger in many business ventures, including dubious ones like bear baiting and brothels! Then, one day, during the scene in Dr. Faustus with Mephistopheles in hell in which he is surrounded by 12 devils, Alleyn counted 13! And that changed his life. He decided that he was a man wealthy beyond his wildest expectations and ought to give something back to the society that had so nurtured his talents and allowed them to bloom. It was schools for little boys that he was going to found with his excess wealth and that he set about doing in the Village of Dulwich in which he lived and had a grand mansion.

So began the God’s Gifts School–first one, then another, then yet another, until the education of boys became his passion and he poured all his profits into them. The establishment of Dulwich College (a private school for boys) soon followed and you can see the imposing red brick building with its exterior Victorian flourishes (reminiscent of The Victoria and Albert Museum) and its magnificent wrought-iron gate alongside his house just next door to the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Janie’s son goes to one of these schools which is how she is so familiar with the history and origin of this set of fine public (which means private!) schools. I took many pictures (despite the drizzle that played almost all day) and decided to explore the area on foot after Janie left at mid-day as she had domestic commitments.

The Dulwich Picture Gallery and Sickert in Venice:
By the time we arrived at the beautiful purpose-built building that comprises the Dulwich Picture Gallery (no marks for guessing that the architect was Sir John Soanes, he of the Bank of England and the famed Museum that bears his name), we were starving and decided that a little pick-us-up of toasted croissants with caffe lattes would do very nicely, thank-you. So we headed off first to the cafeteria and sat ourselves down and caught up! I had last seen Janie when she was kind enough to drive me to Rochester, Kent, to pick up my antique weighing scale. Turned out, she had since then received the contract to design posters and other such graphics for the Rochester Cathedral based on their eagle logo, which she had visited for the first time on her trip with me!

Well, it turns out that Janie actually knows some folks in the antiques shipping biz and I might end up getting a better quotation for the shipping of my antique bureau-desk back home to Connecticut. Wouldn’t that be lover-ly, as Eliza Dolittle would say? More chatter, more sips of latte, more bites into our crispy croissant, and then we were ready to see the collection.

My Met ID card worked and I was granted free entry into the special exhibit entitled “Sickert in Venice”. Entrance into the Gallery is usually free–it is only the special exhibits for which you pay. I felt very pleased indeed though Janie did buy herself a ticket–a rather steep nine pounds, I might add for an exhibition that spanned just four small rooms.

So it was the Sickert we looked at first of all. Those canvasses took me right back to Venice and the fun days I had spent there last March with my friends Amy and Mahnaz. I had gone there for a conference organized at the Venice International University and made a holiday of it–and what a blast it was! Well, there they were…all those images reminding me of those awed times that we climbed the Campanile in Piazza San Marco to watch the pigeons in the square below; the baldachino in the Basilica San Marco that conceals the stunning Pala D’Oro behind it (easily one of the most beautiful things in the whole world that I have ever seen!), the canals with their bobbing gondolas or stopping by the pallazos–some still shining, others rather decrepit, the Rialto Bridge gleaming in the artistic sunshine in shades of pink and blue and yellow. All those memories came rushing at me in Impressionistic idiom and color and I sighed and gazed and sighed again. Sickert’s perspective is often oblique, his tendency (as in the new photographic form) closely cropped to focus on just one element of a Renaissance structure or on the effect of silvery moonlight on a watery canal. It was magical.

And then there were his portraits–mainly of prostitutes who posed for him, their hair coiled up like Japanese geisha girls. More portraits of their mothers saw them looking pale, forlorn and very pathetic indeed. Women in bed sleeping quietly while watched, women stretching lazily like so many graceful felines, women bending over their baths, women chatting companionably (though, in reality, they were ruthless rivals for the same clientele). Surely those years in Venice (the early 1900s) might have been adventurous in the extreme for the young Sickert escaping strait-laced Victorian respectability and middle-class morality in England and sowing his wild oats under the Venetian sun!

Janie left soon after, allowing me to browse through the rest of the small but rather lovely collection. There were a few outstanding canvasses, I thought–the one of ‘Mrs. Moody and her Children’ by Gainsborough was particularly evocative because she died so soon after it was painted and her little boys (both wearing girls’ dresses with great big sashes and bows as, I understand, was the custom until boys were potty-trained!) were painted in later. This naturalized portrait compares intriguingly with Gainsborough’s earlier work such as Mr. and Mrs. Andrews (in the National Gallery) which are so much stiffer and stylized. Also lovely was a portrait of a girl at a window by Rembrandt (recently restored and rather beautifully at that) in which she gazes at the viewer quite saucily, her eyes bright with hope for her future. Peter Lely’s young man (not really a portrait since the person in neither known nor named) is wonderfully lit, his features glowing golden in the clever artificial lighting. There were stunning Murillos, Riberas and a Velasquez portrait of Phillip IV in rather an unusual pose.

All the while, you are walking through rooms created by Sir John Soanes, himself a great lover of art and a collector (see Hogarth’s series called The Rake’s Progress in his house at Lincoln’s Inn Field) and I can see how carefully he must have considered the placement of the windows to allow maximum natural light without diminishing the clarity of the paint as time passed by. There are his classical embellishments–the use of four decorative urns at the top of the main entrance, but some modern touches as well–the use of rather unusually designed doors. There is a classical austerity in the many arches, brick-bound and sombre. Enjoy the art but also pause to enjoy the architecture–for the more I see of the work of Soanes and the more I get to know the man, the more he is beginning to feel like an old friend.

Exploring Dulwich Village:
It was time to potter around the Village and my first stop was the spacious grounds of Edward Alleyn’s house (now turned into a number of almshouses). There is a chapel that is open only on Tuesday afternoons but beautifully landscaped rose gardens that were brimming over with fragrant blossoms–a significant flower for the Elizabethans loved roses with a passion. There is also a bronze sculpture that celebrates Alleyne’s thespian contributions to the Theater and set against the quiet square and the blushing roses, they took me right back to those passionate times when blank verse rang out from sawdust covered stages and the groundlings screeched their approval of bawdy lines.

I strolled through Dulwich Village which revealed itself to be studded with coffee shops, a church hall filling rapidly with adorable pink tutu-sporting toddlers off for their ballet lessons, one-of-a-kind boutiques and a few patisseries. It wasn’t long before I got back on the bus, delighted to have made the acquaintance of a rather lovely part of London that has largely remained undiscovered by the conventional tourist.

As the bus wound through Peckham High Street, I spied the Clark Factory Store and out I jumped, hoping to find some plantar fascittis-friendly sandals for the coming summer. And there they were –just the kind I wanted marked at one-third the price in the high street plus I got the second pair at one pound! Hey, you can’t beat a deal like that, so out I walked with a big bag and my summer footwear wardrobe in my hand. I might just make a trip there again next week to take a look at the newer stock as I had reached there at the very end of the day when the shelves were mostly empty and my size was almost impossible to find.

Back home, I made myself a very early plate of dinner (was starving as I had eaten no lunch) which I ate while watching TV for exactly 15 minutes and at 6. 40pm, I began transcribing the interview I did with Noel in Hounslow–an interview that had gone on for hours and would take at least three more to complete. In-between I chatted with Llew and made a few more calls. After the transcribing, the proof reading began and when I looked next at my watch, it was 11 pm!!! Just enough time to get ready for bed, read a bit of Potter and fall off (hopefully without having to count too many sheep).