Tag Archive | Oxford

Sissinghurst, Grosvenor House Antiques Fair, Dinner at St. John

Jun16

Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sissinghurst, Kent

Morning Rumination:
I had what one might call a phenomenal day–and I rarely use that term lightly. I mean, I awoke at 6. 30 am. I am now convinced that the reason I could never sleep beyond 5 am in my former flat at High Holborn was because it was much too warm at night. Not only was there a lack of cross-ventilation but I used to sleep under a down comforter (that’s American for a duvet) and I am sure that the combination caused me to wake up far too early each morning. It is also quieter here as traffic noises do not reach me in this secluded fold of Farringdon. At any rate, with the longer hours I am sleeping here, I wake up deeply refreshed. Though it is supposedly summer, this bedroom is far cooler and though day breaks as early as 4 am, I sleep like a baby till 7!

I read Harry Potter for an hour making swift progress. I am now only a hundred pages from the end of Book VI which leaves me just one more volume to finish–shall probably read that one next week in Oxford. At 7. 30, I checked my email, responded to notes that required immediate action and at 8.00 am, I entered my bathroom for a shower, prepared a toast and melted cheese sandwich (breakfast to go) and took the bus to my Bedford Square NYU campus as I needed to photocopy some forms that I filled out last night for my Oxford stint.

I had intended to spend the day at Sissinghurst ‘Castle’ and Garden in Kent but since the bus that went from the railway station in Kent to the garden only left twice a day (at 11. 45 am and 1. 45 pm), I had the time to print out a few of the many interviews that I have been transcribing in the past couple of weeks. However, soon I noticed that the toner of my printer in my office needed to be replenished and, on scanning the train schedule, I discovered that I would need to hurry to get to Charing Cross within the next 45 minutes to take the 10. 30 am train to Staplehurst.

I locked up my office quickly, caught the 29 bus to Charing Cross, bought a return day ticket (15 pounds round trip) and made the 10. 30 am train just in the nick of time. It was a very leisurely hour long ride to Staplehurst where I would connect to the public shuttle bus that would deposit me at the garden.

Train to Kent:
The train journey to Kent on South Eastern Railway was pleasance personified. En route, I read up City Secrets of London, a book that gives insider tips on the most interesting and unique bits and pieces of the city. Now that I have almost come to the end of my year in London, I do want to make sure I see the very last dregs of the city’s ‘sights’.

We passed by some of the most recognizable city landmarks (Hungerford Bridge, the London Eye–up close and looming ahead of me like a gigantic bicycle wheel–Tower Bridge, the Gherkin–indeed this was the first time I was traveling by train across the Thames and it was a pretty marvelous experience on what was another truly spectacular day).

When we left the city behind, we zoomed into a tunnel and it took us quite a while to get out of it…but when we did, we had magically left urbanity behind and emerged into the Kentish countryside that lay quiet and emerald bright in the golden light of day. Mile upon mile of velveteen lawn sprawled out before me as far as my eye could see punctuated only by the white conical hats of the rust oast houses in which the famous Kentish hops are dried for the brewing of its famous beers (Shepherd Naeme is the oldest brewery in the country and it is based in the medieval town of Faversham). Not for nothing is Kent called The Garden of England–indeed orchards that in autumn would yield the sweetest pears, apples and plums were plain to see as the train whizzed past and I could quite easily imagine the splendour of their spring-time blooms.

Arrival at Sissinghurst:
I arrived at Staplehurst in exactly an hour. There was a bus awaiting me at the station at 11. 30 am. when we pulled in. It is a quaint toy-like building seemingly in the middle of nowhere. In fifteen minutes’ time, after we’d driven through the town of Staplehurst (4 pounds round trip) with its exposed beam houses and medieval pubs, we were in the midst of rural Kent, fields with the occasional sheep wandering through them, proclaiming its farming pursuits. The signs to Sissinghurt Castle and Garden were prominent, proudly displayed by The National Trust that owns and maintains the property.

The History of Sissinghurst:
For students of contemporary English Literature, the name of Sissinghurst ought to be familiar (as indeed it has been to me for decades). Associated with novelist, gardening columnist and gardener, Vita Sackville-West, a prominent member of The Bloomsbury Group and a close friend of novelist Virginia Woolf, the home and garden have become legendary and a compulsory stop on the itinerary of any English garden-lover. I have read about this place and seen umpteen pictures in the many gardening magazines to which I have a subscription–both writers and gardeners have been fascinated with the lives and the outcome of its residents.

Born Victoria Sackville-West to an aristocratic family at the turn of the 20th century, ‘Vita’ as she became known, was raised in Knole House (which I shall be visiting later this week) in Kent, an old Elizabethan country estate that had been in her family since the time of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset to whom it had been gifted by Queen Elizabeth I. Because she was a female, Vita could not inherit property in those backward Victorian and Edwardian Ages. Knole House, therefore, passed on to other members of her family; but upon her marriage to Harold Nicholson, Vita bought Sissinghurst since she always wanted to live close to Knole and in the midst of the Kentish countryside.

Sissinghurst had been an abandoned property for at least a hundred years when it fell into the hands of Vita and Harold. It had last seen occupation during World War I when French soldiers were stationed there. It was they who thought that the remnants of the old Tudor mansion with its unique tower resembled a chateau and the term ‘Castle’ was used for the first time in connection with the property at Sissinghurst–a designation that stuck. It came to be known as Sissinghurst Castle and Garden– a fact that must have pleased the history and tradition-conscious Vita!

For the next three decades, Vita and Harold lived at Sissinghurst, raising their two sons, Nigel and Ben there (and their dog Rebecca), writing their novels, their reviews, literary criticism and biographies and…most famously, creating a garden. Indeed, the last was their mutual passion and it was Harold who designed the property in such a way as to create divisions within it–the divisions that have come to be termed ‘garden rooms’. These divisions were achieved through the use of tall hedges, box and yew borders, red brick walls (now covered with ivy, creepers and climbing roses) and bent wood edging.

Vita, for her part, planned the plantings with the idea of creating separate, individual gardens each themed differently (the Herb Garden, the Rose Garden, the Cottage Garden and, most well-known of all and possibly the reason so many people travel to Sissinghurst each year for a glimpse of it, the White Garden). It was for all these reasons that I have wanted so badly to visit Sissinghurst in season. I yearned to walk in the footsteps of this fascinating literary couple who left their mark on gardening history as well as created a sense of marital camaraderie and shared interests that have always appealed to the Romantic in me.

I have to say that I have visited Sissinghurst before–about four years ago, in the company of my cousin Cheryl and her husband David. But we had arrived there at the end of November when the garden had been closed for the year. All we could see then was the moat that surrounds the property and the twin turrets of the Tower. This time, I was determined to go in June, when I knew the gardens would be at their prime and, believe me, if I could have ordered the kind of day I would have liked for this expedition, I could not have chosen better!

Touring Sissinghurst:
Sissinghurst is open only three days a week–on Tuesdays, Saturdays and Sundays. I can just imagine the hordes that must descend upon the place at the weekends in the summer. If the number of people present today was anything to go by, well, I am glad I did not wait for the weekend but chose this odd day instead. There were numerous coach groups, comprised, no doubt, of garden club members. I loved the fact that so many of the visitors were elderly (the average age of the visitors was sixty if they were a day) and they were dressed in the ubiquitous wide-brimmed straw hats that made so many of them appear as if they would bend down any minute and start doing a bit of weeding themselves!

Apart from the clothing and headgear that is so distinctive a part of English garden visitors, there are the comments and I absolutely love to eavesdrop on them: “Oh, do you see those roses. Aren’t they extraordinary?” and “My word, is that clematis? How do those flowers grow so large?” and “Would you look at those delphiniums? Just lovely, they are!” Toddlers, meanwhile, stumbled among the foliage of a border bed and were lifted gingerly by mothers pushing strollers while gardening staff trundled along, their wheel barrows filled with the plants they’d uprooted to thin the beds.

I had the time of my life and realized as I flitted, butterfly-like, from one garden room to the next, that there is a limit to the love of one’s own company! For it is difficult to be in a garden and remain silent. I mean, for the many months that I have tolerated my own company in this city, I spent hours in museums or in art galleries in intellectual or in artistic contemplation of greatness. But, in a garden, where it is not the mind that is stimulated but the senses, one must simply express in verbal form, one’s delight in one’s surroundings. How is it possible, for instance, to pass by a clump of two-colored sweet peas and not exclaim at their uniqueness? How can one survey a batch of brand-new snow-white Icecap Delphiniums that are taller than I am and not gasp in disbelief? How can one possibly pass by irises, yellow as buttercups, and not wonder at the concealed stakes that must hold up those weighty sunshiny heads? And yet somehow, I managed to curtail my natural verbose impulses and simply imbibe as best I could the brilliance of the vision and the doggedness of the effort that had created so splendid a sight before my dazzled eyes.

So treading my way at leisure through the Purple Garden with its lavender and salvia and the first lupins I believe I have ever seen in my life, I entered the Library. This Tudor building (completely clad in red brick) was once the Stable and housed the horses who undoubtedly worked in the fields in centuries when Sissinghurst was a working farm. Harold and Vita converted it into the library, inserted windows, a gigantic stone Inglenood fireplace and loads of books that line the walls like soldiers. A quick peek at their titles showed me works by Horace Walpole, Herbert Spencer and William Blake. There is a striking oil-painted portrait of Vita above the mantelpiece–she is not a beautiful woman but she exudes breeding like her rose bushes exude fragrance–effortlessly! I was struck by the coziness created by the use of Turkish kilims on the floor and an abundance of lamps. The room just begged to be sat in and enjoyed, preferably with a good book in hand.

Outside, I walked towards the twin turrets of The Tower and found a line waiting to climb the spiral stairway to the top for what, I could only assume, would be thrilling views of the Kentish countryside. A few minutes later, I was curling myself around those stone-steps lined with portraits of Ottoman personalities that were inherited by Vita’s mother. En route, I passed by the most charming octagonal shaped room–Vita’s boudoir (though they call it her study–a term far too bland, I believe, for her flamboyant personality). This room was bagged by Vita as soon as she saw it and she cozied it up, as she had done the library, with a chaise-longue (for swift naps, no doubt, in-between her bouts of strenuous writing), a bent wood chair, a desk that was cluttered with writing paraphernalia and a black and white portrait of her dear friend Virginia Woolf, and in an ante-room, stacks of books on the wall. Virginia would, no doubt, have been envious of Vita’s Room of Her Own (as indeed I was)!

More twirling around the spiral steps and I was up at the summit where the scene spread out before me was indeed as thrilling as I expected. The garden beneath me looked like a patchwork quilt upon which Lilliputtians crawled for the folks inspecting them were suddenly shrunken in size. I could hardly stop myself from taking pictures of the property from on high.

And then I was down and finally in the White Garden (entered by the cutest wooden door set in a red brick wall) and had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually there in the flesh–for God knows how many times I have been here virtually and in my imagination. Could I imagine what this place looked like on a full moon night? Just as splendid as must the Taj Mahal, I thought, as I took in the sights of white shrub roses and tall white poppies (the first I have ever seen), white nicotiana whose fragrant heads brushed my trousers and white foxgloves, giant white peonies and white shoo fly flowers and there, standing like a proud focal point in the garden, the Icecap Delphiniums that the gardeners created only this year replacing what they called “poor Galahad” who now seems like a poor relation at the same wedding banquet! These towered above and dwarfed me (as you can see from the picture below).

It was time to pause to take in the flowery feast spread out before me and it was by a sheer stroke of luck that I found a shaded arbor that was planted with what was probably wisteria vine that had finished blooming. Seating myself at a table that seemed tailor-made for a picnic, I pulled out my sandwich and began to munch when I was joined by the sweetest pair of ladies you could imagine. I have written before about the basic unfriendliness of the English, particularly in gardens, where they stick to their own company and do not welcome intrusions.

A Chance Brush with the British Raj:
Well, these two ladies proved me wrong–you cannot generalize about anything, can you? Jeanie and Beatrice were friendly and warm and by their speech–both accent and diction–I could tell two things: they were ladies of quality and they had traveled. For it is only those who have had some kind of global exposure who can be so open to fellow travelers on the road of life. And then guess what? It was all revealed. Both these ladies who unbelievably were in their mid-80s (how on earth was that possible??!!) had been born in India and had lived a good part of their early lives in Calcutta–in fact, one of them had her daughter at the Elgin Hospital, she said–a lovely lady whom I met a little later. Their fathers were stationed in India during the fading days of the Raj and they knew that glorious eastern city in her colonial heyday. No, neither one of them had been back in at least a half century but they cherished the fondest memories of their days there. We had the nicest conversation–they were articulate and curious and had minds sharp as buttons! Glory be to them (and may I have that same inquisitiveness of spirit when I become a octogenarian)!

A half hour later, my sandwich all consumed, their daughters joined us–lovely women (probably cousins) who looked at if they might be my own contemporaries. So there I had it–a chance to finally speak to someone and to exclaim about the genius and synergistic creativity that combined in the Vita-Harold marriage and to talk about these ladies’ school days in Mussourie and Nainital and the diplomatic parties they attended in Calcutta as young brides! Indeed, these ladies whisked me back to the Edwardian world–not of Sissinghurst but of the Raj, half a globe way, and I felt privileged and honored to have been allowed to step into that space, if only for a little while.

Then, I was off, camera slung around my neck, to see the Rose Garden (many bushes were past their prime and in need of deadheading!) and the Cottage Garden and then the wide open meadow where bees buzzed and a dovecote stood sentinel all the way to the banks of the lovely deep moat that gave their Tower its castle antecedents and on to the Lime Alley punctuated at both ends by classical statuary and on to the Nuttery where I watched busy gardeners at work thinning herbaceous borders.

And I realized, all of a sudden, that what makes Sissinghurst so distinctive a garden is not the plantings and not the flowers and not the garden rooms and certainly not the pathways (some brick, some gravel) but it is the architecture–the old-fashioned and utterly charming collection of buildings (the Tower, the Tudor library, the cottages, the farm houses) that lie sprinkled among the acres that do it. It is the age that is proclaimed by their brick walls and slate roofs, the roses and clematis that ramble up their sides clinging ferociously for a centuries-old foothold, the aged wooden doors and rusty wrought iron handles, that give this space its mark of distinction. For, of course, I could take notes and replicate the selection of flowers that Vita advocated in my own gardens at Holly Berry House in Southport, Connecticut. But no, they would never look the same (even were I to reproduce the lushness of those peonies or the profusion of those hydrangeas–which I never could) because they would be viewed against the white clapboard siding of a typical New England colonial–not against the moss and lichen-covered stone walls of an Elizabethan outhouse! And, therein, lies the difference!

While the gigantic wrought-iron clock on the Tower (a present to Vita from Harold and her boys) tolled the lazy hours, I found sustenance at tea-time in a pot of National Trust Blend and a generous slice of coffee and walnut cake as I propped myself by a window to have the glory of the countryside spread out before me for free, as it slumbered silently on this spectacular afternoon. Then, I browsed in the shop, read snippets from the lives of the Nicholson family and promised myself that I would read Sissinghurst: An Unfinished Story by Adam Nicholson, their grandson, who still lives and writes on the property, following doggedly in the footsteps of his illustrious grandparents!

It was time for me to catch the 5. 30 bus returning to Staplehurst station which left me only about ten minutes to browse through the lovely exhibition on the first floor of the barn. I wish I had thought of doing this earlier for the exhibit was just heart warming–it contained Vita’s journals in her own handwriting with the accompanying printed pieces as they appeared in The Observer, the London newspaper in which she wrote a gardening column for decades. How could a female writer like myself not take inspiration from so unusual a woman? I am so glad I went to Sissinghurst and I cannot wait to get to Knole–I know that the two visits will work like a jigsaw puzzle to fit together all the missing pieces that comprise her privileged life.

Back in London for the Grosvenor House Art and Antiques Fair:
The train got me back to London in an hour, but absent-mindedly, I got off at London Bridge instead of Charing Cross. It was not a problem, however, for I jumped into the Tube and headed off to Marble Arch where I had made plans to meet my friend Stephanie at the Grosvenor House Art and Antiques Fair.

It was my friend Loulou who had given me a free pass to the event that admitted two and since I hadn’t seen Stephanie in ages and she knows how fond I am of antiques, I thought she would best appreciate a dawdle through the stalls with me. She was arriving from Richmond on the Tube and only reached there at 7. 30. The late evening opening was winding down but we did have a quick half hour to dally with the dealers and marvel at their wares–paintings by Frank Leger and Picasso, sculptures by the late Victorians including one of my favorites of all time–Drury’s The Age of Innocence priced at 60,000 pounds!–jewelry from Cartier and Boucheron, rare Persian carpets, Sevres porcelain and what American interior designer Mario Buatta (aka The Prince of Chintz!) jokingly calls “phooey Louis” were all available. If you had a stuffed wallet and some good taste at your disposal, you could walk home with gems–just like that! Stephanie exclaimed freely and loudly and we both wished we had more time to tread through these treasures. But at 8.oopm, the curtain came down on another day of dealing and we made our way outside to find the buses that got us back to my flat.

Dinner at St. John in Farringdon:
For I took Stephanie with me to Farringdon to deposite my bag in my flat before we set off for dinner in the neighborhood. She loved the loft space I currently occupy as she took in the Modern Art on its walls–the Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroes (miniatures of which we had seen at the Art Fair only to receive sticker-shock!). It was only ten minutes later, that we left in search of dinner as she was starving and I suggested the St. John Bar and Restaurant that lies right opposite my building. Though we did not have reservations, the maitre d’ was able to squeeze us in and we spent the next couple of hours catching up and eating a most interesting meal.

As it happened, we got into conversation with an American foodie couple from Boston who sat right besides us at the next table (put a pack of Americans together and the conversation starts flowing, doesn it it?). Hard to believe that they had come to London only to eat at this restaurant! I had just chanced to find a tidbit about this place in the book I had been reading but to be given an endorsement as huge as this was stunning. It seems the restaurant is world-famous (it is ranked Number Two in the world) and is known for its “Nose to Tail Eating” which means that its menu features parts of game that no other restaurant would serve–literally from nose to tail. With a two-volume recipe book collection to its name, this restaurant is a star. With that introduction, we ought not to have been surprized by a menu that included Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad, a special of Lamb’s Neck, Oxtail (which features the entire tail), a deboned pigeon and snails with courgettes!

Stephanie and I decided to play it somewhat safer! For appetizers, she got Crabmeat on Toast while I got the Roast Pork and Rabbit Terrine (both very good and superbly seasoned and spiced) and for a main, we decided to share what we thought would be pot roast of “Gloucester Old Spot” as we get it back in the States, only to discover that it was nothing more special that roast ham served with stewed peas! At 20 pounds, we both thought it was atrociously priced and Stephanie even declared that her mother’s ham was far better than this! By the way, the bone marrow and parsley salad was no longer available nor was the terrine we also ordered and finally when it came time for ‘pudding’, I ordered the elderflower sorbet only to be told that they had also run out of it! Instead, they brought us a strawberry sorbet (which they said was free of charge) but which neither of us wanted anyway and so declined. Instead we shared the chocolate terrine which was delicious but in my opinion, much too firm–I think I’d have preferred a creamier texture. At about fifty pounds for the meal (I had a glass of red house wine, Steph had a Diet coke), we thought we did not get our money’s worth at all. Had our American companions not hyped it up so much, perhaps we would not have been so sorely disappointed…but perhaps we should give it another try before writing it off so completely.

A few minutes later, I was kissing Stephnie goodbye as she returned to the Tube and at 11.30, I was winding down at the end of what had been, as I said at the beginning, a truly phenomenal day.

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.

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.

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!

Museum of London (2) and Selfridges is A Hundred!

Jun4

Thursday, June 4, 2009
London

I took forever to fall asleep last night. And then, when I did get to sleep, I awoke within an hour and then took forever to fall back to sleep again! In frustration, I switched on my bedside lamp and turned to Harry for company. Read about 50 pages before I did finally fall asleep at 2. 30 am and awoke at 7.00 feeling really fatigued. Sitting in bed, as I usually do, I began to work and realized it was 8. 30 when I heard sounds outside my bedroom door–which announced to me that the cleaning lady, Minda, had arrived to start her weekly chores. Just when I was getting accustomed to rattling around on my own in this spacious loft, I had company and how comforting it felt.

Of course, just as I had been warned about her arrival, she had been told about my presence. And she could not stop chatting with me as I ate my cereal breakfast. She was so excited that I was from the States because she has traveled there extensively herself and has several relatives in Michigan. She is a lovely friendly Filipina and she instructed me very thoroughly on the garbage disposal system in this building and the precautions I must take if I am using the washer-dryer in the laundry room. I was very grateful indeed, both for her company and her concern for me.

Then, I got back to my room and worked steadily for about three hours. I finished transcribing the interviews I did with the Walters and after I had proofread them, I felt hunger pangs beckoning me towards the kitchen once again. I made myself a toasted ham and goat cheese sandwich which I ate while watching TV–this gave Minda more of a chance to chat with me and ask me if I knew her former employers from Sharon, Connecticut!–which I didn’t.

I showered quickly to allow her to go ahead and clean my bathroom and at 2. 30, she left, having spent 6 whole hours cleaning this penthouse. I decided to go out and enjoy the day which was a bit more nippy than the hot days we’ve had recently.

More of the Museum of London:
I set out first for the Museum of London with the idea of finishing up the bit on the Fire of London that I hadn’t yet done. I arrived there rather quickly, taking two buses, and discovered that in just 15 minutes time, a Highlights Tour of the Roman Gallery would be starting. I decided to join it and in the company of a docent called Lynne, I spent the next 45 minutes seeing again the items I had seen two days ago.

Lynne was very good indeed. In the manner in which she spoke–the clear enunciation, the turn of phrase, the wacky sense of humor, the accent–she reminded me so much of my former neighbor Tim! It was amazing! Of course, she knew a great deal about the gallery and she explained things very clearly; but to my enormous shame, I who had grabbed hold of a portable stool so that I could rest my feet in-between items, found myself dozing away during her commentary! Clearly lack of sleep was taking its toll on me and I resolved to get to bed early tonight. I was glad I received another review of the Roman Galleries and I have to say that I came away from this museum realizing how deeply influenced London is by Roman occupation. In fact, the modern city of London sits on top of 20 feet of “rubbish”, i.e. garbage that was left over by the Romans initially and all the other people that made the city home over the centuries.
The Fire of London exhibit was not half as exciting as I thought it would be, though I have to say that I was deeply excited to discover that the home currently occupied by my friends Cynthia and Bishop Michael Colclough at 2 Amen Court is featured in the Museum as one of the blocks of houses rebuilt after the Great Fire between 1671 and 1675! I wonder if my friends know that information about their house is actually in a museum with a picture of their front door! I must make sure I convey this fact to them!

St. Bride’s Church on Fleet Street:
I was done by 5.30 pm and out the door soon after. Since I was in the right vicinity, I decided to finish up a self-guided tour from my Frommer Book 24 Self-Guided Tours of London entitled ‘Monks and Bodysnatchers’. I had covered almost the entire route over which this tour travels (on one evening when I had decided to explore Charterhouse Square and Smithfield on my own). It was only the latter part of the tour that I hadn’t traversed and this took me through Giltspur Street to the golden statue of the ‘Fat Boy’ on the corner of Cock Street. It is significant that I was looking at this statue today–the day I had spent studying the various aspects of the Great Fire of London of 1566–as the statue was put up to represent the dangers of gluttony. For the fire had started in Pudding Lane and had ended, five days later, in Pie Lane! It was felt that it was the gluttonous ways of Londoners that had brought the wraught of God down upon them and caused them to suffer so abominably! This statue was later moved from Pie Lane to its present location.

Then, I was walking towards the end of the road to enter The Viaduct Tavern at the end of the street and the intersection with the Old Bailey. I was instructed to enter the pub and examine its interior decoration which was rather striking. The pub was already full of white-collared workers having their first pints of the evening and I had to elbow my way to get through to the three paintings of classical women representing Agriculture, Banking and the Arts. The decoration on the walls was ornate and featured fat cherubs gazing down upon the carousers. My book also informed me that this is the most haunted pub in all of London–oh dear! Knowing this fact, I will not be seen hanging around this place after dark–that’s for sure.

Then, I was crossing Fleet Street and entering St. Bride’s Avenue where I suddenly came upon the beautiful tiered ‘wedding cake’ spire of the church that was another one of Christopher Wren’s masterpieces! In fact, this spire inspired the design of the traditional wedding cakes! It is not just this fact but so many other historical tidbits that make it special: the parents of Virginia Dare, the first English colonist to be born on American colonial soil in Virginia, were married in this church. The famous 18th century novelist Samuel Richardson (author of Clarissa) is buried in its church yard. Dickens worshipped here as did Dr. Samuel Johnson (whose home is not too far away). In the Crypt of the church, which was discovered after the Blitz destroyed a part of it, an intact Roman pavement was discovered deep beneath the foundation. Perhaps, most importantly, since this church is a landmark on Fleet Street, once the stronghold of the newspaper publishing industry in Great Britain, it is the Journalists and Publishers’ Church and many prominent members of the Fourth Estate have been associated with it. For all of these reasons, this church is special indeed.

I was, therefore, very pleased when I discovered that it was open and could be visited. Naturally, I went inside and made my three special wishes, and had a chance to examine the interior elements. Like most Wren churches, it has a rather plain and austere look with the slightest embellishment in the form of gilded plaster ornaments on the ceiling. There are two rather interesting plaster of Paris figures of a girl and boy that once stood over a school that was situated close to the church. These figures, I have now come to recognize, as traditional fixtures of 18th century schools and foundling homes of London–there are a couple of them on the first floor of a former foundling home in the East Side as well as in nearby Hatton Garden.

Since, it was only 7.oo pm and still so bright–it now stays bright till almost 9.00 pm, a sure sign that summer is almost upon us in case the blooming roses are not indication enough–I decided that I would go out and cover another item on my List of Things To-Do: Visit Liberty of London Department Store, which, if you can believe it, I have never visited before! So I hopped into a bus that was headed towards Oxford Street and just sat in traffic forever around Trafalgar Square. Again, sleep washed over me and I dozed off for a few minutes right there in the front seats on the upper deck!

A Bargain at Selfridges:
When I found that I had not carried my map with me and had no clear idea where Liberty was, I decided instead to hop off at Oxford Street and do something else on my To-Do List: “A Visit to Selfridges during its centenary celebrations”. Yes. Selfridges proudly announces the fact that it opened its doors in 1909 and since this is the year of its hundred year celebrations, there are specially packaged items all over the store–chocolates, tea, cupcakes, biscuits, etc. I browsed around in the Food Hall and enjoyed some free samples of chocolates at Artisan du Chocolat (which were delicious!).

Further browsing took me to a section devoted to condiments and there I spied a tiny ceramic dish containing the very English condiment called Patum Peperium aka The Gentleman’s Relish! Now I have heard of this thing for years but have never ever tasted it. I believe it is some kind of fish paste or spread made of anchovies which I actually find rather tasty though a lot of people have an aversion to them. This concoction once came in white ceramic signature pots that have become collector’s items today and are sold at incredible prices in antiques’ stores. Apparently, they no longer make the white pots because the spread is available at Selfridges today in black ceramic pots. However, the tinier white ones that I spied where much more fancy–they featured Edwardian golfers out on the links and Victorian riders at a fair. I picked a small pot of the former design which was, somewhat unbelievably priced at 2. 99 pounds! The small plastic pots that sat right at their side sold for 1. 99 pounds. Naturally, I went for the ceramic pot and took it to the register to pay for it. It was at that stage that the store realized that they had mispriced the item. However, they gave me the benefit of the marked price and I ended up paying 2. 99 pounds for something that ought to have cost me 8.00 pounds! Not only was I glad about spying something that is a keeper–an old-fashioned ceramic box that I can use to store trinkets, but I walked away with it at a bargain!

Discovering St. James’ Church, Clerkenwell:
It was time to get back on the bus and get home, but not before I made a slight detour when I got off at St. John Street. I decided to try and find out the name of the church whose white spire I can see from my new bedroom window. I had walked by this church and its yard before on one of my walks but I could not remember its name and I figured that I might as well try to get to Sunday service there if I can while I am living in it shadow! Well, it turned out to be the Church of St. James’, Clerkenwell. The streets leading up to it and all around it were just spilling over with wine bar clientele with loosened ties fuelling up for the evening ahead. Indeed, they were so numerous that I thought for a minute it was Friday night!

Then, I walked briskly back home and discovered a nicer, shorter route to my building through the street that I see straight out of my window–Britton Street. Within minutes, I was upstairs, changing, then serving myself a plate of pasta with prawns and peppers that I had thawed from out the freezer and eating chocolate and praline ice-cream for dessert and then catching up on my email of which there was a stack, mostly from Chriselle. While I was in the middle of dinner, my friend Ian called me from the States and we had a chat as we hadn’t spoken for ages. He is a regular reader of this blog and he is astounded by how much I have managed to cover. He says he is afraid that when I return home to Southport, Connecticut, I might find it “so dead”.

Though I told myself that I would go to bed early tonight, it was midnight when I switched my bedside lamp off and went to bed.

Interviewing another Anglo-Indian near Osterley

Jun3

Tuesday, June 2, 2009
London

Waking up in this new place feels rather strange to me. It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am. It was 6. 45 am when I awoke and since I wanted to get to Osterley (close to Heathrow airport) in time for a 10. 30 am appointment, I showered really quickly, ate my cereal breakfast, made myself a ham and cheese sandwich and left at 8.30 am. I had to find out where the nearest bus stops are as well as the routes that serve this area. I guess I will have it all figured out in a few days.

Getting out of Theobald’s Road and arriving at Holborn Station takes the longest time in the bus what with all the traffic snarls and the peak hour rush. Despite changing three buses, I arrived at Osterley Tube Station earlier than I expected and called the Anglo-Indian gentleman who had agreed to speak to me. He picked me up from the bus stop in his car and took me to his home where we settled down with a glass of water that I requested. His wife was also supposed to speak to me as part of my project; but I sensed her reluctance right away and when she agreed to answer some questions only and did not sign the agreement giving her consent to the interview, I politely declined. In the end, I spoke only to the husband who had rather interesting views which he shared very frankly with me. He told me later that his wife had completely conflicting views and did not wish to air them in front of him as they differ widely on the subject of their decision to emigrate to the UK and the manner in which life has treated them since they arrived in this country 20 years ago.

Still, despite his misgivings, it is impressive that three of his four children are university educated and that too in the cream of the country’s institutions of higher education such as Cambridge, Oxford and UCL. Their last daughter is taking her GCSEs this year and is also headed towards what we, in America, would call an Ivy League school. This man was so different in attitude and behavior from the couple I met yesterday. Thus, though I have spoken to over 35 Anglo-Indians already, I do not find my work repetitive as each of them tells me completely different stories and has inordinately different views.

A Visit to the Museum of London:
Back in the City, I went straight to NYU to settle the last of my utility bills and then I was on the bus heading to the Museum of London. This one, together with the London Transport Museum, is still on my To-Do List and I decided today would be a good day to go out and explore it. It is located near the Barbican and has a very interesting architectural design. Built in close proximity to the old London walls (the base dating from Roman times), they make the perfect backdrop for a place that traces the evolution as this city from 43 AD to the present date. The only misfortune is that the entire lower level is under refurbishment and closed to the public (which means I shall have to make another trip to London sometime to see it!) but the top floor contains interesting artifacts that span several centuries right up to the Great Fire of 1566.

I watched two rather short but fascinating films—one on the Great Fire, another on the Black Death (the Plague) that ravaged Europe throughout the Middle Ages. Then, my exploration of the contents began. Among some of the most notable things I saw (and not necessarily in any order at all) were:

1, 2 Roman leather bikinis that would have been worn by dancers—it is remarkable that they have survived despite being made of leather. There are only 3 Roman bikinis in the world and 2 of them are here in this museum.
2. A set of Roman gold coins, excavated in a single hoard, featuring the heads of every one of the most significant of the Roman emperors. This must have belonged to someone very wealthy who buried his treasure hoping to retrieve it someday but never got back to it.
3. A fragment of a marble tablet on which for the very first time the people of London have been named as Londoners (Londiniumvernis, I think it said).
4. The very first fire engine ever used in England.
5. A spectacular Roman mosaic floor found intact in a house in Bucklersberry near London in the late 1800s.

I did not finish seeing all of the museum. I have yet to see the exhibit on the Great Fire of London which was crowded with a school group, leading me to postpone my visit there.

I took the bus and returned home to Denmark House to find that my friends Paul and Loulou had arrived there from Suffolk to spend a night as they do once a week. It was great to see them again but we did not have a chance to spend a whole lot of time together as they were off to a party and will return late tonight. I tried to set myself up once again with the wireless connection but failed. Will try again tomorrow. Hopefully, Tim will be able to walk me through the process.

I ate my dinner while watching a program called Come Dine With Me—in which four strangers are thrown together to cook for each other and put on a complete meal for the other three. It made rather interesting viewing but because it was an hour-long show, I saw only a part of it as I wanted to get back to writing my journal for my blog.

I was pleased before I went to bed to review the comments in the evaluation sheets left for me by my students and to discover that they were very complimentary indeed and said a lot of very positive things about the courses I taught them this past semester. I am very pleased that the year I spent teaching in London was beneficial to them and that they enjoyed my classes.

I also began the next novel in the Harry Potter series: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince which I hope to finish in the next couple of weeks so that I can start the last and final one and return the last two books to Barbara who lent them to me. When I have finished all of them, I can cross out yet another item on my To-Do List: Read all 7 Harry Potter novels in London!

Bloomsbury on Jubilee Walk (Part 6) and Dinner with Friends

May25

Monday, May 25, 2009
London

Holborn was lifeless as May Bank Holiday Monday dawned. I stayed in bed for a long while catching up with The Order of the Phoenix as I am determined to finish it by the end of this month. The trouble with books that weigh a ton, as the later Potter books do, is that they are not mobile–I simply don’t want to carry them around with me anywhere–which means I only read them at home by my bedside. This is why it is taking me forever to finish this one. My blog and my email kept me busy for the next hour and it was only much later, which Holborn continued to remain stubbornly silent, that I ate my cereal breakfast while watching the last bits of The Breakfast Show.

Needless to say, I finally had to get down to the sad task of beginning my packing. I felt oddly lethargic–a clear sign that Withdrawal Symptoms are beginning to manifest themselves at the thought that I will have to leave from her at the end of this week. It was with deep reluctance that I packed up all the clothes I do not believe I will need for the next two months and put them into one of my suitcases. I probably will not need to open this one at all. With my wardrobe pruned down to the barest minimum, my clooset now looks very empty indeed.

Packing up my kitchen things was a lot more challenging. Checking my freezer to find out how best to clear it up, I discovered two lots of plain cooked wholewheat pasta and I realized that I will need to shop for some ingredients so that I can cook them tomorrow and take some cooked food off with me to my new place which I can then place in the freezer there, I hope. I am also emptying out my fridge…so but for milk and my preserves, there is not much else left in there.

I badly need boxes to clear up the rest of my stuff–stationary items, my costume jewelery, loads and loads of paper (how DO we accumulate so much of that stuff?) and a few books that I will need for the months of June and July. Martha and Arben are off today, so I must catch them tomorrow as Martha has promised me some boxes. I am weighing all my books and files as I place them in the boxes I do have with me as the guy at Royal Mail informed me that there is a special rate for books and printed material packed in boxes that are no longer than 60 cms, no more than 90 cms overall and that weigh no more than 5 kgs each (I am making mental conversions all the time as my America digital bathroom weighing scale is marked in pounds and ounces!).

After lunch (pasta with vegetables and a cup of soup–still trying to finish supplies in my pantry), I decided to read some more Potter and felt more lethargic. Before I knew it, my eyes had closed and I was taking a nap–something I haven’t done in ALL these months! (more Withdrawal Symptoms, I guess). Luckily, I awoke within the hour and decided to go out and continue my Jubilee Walk Adventures–Part 6 of them.

Jubilee Walk Adventures–Part 6:
This bit took me through my own backyard, so to speak, as I began at next-door Brownlow Street which, I discovered is no wider than an alley and into a most delightful street called Bedford Row. This one is lined on both sides with typical London Georgian terraced housing and on this delightful spring afternoon, with the flowers from the tress that line it having shed their white petals all along the footpaths, it looked absolutely heavenly. There was a spring in my step as I pranced along and made another discovery–Bedford Street ended on the Theobalds Road side just opposite my friend Sushil’s building–and I would be seeing him in the evening! So, in other works, I found another way to get to his place instead of walking along Gray’s Inn Road. I just love it when I make these sudden discoveries!

I pressed along Great James Street and arrived at a Blue Plaque that announced the residence of detective story writer Dorothy Sayers whose mysteries starring her creations Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, I have enjoyed a great deal on DVD through my Westport Public Library. Sayers had an extraordinary life for a woman of her time and her personal life was fraught with the keeping of a secret–a terrible one in those days (the early 20th century)–of the hiding away of her illegitimate son. Though she did go on to marry, she never openly acknowledged the existence of her biological son (her only child) though she did have a close correspondence with him and made him the sole beneficiary of her estate in her will.

Born to a clergyman father at Christ Church College, Oxford, and to a mother who was rather advanced in years when Dorothy was born, meant that while she was able to study modern languages at Oxford and graduated with an MA (becoming one of the first women to receive the degree through Somerville College), she was also terrified of what her personal scandal would do to them. They died never knowing that she had given them a grand child! Her child was, for all intents and purposes, given up for adoption, his true parentage never made known to her closest family members. It is astounding to me that while carrying this enormous burden she was such a prolific writer and produced some of the earliest womens’ detective fiction of our time. To be able to stand on the very street on which Sayers spent so many creative years of her life and to know that she was married at the Holborn Civil Court just a few meters away (because her husband was a divorcee with two children and, therefore, could not marry in church) was oddly inspring to me and I discovered even more bounce in my step as I continued the walk.

How amazed I was to discover that I had actually walked parallel to Gray’s Inn Road all the while and was soon at the huge red brick facade of St. Pancras Station on Euston Road! And there just a few steps ahead was the British Library. Of course, everything was closed today, but there were much activity on the streets as I spied so many other visitors taking self-guided walks–the various books and maps they have in their hands and the manner in which they gaze up in wonder at buildings to take in architectural details always give them away!

Back through the maze of tree-shaded streets I went, arriving at lovely squares and flower-filled gardens such as Cartwright Gardens and Argyle Square and then I was passing by the Coram Fields Foundling Home Gardens (which adults can only enter in the company of child!–a lovely reversal of regulations) and then Brunswick Square and Gardens where so many folks lay sprawling on the grass taking late-afternoon naps or propping themsevles against tree trunks to read. I thought I really ought to be doing that too–making the most of this glorious spring sunshine by whiling away some time in the city’s gardens reading. I will never stop admiring the ingeniousness of the architectural concepts that led to the creation of these marvelous Georgian squares and gardens that pepper the city of London so liberally and give it such a distinct ambience. The only American city I know that comes close to this in structure and development is Savannah, Georgia, where architect James Orglethorpe created a city in which stately homes and gardens were built to surround a number of squares that allowed more greenery to flourish.

Before arriving at St. Pancras Station, I had passed by a really massive church–the Parish Church of St. Pancras–that has Egyptian caryatids as part of its exterior design , exactly like the ones to be found on the Erectheium near the Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens. I discovered that Sunday Communion Services are held at this church at 10 am and I shall try to make every attempt to attend a service here sometime.

It was not long before I was leaving Euston Road behind me to walk down Gordon Square where I passed building after building belonging to the University of London (and which reminded me so much of the vast number of New York University buildings that have taken over Greenwich Village in Manhattan) and arrived at the other end where I found the most beautiful honey-toned Gothic Church. However, I could not find its entrance so I do not know its name. But curiosity did get the better of me and I promised myself I shall look it up on the net. Set in a quiet and very pretty square called Byng Square, I had begun to suspect that this church was in the vicinity that Virginia Woolf and other members of the Bloomsbury Group had once called home. In fact, the name Gordon Square began to ring a bell in my mind and I became determined to explore the houses set around the typical green lawn surrounded by wrought iron railings where I spied it: a dark brown plaque at No. 50 that announced that it was in this home and in the srruounding houses that the members of the Bloomsbury Group had lived in the early part of the 20th century. In fact, just besides this house, on the right was a Blue Plaque announcing the residence of Lytton Stratchey (I do love the film Carrington in which his asexual relationship with the artist Dora Carrington, played by Emma Thompson, is beautifully retold) and on the left hand side is a Blue Plaue announcing the residence of economist John Maynard Keynes. Even if I were to live in London for a decade, I would not tire of these facts upon which I stumble so suddenly as I take my walks through the richness of its literary history.

Then, I was skirting the Woborn Gardens directly behind the Birkbeck College building in which I held my afternoon classes all through the year. Cutting through the back of SOAS and the British Museum, I then decided to end my walk and get back home, past the large Sainsbury at Holborn from where I bought fresh vegetables and some cream for the pasta I will fix tomorrow.

Dinner with Sushil and his friends:
And then I was home, getting into the shower and dressed for my evening rendez-vous with some new friends that my friend Sushil had organized. He had sent me an email while I was in Lyon inviting me to dinner at Ciao Bella Restaurant on Lamb’s Conduit Street after drinks at his place at 6.30 pm. So off I went, walking through the Bedford Street shortcut I discovered this morning.

At Sushil’s place, I met Owen who happened to be an Anglo-Indian and a very worthy subject for my research inquiry. Owen lives in Kent and had driven a long way to join us. Just a few minutes later, along came Mike and Nirmala and over red wine, I got to know them a little bit. Owen and Mike were classmates of Sushil at Cathedral and John Connon School in Bombay and, therefore, went back a long long way, They were actually contemporaries of Salman Rushdie and remembered him well during their junior school years at Cathedral. Nirmala’s late brother was Rushdie’s batchmate as was the brother of yet another person I met later at the restaurant, Cecil, who is a physician in Ealing. Cecil arrived with his English wife Ann and we made a very jolly party at the restaurant as I learned more and more about my new friends.

Over shared appetizers (bruschetta and a wonderfully tender Italian salami) and wine and Perroni beer, we made our entree choices: Having had pasta at home at lunch, I kept the carbs off and ordered a Saltimboca which is one of my favorite Italian dishes–escalopes of veal served with pancetta and sage in a mushroom sauce. It was absolutely scrumptious and I finished every large piece on my plate–it was served with the most perfectly done roast potatoes (nobody can do roast potatoes like the English) and mixed vegetables and made a very hearty meal indeed. Little wonder that no one had room for ‘pudding’!

I was kept most amused and entertained throughout my meal by Mike who sat besides me and told me stories about his early life in Bobmay where he had lived until the age of 18, his English parents having found work with a British company called Ferguson’s. He kept lapsing into idiomatic Indian-English so easily and used words as part of his conversation that only an Indian raised in India would understand and appreciate. For instance, he cracked me up when he referred to a man in an Bombay club who arrived there each evening to be surroudned by “his chamchas”. To hear this term emerge from the mouth of a white Englishman sitting right there besides me in an Italian restaurant in London was so hilarious that I couldn’t stop laughing. It became very clear to me then that you can take the Boy out of Bombay but you cannot take Bombay out of the Boy!

We talked a bit about what Owen described as my own “schizophrenic life” over the last 20 years–living in the West with one toe in India. He asked me how I possibly managed it. There was some discussion when I announced that mentally and psychologically I don’t believe that I have ever really left India at all! My connections with the land of my birth are still so strong because of the work I do there, my areas of research interest, my frequent travels to the sub-continent and the strong ties I have continued to maintain with a host of folks–extended family members and friends–out there. While several of them marveled at this fact, they did acknowlegde what I have come to realize–that for most Indian immigrants to the UK, despite the fact that the two countries (India and England) are so much closer to each other (than India and the US) and air fares so much cheaper, immigration to Great Britain meant a virtual cutting off of ties, a complete burning of bridges, as it were. This is something I cannot even begin to conceive of and I recalled Rushdie who has spoken repeated in his essays and to me in person about the strong pull he always feels towards India, no matter where it is in the world that he chooses to make his home.

We returned to Sushil’s place in a gentle drizzle after our excellent meal. It was just a couple of blocks away and over more red wine, we chatted until well past midnight when Owen gave me a ride back home. Bank Holiday Monday had turned out to be perfectly wonderful for me and as I return to more work and chores tomorrow, I hope to start the week on a productive note by doing some cooking first thing tomorrow morning,

Supertour at St. Paul’s Cathedral and Exploring Southwark

May13

Wednesday, May 15, 2009
London

London slumbered under leaden skies this morning, though, thankfully, the rain stayed at bay. Wearing warm cardigans to ward off the chill, Chriselle and I set off after a cereal and yogurt breakfast to explore St. Paul’s Cathedral. Though I have been there for several services throughout the past 8 months, I hadn’t taken a formal guided tour and was waiting to share that experience either with Llew or Chriselle. So I was very pleased indeed when my new English friend Bishop Michael Colclough, Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s and his wife Cynthia, offered me a complimentary guided tour anytime I wanted one. With Chriselle currently visiting me, it seemed like the perfect time to take them up on it and we had one fixed for us for 10. 45 am.

We arrived at the Cathedral to find it swarming with visitors–both inside and out. Tour groups, several of whom comprised students from around London and across the Channel, filled the vast nave of the church. At the Visitor’s Desk, I was ushered to the one run by the Friends of St. Paul’s, an organization of Volunteers (mainly women), who are trained to give guided tours. This Supertour took us to parts of the Cathedral not usually open to the public and we felt privileged indeed to take it at our leisure in so special a fashion.

We were told by our guide, Fiona Walker, that it would last an hour and a half and were ushered right away to a side Chapel–dedicated to one of the many formal ‘Orders’ that comprise aristocratic English life. I do not believe that even a lifetime would be adequate in helping me acquire enough knowledge to decipher the complex system that prevails in military and royal circles int this country. What I did admired in this chapel was the royal seat that only the monarch can occupy, the marvelous wooden carvings by the Tudor carver Grindling Gibbons (whose work I can now easily recognize), the many colorful banners and standards and crests and coat of arms that symbolize one’s family history.

We then moved to the massive oak doors in the very front of the church and learned a bit of history at that point including the part played by Sir Christopher Wren in the design and construction of this, perhaps London’s most distinctive landmark. At the door, we also saw how dark the interior looked until the massive cleaning and renovation was carried out through a vast endowment (11 million pounds) granted to the cathedral by the Fleming family, the same one from which was born the James Bond author Ian!

Next we were led into one of the twin towers that looks down Fleet Street and we were quite taken by the beautiful staircase with its small and very low steps and the ironwork that climbs all the way to the very top. These steeples house the bells that toll each hour and produce the marvelous music on important days. I once heard them chime a heart stirring tune on Palm Sunday–was it last year? The entire city seemed to reverberate to the melody produced by those tolling bells. Yes, they do bring to mind John Donne’s stirring lines:

“No man is an island, entire of itself…any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” (Meditation XVII)

Interestingly, there is a rather strange looking sculpture of John Donne in the Cathedral–strange because the poet appears all shrouded in a linen sheet and standing on an urn. It was the only object in the entire Cathedral to escape the Great Fire of London in 1566 because it was hit by a falling object and fell straight down into the crypt from where it was rescued when the embers and ashes were being cleared. And he appears in this shroud because Donne had actually worn the garment in which he wished to be buried while he was still alive–perhaps to get the feeling of how he might appear before his Creator at his Resurrection!

Onward we went deeper into the Cathedral, passing by the grand monument to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and there we learned a bit more British history. Chriselle is beginning to “connect the dots” as she puts it, in that she is making connections between the guy who inhabited Apsley House and the hero of the Battle of Waterloo! It wasn’t long before we paused under the central dome to admire the Byzantine style mosaics done by Salviati, an Italian, whose work was inspired by the Italian churches. The dome also contains the magnificent paintings done by James Thornhill–yes, the same artist who painted the famous Painted Hall in Greenwich. Chriselle loved the trompe l’oeil quality of the paintings in the dome which appeared as if the inside was covered with columns and pillars. We saw primary school kids lying flat on the floor right under the dome and staring at it–I bet this is something they will always remember. Years from now, when they bring their own kids to the Cathedral they will say, “You know, when I was a little boy, I came to this church on a school field trip and lay down right there on my back and stared up at the dome!”

More detail and more history followed at the memorial to Lord Nelson, considered by many to be England’s greatest hero. The guide went into detail in talking about his relationship with Lady Emma Hamilton and the product of that alliance, a female child, “named”, she said, then paused for effect, “poor thing, Horatia!” Right opposite the Nelson monument is one to Cornwallis and I paused to tell Chriselle that he was the same one who met with a stunning defeat under General George Washington in York when trying to vanquish the rebel colonists in North America. It was probably as a punishment that he was sent off to India where he masterminded the defeat of Tipu Sultan of Mysore at Seringapatnam and, in doing so, somewhat redeemed his fallen image!

Then, we were at the altar, admiring more Grindling Gibbons’ caved choir stalls (each more breathtaking that the next, in oak and beech) and gazing upon the baldachino or altar canopy which looked to me curiously like the Bernini one in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. We saw also the ‘Cathedra’ or Seat which the Bishop occupies and which turns a church into a cathedral–it must contain a seat for a Bishop which means that a Bishop must be attached to the permanent clergy at the church.

And then we climbed down into the crypt where we saw more memorials, the most striking being the ones to Wren, Wellesley and Nelson in their striking sarcophagi. Nelson’s, in grand black granite, is particularly striking and I was not surprised to learn that it was, in fact, designed and created to hold the mortal remains of Cardinal Wolsley (pronounced ‘Wool-zy’) who was Henry VIII’s right hand man until he fell out of favor with the King for not bringing him the Papal annulment of his marriage to Katherine of Aragon. He was sentenced to death but, mercifully for him, died a natural death before he could be killed. He certainly was not permitted such a grand coffin and, in any case, the possessions of all state prisoners went directly to the Crown–which explains how Henry got his greedy hands on Wolsley’s finest buildings including Hampton Court and Whitehall Palace (of which now only the Banqueting House survives). The sarcophagus lay forgotten somewhere until the body of Nelson arrived from weeks of preservation in brandy–for Nelson really ought to have been given a burial at sea. However, since he was such an extraordinary hero, an exception was made in order to grant him a state burial. His body was preserved in alcohol, brought to London, this sarcophagus was resurrected for the occasion and the nation had a chance to mourn collectively for the death of a great hero who fell on the HMS Victory (now docked in Portsmouth) and whose blood-stained clothes are in the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich.

Climbing up to the Dome of St. Paul’s:
When the tour ended, we were told that we should not leave the cathedral without venturing up into the dome. I was doubtful about my ability to undertake such strenuous physical exercise since I am still recovering from plantar fascitis; but with encouragement from Chriselle, I rose to the challenge and off we went. 117 steps later, we were in the Whispering Gallery looking down on to the black and white checkered floors of the vast cavern below us. It was just stupendous! Of course, Chriselle and I had to try out the whispering capabilities of the acoustics of the space and discovered that we could, in fact, hear each other clearly though we stood on opposite sides of the dome. I was reminded very much of the interior of Brunelleschi’s dome in Florence and the magnificent painting on the inside of the dome by Vasari which one can see at very close quarters if you have the energy and stamina to climb the 500 odd steps to that height.

Then, another 115 steps took up to the Stone Gallery which encircles the outside of the dome and provides views of the rooftops of London. Yes, we saw the river (rather murky on this grey day) and the London Eye and the gilded statue of the Goddess of Justice atop Old Bailey and a host of other landmarks as well as the red brick of the Prudential Assurance Building that is just a block away from my building on High Holborn.

We circumnavigated our way around the dome then made the descent with Chrissie holding on to me all the way down as she felt a little dizzy. Then, because we were right in the area, I suggested a walking tour of the Southwark area instead of trying to get into a bus to Knightsbridge. Chrissie had made drinks and dinner plans with two friends of hers and wanted to get home for a bit of a rest as she has a severe backache when she exerts herself too much physically. I have to be grateful that my own stamina has remained untouched by plantar fascittis and but for the fact that I have to rest more than I used to, I can continue my daily walking routine without interruption.

Exploring Southwark:
So over Wobbly Bridge we went, the breeze feeling very unpleasant around us given the lack of sunshine. Past Shakespeare’s Globe we strolled, arriving under Southwark Bridge where we hastened to the Borough Market as I wanted Chriselle to get a sense of its delicious activity. Alas, it is not open fully on a Wednesday though a few stalls cater to the luncheon needs of the local working populace. We walked quickly on to The George, the city’s only galleried pub, where we took in the quaintness of the Elizabethan space. Then, we returned to Borough Market for a late lunch: a large helping of Thai Green Chicken and Seafood Curry served over steamed rice. It was dished up piping hot and was deliciously spicy and just what the doctor ordered on this rather chilly day.

Inside Southwark Cathedral:
On our way back to the Embankment, we paid a short visit to Southwark Cathedral that dates from 909 AD–in particular to visit the sculpture of Shakespeare and the lovely stained glass window right above it that provides glimpses into his most famous plays. This allowed us to play a little guessing game together before Chriselle made her three wishes–you are permitted three wishes every time you visit a church for the first time (at least that is what my mother told us, many years ago).

We also took in the brightly painted medieval memorial to John Gower and saw the lovely stone carved altar with some gilding on a couple of its statues. This had been under scaffolding when I had visited last March with my friend Amy, so it is great to see the impact that all this refurbishment has on the space. While we were taking pictures at the Shakespeare memorial, a lady came up and told us that there is a charge for taking pictures!!!Can you imagine that? We told her that we were unaware of the policy and she said that we’d have to pay if we took another. Of course, we had finished our visit by that point and were on our way out–but I have to say that I find these rather materialistic policies of these churches not just irritating but rather offensive.

Off to the Tate Modern:
Then, we were walking along the Thames Embankment again, making our way to the Tate Modern where I wanted to show Chrissie two things: the extraordinarily concept that converted the Hydroelectric Power plant into a Modern Art Gallery and the silver installation by Cornelia Parker entitled Thirty Pieces of Silver. She was already far more tired than I was and since modern art is not something that either one of us can truly engage with (though I understand it intellectually), we went directly to the Parker gallery to admire her work. It involved the flattening of about 1000 pieces of silverware under a steam roller. These were then arranged in thirty lots that are suspended from the ceiling on steel wire. The idea is so remarkable that it is worthy of examination for just this reason. Needless to say, Chriselle was quite speechless and didn’t quite know how to react to this…but then that is exactly what Modern Art does to me. I find myself quite lost for words!

We decided to get on the bus and head home as Chriselle badly wanted to rest. I, however, continued on towards Oxford Circus as Marks and Spencer is having a sale on lingerie and I needed to buy my stock before I return to the States. I discovered that my size was not available but if I carried on to their Marble Arch branch, they could take an order from me there. I pressed on, and another bus ride later, I was at the bigger branch placing my order and told to return after May 22 to pick it up. I will be in France at that time but on the day I get back, I can rush off back to Marble Arch to get the discounted price. Along the way, I discovered that Selfridges has been renovated and is now devoid of the scaffolding under which it was shrouded for so many months while it received a deep cleansing in time for its centenary celebrations. There are lights and yellow decorations all over it and I believe the store is worthy of a visit–so I shall try to get there when I find myself under less pressure.

Another bus took me to my office at NYU where I had to do a bit of photocopying before I send off some receipts to New York for reimbursement.

Back home, I found that Chriselle had left the house to meet her friends. This left me time to attend to my email, have my dinner and sit down to write this blog before I got down to grading a few papers and taking a shower before bed.

A Stroll Around the Serpentine in Hyde Park

May1

Friday, May 1, 2009
London

Awaking at 6. 30 am today, I was filled with dread wondering if I am slowly returning to my schedule of a 5 am wake time. I really do hope not. I tried hard to fall back to sleep, but it simply didn’t happen and, fifteen minutes later, I sat up to read some more of The Order of the Phoenix. I turned next to email and drafted a response to Chriselle to try to figure out how best to work around her new London travel plans. At 9 am, I showered, breakfasted and at 9.45, I left home for my meeting with one of my students who wished to interview me as part of his final ethnographic assignment. This was done at 12 noon by which time I was able to go up and see Yvonne for a while to resolve some tax issues.

I stood at the bus stop on New Oxford Street for a full 10 minutes before I began to suspect that something had gone wrong with the service. Not a single bus had passed by in all that time, which is most unusal, as there is normally a bus every minute. Then, someone passed by our bus stop and told us that there was a May Day March that had caused suspension of bus service for an hour or two. I walked home then and was in my flat by1. 30 pm when I had my lunch (a salad and a cup of broccoli cheddar soup).

By 2 pm, I was transcribing my taped interviews with Henry and Marion Holley that I had done a couple of weeks ago in Windsor. I really struggled with the transcript as the tape had picked up a ton of background noise from the restaurant in which we had sat eating lunch and chatting at the same time. It was with the greatest difficulty that I managed to finish the transcribing by 4 pm at which point, since the buses had started running, I decided I needed to get out again for some air.

I also had to return my books to the Holborn Public Library, so off I went and when that errand was run, I hopped into the 38 bus that took me to Hyde Park Corner. It was a particularly warm day and with only a light jacket on, I had boarded the bus after having crammed a few term papers into my bag. My idea was to get to The Serpentine, the lake in the midst of Hyde Park to which I had never been, and to do some grading after strolling for a bit by the lake side.

In about a half hour, I was there and asking for directions and following my map, I arrived at the Serpentine. The lake is so large, it amazed me. I had never been there before and the scene before my eyes was just delightful. Boats were scattered all over the lake–some row boats (which reminded me of a scene in As Time Goes By in which a macho Lionel tries to show off his rowing skills to a very amused Jean but succeeds in merely taking the boat for a spin and getting them nowhere!) and some paddle boats that were making much greater progress across the lake.

The sky was cloudy and since we were about an hour from sunset, the dying rays made colorful streaks in the sky. Ducks paddled by the banks, joggers and cyclists were on the tracks and a bunch of strollers walked airily by every so often. It was so lovely, I could have sat there forever. However, with the breeze having picked up, I felt rather chilly and was soon pulling my jacket more tightly around me. Interestingly, I was grading a pile of essays on John Constable and his world–Suffolk and the impact of nature on his art. My students had done well overall and I was very pleased with their work as well as the beauty of nature spread out before me in the simple pleasures to be had on the lake.

In about an hour, with all my papers graded, I closed shop, put them away into my bag and walked back towards Knightsbridge to take my bus back home from Hyde Park Corner. In just a minute, I boarded it and some 45 minutes later, I was home. It had been a lovely outing and I was so glad that I was able to tick one more item off my To-Do List in London (“Stroll Around the Serpentine!”).

Switching on my PC, I discovered from my email that Chriselle has decided to come to London after all even if we get only 4 days together. I will leave for Paris on schedule (mainly because I have to attend a symposium at NYU-Paris next week) and she will continue to stay on in my flat and spend a few days discovering London on her own. She is trying to see if one of her friends, currently in Belgium, is free to join her here–in which case she will have company while I am away. At any rate, she has a few friends here who, I am sure, will also make sure she has a good time.

Llew called me and I updated him on her plans, then I sat and ate my dinner (salad with Chicken Kiev from M&S) and then decided to write this blog before restructuring my itinerary for Chriselle’s visit.

Celebrating Shakespeare’s Birthday–in Stratford and Warwick

Apr26

Sunday, April 26, 2099
Stratford-on-Avon and Warwick

Though I switched off my bedside lamp at 1.30 am last night, I did not fall asleep for at least an hour. Awful tossing and turning and vain efforts to count sheep left me deeply frustrated. Yet, I awoke at about 7. 00. So it is little wonder that I was yawning loudly and frequently in Stephanie’s car on our way back from Warwick this evening. We’d spent the day in Warwickshire (visiting his birth place of Stratford-on-Avon–for the third time, in my case– which is the second most popular tourist town in the country after London) in celebration of Shakespeare’s birthday. Can you believe that he was born and died on the same day–April 23!!! Stephanie couldn’t. ” How weird is that?” she kept asking for she simply had never heard of anyone coming into this world and leaving it forever on the same day.

Now that Stephanie lives in Richmond and I have a bus pass again (and the Tube fare to get there and back is a whopping 7 pounds), I thought I would try to figure out the way to get there by bus. And using Journey Planner, I discovered that it wasn’t difficult at all, especially on a Sunday morning when there is barely any traffic and the bus flies. I was there in about an hour and a half and that’s just because I wasn’t sure where to make bus connections. On the way back it took me just an hour and ten minutes–on the Tube it takes an hour–so it felt really great to find the way without having to spend a bomb on the Tube ride.

Stratford-on-Avon–Shakeapeare’s Beautiful Birthplace:
Stephanie and I first made our way to Stratford-on-Avon (which, I finally found out, is pronounced exactly like the name of the cosmetics company). It took us about an hour and a half to get there which meant that we were parking at the Stratford Leisure Center a little after 12 noon. Stratford was swarming with visitors–not just because this is The Bard’s birthday weekend but because the Stratford Triathlon was also held today (the same day as the London Marathon) and hundreds of people had arrived on what was a splendid day indeed.

As usual, we were famished by the time we reached the town and headed straight for food. Only since my low-carb diet lays strict restrictions, I could only eat the fried fish part of a fish and chips platter that I found at a place called The Golden Bee–certainly not the best fish and chips I have eaten. It was soggy and greasy and over-fried and quite disastrous. Stephanie had gone off to see Shakespeare’s birthplace (I have seen it before, so did not go inside). When we did hook up again, we walked through an antiques fair where I was delighted to find a watch at a rock bottom price. It felt so good to have a wrist watch again!

Our next port of call was Trinity Church with its beautiful grave yard and moss-covered grave stones. This is the church in which Shakespeare was baptised and then buried. Inside, I made the discovery that visitors are required to pay 1. 50 pounds to visit Shakespeare’s grave as it is badly in need of funds and figures it could make some money this way. On the two occasions in the past when I have visited this church–once, 22 years ago, when I was a student at Oxford and then about 10 years ago when I had returned with Llew and Chriselle during our tour of the Cotswolds–we had seen the grave without paying any money. While Stephanie went up to the altar to take a look, I used the opportunity to say a few prayers in the church before we walked out again on to the sun-flooded banks of the River Avon where boats plied on the swan-filled waters.

En route, we had seen the other important Tudor and Elizabethan buildings for which the town is known such as Nash’s House and Hall’s Croft. Since this is the week on which Shakespeare’s birthday is celebrated, there were yellow flags lining the streets and arrangements in the garden that created his portrait in fresh flowers–a rather unusual touch. Poetry readings and a literary festival were a part of the week-long celebrations but both Stephanie and I lacked the enthusiasm to do much more than stroll around at leisure.

Everyone felt suitably festive in the bracing spring air. For me, one of the best parts of England in the spring is the opportunity to admire the incredible chestnut tress with their profuse large candle-like white flowers that we do not see at all in the United States. Also putting on a showy display of lavender blooms all over the stone walls of aged houses are wisteria vines. It is impossible to pass them by without stopping to examine their complicated construction–they hang in heavy bunches, looking for all the world, like grapes. Flower-beds in all the public gardens are blooming luxuriously with flowers in a shocking variety of colors and I have been taking pictures galore. Oh, it sure feels good to enjoy England in the spring time!

It was just 3 pm when we were done strolling around Stratford. We were both disappointed the The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Swan Theater is undergoing massive renovations and has been closed down temporarily. All shows are being performed in the nearby Courtauld Theatre which we visited briefly. Stephanie was not interested in seeing the home of Shakespeare’s wife–Anne Hattaway’s Cottage in nearby Shottery–even though I told her that it is one of England’s prettiest thatched cottages with a delightful cottage garden. She was more keen on seeing Warwick Castle which is only an 8-mile ride away.

Arrival in the Town of Warwick:
I thought it was a a capital idea and into the car we went. Just fifteen minutes later, we arrived in the medieval town of Warwick which I had never seen before. We headed straight for the castle but by then it was already 3.45 pm and we discovered that entry fee was almost 17 pounds. Neither one of us thought it worthwhile to spend so much money on a ticket that we’d only be able to use for a couple of hours. We skirted the periphery of the Castle property spying some showy peacocks in the Elizabethan Knot Garden before we decided to discover the town on foot as we had already spent money on the parking meter.

Warwick is one of England’s most intact medieval towns. It has all the ingredients that make a town a tourist attraction and we had a chance to sample some of those: the River Avon flows gently through it (as it does at Stratford) and we were able to see a few oarsmen rowing their boats in the water. There is the beautiful stone Church of St. Mary with its blue-faced clock staring benignly upon the bylanes of the town that are lined with listed houses. Then, there is, of course, the massive 13th century castle which until very recently was inhabited by a family of Dukes. There was several medieval buildings with exposed beams and stucco walls including the stunning Lord Leycester’s Hospital which is a misnomer as it was never a hospital at all. It was once the guildhall of the town and then a chantry and a chapel and, ultimately, on being purchased by Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex (and supposedly the only man that Queen Elizabeth I ever really loved), it was turned into homes for former military men –a function it still fulfils. We took some charming pictures of this lovely gabled building before we strolled for a bit in the public gardens that were a riot of colors as flower-beds had sprouted to life bringing tall and stately tulips in their wake.

It was at about 5 pm that we started our drive back home and it was at 8. 30 that I arrived home, tired and very eager to have myself a nice shower and a light dinner, to write this blog and get straight to bed.