Tag Archive | James Herriot

The Bayeux Tapestry and D-Day Remembered on Normandy’s Beaches

Monday, July 27, 2009
Normandy, France

We awoke to the complete silence of the French countryside. Indeed, it was so quiet that, as Llew remarked, not even the sound of the chirping of birds could be heard. From our bed, as we opened our eyes, to a glorious day, we saw the vast expanse of green stretching ahead of us to the fields and meadows that our friends, the Lesrouxelles, call home.

Hotel Cocagne, their homestead, comprises eight acres, most of which are farmed out for the growing of corn while much is covered by grass to make haystacks that form winter fodder for Normandy cattle. (The word ‘Hotel’ in the name of their house, by the way, does not mean that it is a hotel in the English sense of the word. ‘Hotel’ in this part of France, refers to a warm, harmonious and conmfortable homestead and all the houses in their region have names that are preceded by the word ‘hotel’). There is a main house in which the family currently dwells and two other buildings (one large barn and another storage area). These ancient buildings will, no doubt, be modernized and utilized in creative ways by Florence who is an architect by profession and has already worked her magic on the main house by building a vast extension to it that ties perfectly well with the ancient stone work of the original structure.

While Florence had left for the day to start work at her own architectural firm in nearby Marigny, Jacques took care of our breakfast needs and we ate the first of many delicious morning meals with them: crusty baguettes with thick Normandy butter and home made apricot jam from Florence’s own kitchen—just super!

Seeing the Famous Bayeux Tapestry At Last:
In my correspondence with Jacques over the past few days, I had informed him that I dearly wished to see the Bayeux Tapestry which reposes in not too far away Bayeux—a small medieval town that we had passed by on the train. Jacques told us that it was a half hour drive from Quibou and Hotel Cocagne. We used the drive past fields and farms and grazing cattle (those easily recognizable black and white Normandy cows were everywhere), to catch up with Jacques whom we were seeing after ten years. He had last visited us in Southport, Connecticut, with Florence just before they got married and long before the birth of their kids. We had so much to talk about and there was so much Jacques wanted to show us. He was particularly keen to introduce us to other members of his family—both he and Florence have a large number of siblings and their kids have cousins galore so that they never lack for company.

The town of Bayeaux lay shrouded under rain clouds when we arrived there. Indeed, there was a steady drizzle that also played on the old stone homes as we parked our car and walked towards the grand and very impressive Cathedral. I had heard of the famous Tapestry, about 15 years ago, when Llew and I had spent a week in Normandy with our French friends, the Leclercs, who have since moved to live permanently in Goa. In fact, it was while Jacques was driving us from Normandy to Paris, fifteen years ago, that we had passed by the town of Bayeaux where another mutual friend called Celine had pointed out to us that the town was famed for a “tapis”. I knew the French word “tapis” as meaning “carpet” in English and I had no idea that what she meant to say was “tapisserie” which means “tapestry” in English. In the years that have passed since then, I have learned much about this famous Tapestry—the first fact being that the word ‘Tapestry’ is a misnomer for it as it was not woven, as tapestries are, on a loom, but actually embroidered using a needle and woolen thread.

The Bayeux Tapestry is widely believed to have been embroidered by contemporary Normandy Queen Mathilde and her ladies-in-waiting around the year 1070 to commemorate the historic and very significant event of the victory of Duke William of Normandy over the Anglo-Saxon King Harold of England at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Now, I had, with my friend Stephanie, visited both Battle (where the actual battle took place in 1066) and Hastings, the seaside town in Kent where Harold was based—so I was keen to see the Bayeaux Tapestry for that reason as well. Also, I remember that when I was an undergraduate student of English Literature at Bombay’s Elphinstone College, at my very first class on the History of Literature, our professor, the late Dr. Homai Shroff, had told us that if there was only one date in English History that we could possibly commit to memory, it ought to be 1066 as that was when English History as we know it first began. So, I have never forgotten that date.

How thrilled I was then to arrive in Bayeux, despite the rain and chilly weather, to see the former seminary building in which the tapestry is displayed. My Met ID card got me in for free but Llew and Jacques paid the 6 euros each to enter the space. A room had to be constructed especially to display this 70 meter long work which comprises 58 panels, each one of which tells the story of the bloody battle that brought England under the rule of the French and forever changed the culture, language and administrative systems of the country.

With a most useful audio guide in English that gave us the entire story, panel by panel, we were able to appreciate both the historic events that led to the cataclysmic upheaval as well as the artistic details and superb craftsmanship for which the tapestry is famed. Indeed, all the key characters (Edward the Confessor, then King of England, Harold his cousin, William his French cousin, and his brother the Bishop) are clearly delineated on the tapestry as are a vast number of cavalry and infantrymen that formed the rank and file of this battle. William came to be known as The Conqueror and the peculiar love-hate relationship that has existed through the centuries between the English and the French began.

Viewing the tapestry took us over an hour; by which time, we were ready for lunch that we grabbed at a nearly café with its lovely tree-shaded al fresco tables. Both Llew and I had the Croque Monsieur (France’s famous toasted cheese sandwich) which we washed down with some really good Normandy cider.

On to the D-Day Beaches of Normandy:
We were not able to linger too long over our meal, however, as we were headed towards the Bayeux cathedral to see the inside of it as well as the Bayeux War Cemetery for Bayeux was the first French city to be liberated by the Allied troops after they arrived on Normandy soil. In fact, Jacques felt that we should hurry on for the half hour drive towards Coleville-Sur-Mer, as I had told him that the next item on my agenda while in Normandy was a visit to the D-Day Beaches and American Cemetery of Normandy which I had last seen portrayed on TV during the recent 65th anniversary celebrations of the famous landings that liberated Europe from the Nazi scourge.

Though these war cemeteries are dotted all along the sea coast of Normandy, the one at Coleville-sur-Mer is the largest and most frequently visited and was the scene of the solemn commemorative ceremonies that took place here when Barack Obama arrived to represent America, a few weeks ago. Once again, we found the drive very soothing, almost therapeutic, and as Jacques pointed out places of interest, we realized how little rural France has been touched by modernity.

Then, we were at Coleville where we parked our car and found ourselves surrounded by people who had traveled across the Pond and the English Channel to pay their respects to the departed dead many of whom were their own late family members. Once we went through the security that led into the Visitors Center, we became fully wrapped up by the emotion that the venue unleashes. Just past the Center, we entered a museum where we saw so many items from those war-torn years as well as letters, photographs and other such memorabilia that belonged to another era. In these war-ravaged times, when America is still fighting for the righteous causes to which it is so seriously committed, it was poignant to remember how much was sacrificed on this soil and how much was achieved by these brave actions. Indeed, images of the film Saving Private Ryan—those devastating opening scenes when so many thousands of soldiers became cannon fodder–lingered in my mind as I entered the cemetery and saw the thousands of white marble crosses and stars of David that mark the spots upon which their remains lie buried.

A total of 10,000 odd soldiers died during the D-Day Landings on June 6, 1944 and another 1,500 remained missing. They are commemorated on an adjoining wall where their names are recorded in alphabetical order. Beautiful pink roses bloomed all over the cemetery and the American stars and stripes flew at halfmast in the salty sea air. The sound of the waves were never very far from our ears as they still thundered in across from England where the ships that brought the soldiers to these shores had embarked. The setting was perfectly serene and wonderfully evocative of those turbulent times, now, thankfully, only a memory in the minds of both those who served in the call of duty and those who benefited from their sacrifice. We watched a group of American high school children who laid a wreath on the sculpture that recalls the fallen dead and missing and as the last post and the American national anthem was played, we felt privileged to be included in the very moving service.

On Omaha Beach:
A short drive later, we arrived at Omaha Beach where the offensive had been launched following the landings on D-Day. Today, it looks like just any other beach. A few kids frolicked in the waves while sunbathers enjoyed the warmth of the day and walked their dogs along the wet sands of the shore. The temporary ports that were set up within weeks to facilitate the landings can still be seen though only fragments of them remain jutting out like a pier into the waves. The landings are remembered by a memorial stone on the sands.

Just next door is Utah Beach where more landings took place. Jacques drove us to Pointe du Hoc where the land forms a point that juts out into the English Channel. This point was well protected by the Germans who set up look out posts and guns on this promontory in order to diminish the fury of the Allied attack. The ground was pockmarked with fallen bombs and even today we could see the remains of the bunkers in which the Germans hid and concealed their guns. There is a poignant memorial at Pointe du Hoc that takes the shape of a single granite tower over a bunker that once surveyed the waves.

Indeed, our morning was deeply moving and I felt so privileged that we had the opportunity to visit these very touching memorials of awful times past. Five years ago, during the 60th anniversary of its liberation, Llew, Chriselle and I were at Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp in modern-day Poland and, five years later, here we were in Normandy on the 65th anniversary of the landings at the very spot where the conquest of Europe by the Allies began.

We were rather subdued as we returned to the car and began the long drive homewards. Jacques was keen to take us to the farm of his brother Jean-Luc who has a most modern and very novel way of milking his 80 sheep on his dairy farm. As the mayor of his town, Jean-Luc serves two functions—mayor and farmer—and it was a pleasure to meet him and his wife Natalie and their sons Francois and Benoit. I must say that my French stood me in good stead everywhere I visited as these folks were most impressed by the fact that I could carry out perfectly good conversations with them in their own language and could thus steep myself, at least temporarily, into their culture.

Jean-Luc’s farmyard was indeed an extraordinary place. Not only did we thoroughly enjoy getting acquainted with the ingenious computer system, recently installed, that allows his cows to be milked automatically, without any human intervention at all, but Llew and I had yet another superlative experience awaiting us.

A Calf is Born:
Jean-Luc had casually asked us if we wished to see his new born calves. Well, how could we resist? So, off we went, following him to another barn, where we saw the most darling calves, about ten in all, gambol around playfully in the hay filled barns. And then, imagine our shock when we discovered that one of the cows had gone into labor and was just about to give birth! Since calves are born with their forelegs emerging first, followed by their heads and hind legs, we were stunned to see the forelegs already jutting out. Jean-Luc then jumped into the fray and began to help the cow by tying a rope around the calf’s forelegs and pulling.

Now I have to say, at this point, that a year ago, when Llew and I had visited Yorkshire to see the home of veterinary author James Herriot, I had been motivated to do so by the TV series All Creatures Great and Small that I had watched in which the birth of cattle was a frequent feature. In fact, Herriot and his vet colleagues were often required to push their hands deep inside the uterus of these cattle to find out the state of health of the animals and had often assisted in exactly this fashion. And now, a year later, here I was in Normandy, the home of European cattle farming, watching the actual birth of a calf. I mean this was no longer TV drama I was watching! This was reality and the real world birth was every bit as exciting and moving as those TV shows had portrayed. I was so deeply affected by these sights that I was speechless and could only watch mutely as creation occurred before my very eyes.

It was a difficult and rather lengthy first birth. When Jean-Luc’s efforts proved to be inadequate, Jacques jumped in to lend his brother support. Soon his young son Francois joined in providing a warm bucket of water and with their black lab Aurianne nosing around the cow, it was a strange sight to behold indeed. Before long, the calf’s legs emerged and then with one massive effort, out slid the head and the rest of the calf. I watched enthralled as the calf was taken to its exhausted mother who had dropped down on the ground for rest. As she made acquaintance with her new baby, she licked it tenderly and bonded with it. Truly, it was one of the most unusual things I have ever seen and both Llew and I were profoundly moved by this experience.

We said goodbye to Jean-Luc, returned to Jacques’ lovely farm, met up with Florence and this kids again and then sat down to a delicious dinner of salad (fresh from Florence’s garden) and roast chicken with a really yummy stuffing made tasty by the addition of raisins. French cheese followed in the next course, then pots of yogurt. All this was accompanied by delicious glasses of cider and an aperitif called Ricard which had an anise flavor.

It was much later that we finally ended our day having undergone so many massive adventures.

Sunday Service at the Church of St. Bartholomew the Less

May24

Sunday, May 24, 2009
London

On a day that led to a crick in my neck from the hours I spent at my laptop, I only set out in the morning to get to Church spending the rest of the day catching up with my blog and French travelogue. A breakfast of skimmed milk and Waitrose cereal with berries got me started and from then on, I was basically handcuffed to my computer.

Checking John Betjeman’s City of London Churches, I found out that the Church of St. Bartholomew the Less had a service at 11 am and that was the one I decided to attend. I have visited this church before on one of my self-guided walks, so it was its proximity to home that made my decision for me–I did not want to venture far away on this rather busy day nor did I have a bus pass that would allow me to take a long ride somewhere.

At 10. 45, I left my flat and walked briskly on what turned out to be a rather warm morning towards the Church. I arrived just as service was about to begin and found myself in a rather small but very sweet church which had just 10 people in its congregation. The vicar, one Ben, was waiting at the front to start conducting the service with the assistance of a female priest. I was warmly welcomed by a very attractive lady (whom I later learned was called Rosemarie) who pressed a service sheet and hymnal into my hand.

Every church service is different but this was most unusual in that the congregation remains seated throughout. Being new, I took my cues from those around me. The interior had been newly painted and the gilded decoration on the ceiling seemed spanking new. This contrasted quite vividly with the old monuments on the wall.

The Church of St. Bartholomew the Less is located in the grounds of the great Hospital of St. Bartholomew that surrounds it and serves as its parish. Was it because it was a holiday weekend that so few people had made it to church? Or is this customary, I wondered, as service began with a hymn. The organ at the side of the church was played at hymn time by a lady who seemed to have trouble reading the music. Few people sang and responses were barely audible. Unlike the rather grand churches I have been visiting for the past several months, this one seemed very subdued indeed.

After Communion, we were invited to coffee at the back of the church. I had a chance to chat with the Vicar. People have always been very welcoming at theses churches and I am repeatedly struck by their warmth. I understand now why the best way to make friends when you are a stranger in a community in England is to make a beeline for the local church–someone or the other will befriend you there and before you know it, you will have worked your way into the community.

At coffee, I met a number of rather interesting people such as the young man who called himself Nicholas and then proceeded to tell me that he was a fellow academic who taught English as a Foreign Language to foreign Law students at Queen Mary College of the University of London. He also turned out to be a history buff and a great lover of art and next thing I knew he was recommending all sort of places that I could go and see–such as the Thames Barrier (which I had been planning to visit) and the Main Hall of the adjoining hospital building which has a large painted roof by William Hogarth. One of my self-guided walks will be taking me to Chiswick where Hogarth’s House is on the route; but I figured it would be best to start off by taking a look at this painted roof.

It turns out that Hogarth once used to live in the neighborhood and worshiped at this church. He donated his work in the Main Hall, not charging a penny for his pains. I later found out that though the Hall is not open to the public, a hospital volunteer such as Rosemarie could get me in with her badge. We exchanged telephone numbers and have made tentative plans to visit it together on Wednesday–an outing to which I am very much looking forward.

Nicholas’ Dad, who was also present, is also a Tube buff and we spent a while talking about the Hogarth collection in the John Soanes Museum–his series entitled The Rake’s Progress is quite the most interesting collection in that fascinating space. Nicholas told me the story about Soanes’ sons who made fun of him through an anonymous article they wrote in a contemporary newspaper. When Soanes found out that it was his sons who had written so derogatorily about him, he disowned them, passing on his entire collection of architectural fragments to the City of London instead of disbursing his wealth among his sons. Good job he did that–this museum is one of the most amazing I have ever seen (and what’s more, you get double value for money as you actually walk through the rooms of Soanes’ own home and get to see how the moneyed gentry lived in the Victorian Age–which, for me, at least is a matter of undying interest). Soanes, by the way, was the architect of the Bank of England whose museum has also been recommended to me by a reader of this blog–and which I hope to get to really soon.

Of course, all this conversation occured over coffee and a chocolate biscuit–how very civilized! Before I left, another member of the congregation who happened to be from New Zealand, suggested that I visit the Church of St. Cuthbert’s in the Barbican. This was the church in which John Milton, the poet, was married. I promised to look it up on the internet. I have also passed by it on the Jubilee Walk and I was curious about it–except that it was closed and I could not peek into it at the time. I know where I shall be going next Sunday for church service! What a great time I am having seeing these churches and talking to the local parishioners.

Back home, I returned to my PC and worked steadily all day at my writing. It was about 9 pm when I had everything I wanted to remember about my travels in France and my impressions of the Chelsea Flower Show uploaded on to my blog. Time for a relaxing shower, a bit of dinner, some TV (I really enjoyed a show called Coast on the Blighty channel which took us to the east coast of Yorkshire to such beach resorts as Scarborough and Whitby–places which I have not visited but have heard James Herriot rave about in the book he wrote about the attractions of Yorkshire). It was great to learn about Whitby Jet–a kind of shale that is harvested from the hidden caves and grottoes by the water and which has been made into jewelry since the age of Victoria when she took to wearing it after the death of her beloved Albert. This led to a huge demand for the jewelry–who said it was Diana who set trends first? It seems the avid public has always allowed its fashion tastes to be dictated by royalty!

It was after midnight when I finally fell asleep with that annoying crick in my neck–a result, I am told, of stress!

I am sorry that this will be my very last week in this flat. I have adored my time here in Holborn and every second of this coming week will be precious to me as I have a heightened consciousness of the fact that I will probably never again have this incredible experience of having a London flat all to myself right in the very heart of the city. I am now determined to spend the coming week living completely in the moment savoring every second so that I can call them all to mind when I am far away and whenever I wish to think happy thoughts.

‘Tons of Money’ in Richmond, A Piano Recital at the National Gallery and ‘Oliver’ at the West End

Jan21

Wednesday, January 22, 2009
London

White I adore London for its long and colorful history, there is a downside to this aspect of its charm. Road works! Ever since I can remember taking possession of this flat at High Holborn, there have been ‘road works’ at some point or the other along its length from Chancery Lane Tube Station to High Holborn Tube station. This plays havoc with the smooth flow of traffic along one of London’s main arterial roads. This also means that you can never really time a journey by bus as it all depends on the vagaries of the road workers and their whims–they hold up buses while their construction vehicles are given priority and when one sits on the upper deck as I always do and have a view of all proceedings beneath me, it is often frustrating and infuriating. But then I have to remember that when you live in a city that has been a work-in-progress since the Medieval Age, you cannot complain.

I don’t know whether this is purely psychological, but after my visit to Paul, the specialist physiotherapist, at Euston Hospital (my name for the University of London’s Hospital at Euston), my legs feel much better. His exercises are more challenging and one of then requires me to lie down on a bed when performing it–which means that I cannot do it three times a day as I am invariably out and about in the afternoon–but they seem to be working already although he told me that I would not feel their effects for weeks. I have also resolved to be good and not walk for leisure anymore. If I take foot rest, the homeopathic treatment, perform the exercises and pray, I should hope to see a complete cure by May–when I hope to start walking the Jubilee Walkway in little spurts.

Awaking at 5 am, I spent an hour reading Bombay Tiger which has a completely different style from the rest of Kamala Markandaya’s novels–though the content bears similarity to The Coffer Dams. After doing my exercises, spending a while blogging, having breakfast and taking a shower, I headed out the door for a long bus ride to Richmond that involved changing three buses.

It was a most unusual winter’s days in London for it was bathed in golden sunlight under clear blue skies. I actually left the house today without an umbrella and just a small bag (though I did carry my camera) so as to avoid the load on my back. Changing buses wasn’t a problem at all and I was actually able to ride in one of the historic Number 9 buses from Piccadilly to the Royal Albert Hall. I now have the hang of changing buses at Hammersmith Broadway Bus Station (at which point you walk through a shopping mall which always makes me feel as if I am back in Connecticut!). I arrived in Richmond at 12. 15 pm, recognized the shops on The Quadrant just past the main railway station and hopped off.

I walked quickly to the Tesco Metro to buy what has become a favorite sandwich (The Cheddar Cheese and Onion) and though it costs a mere pound, it is truly delicious. I also found a pack of four chocolate eclairs for a pound and with this lunch in the bag, I started on a short self-guided walk in Richmond from my book 24 Great Walks in London with the promise to myself that I would take long and frequent breaks and stop as soon as my feet felt strained.

It was such a perfect days for walking. In fact it was a perfect day, period. This is the very first time that I saw Barnes Bridge on a sunlit day and while I recognized it immediately from the bus, I wish I could have gotten off and taken a few pictures of it as the ones I have taken before on rainy days make it look so dour and forbidding. Once in Richmond, I found myself walking along short Duke Street towards The Green which was once a sheep pasture but is used today for a variety of sporting activities including cricket. I could not believe that just a few yards ahead of me were the remains of Old Richmond Palace from which the Tudor King Henry VII had reigned, where his son Henry VIII had been born and where his grand-daughter Elizabeth I had died. Destroyed, but for a small portion of it, by Oliver Cromwell, the seal of Henry VII is still embedded in one of the Palace Gates that marks the entry into a lovely evocative old Tudor Yard that contains the Royal Wardrobe Building.

Enchanted by this hidden treasure and moved by the fact that the remaining shreds of this building have seen so much bloody history (before Henry moved his court to Hampton Court Palace which he seized from Cardinal Wolsey–I can understand now why the egotistical Henry would never tolerate the fact that his lowly prelate owned a dwelling that was so much more magnificent than his own!) I walked along a delightful street with old attached ‘cottages’ that took me to the Thames riverfront where twin bridges stood right in front of me. The promenade along the river was just delightful and many people were out walking despite the wind and the rather chilly temperatures. I read up on the history of the Old Deer Park (which has no deer in it), then ate a sandwich and an eclair on a bench overlooking the water.

A little later, I found myself walking under the beautiful Richmond Bridge which is made of Portland stone and climbing the steps into O’Higgins Square to start a short climb along Hill Rise towards what my book describes as the only protected view in the UK–protected by a 1906 Act of Parliament. Personalities from Turner to Reynolds to Walter Scott have described it as ‘the most unrivalled view in the country’ and William Byrd, the founder of Richmond, Virginia, is said to have named the new colony in the New World because the view of his territory across the Potomac reminded him of just this view of London across the Thames at this site. Be that as it may, one of the ‘owners’ of this unsullied view today is none other than rock idol, Mick Jagger, who owns a house in The Ashburton, a block of grand terraced housing that overlooks the bend in the Thames at this vantage point.

I decided to cut short my rambles at this point as my pedometer (that I am now wearing constantly) reminded me that I had already walked more than a mile. I took a bus back to the center of town and from there found my way to the famous Richmond Theater for my 2. 30 show–but not before I popped into the Cancer Research Charity shop and found myself a lovely English bone china cup and saucer to add to my collection at home. It caught my eye because it was so unusual–a matt black background suddenly opens up to a white glazed border on both cup and saucer that sports the Greek key design. It was these differences in texture that so fascinated me and at 3. 50 pounds, I could not go wrong.

The reason I was at Richmond Theater was to see Alan Ackybourne’s Tons of Money which stars Christopher Timothy whom I have grown to love so much in the TV series from the 70s and 80s called All Creatures Great and Small in which Timothy plays the role of Yorkshire vet James Herriott. I have to say that I was sorely disappointed, first of all, to discover that he had rather a small role (he played the Butler Spruze) and, second, that age has taken its toll on him so that he looks most unlike his younger self. He has filled out considerably, his hair has long abandoned him and his features too have changed. But for his voice (one can never change one’s voice), there is little resemblance to the actor of old who so stole my heart away.

One of the many surprises of this afternoon was the presence in the cast of Janet Henfrey (who plays Mrs. Bale in the BBC TV series As Time Goes By). This is the second time I have seen her on stage–she was present in The Importance of Being Ernest starring Penelope Keith that I saw at the Vaudeville Theater at the Strand last March with my friend Amy Tobin). The play was entertaining but not worth the long hike to Richmond unless one combines it with a walk as I did. At any rate, the theater was only half full, but I swear I was the youngest person in the audience! Everyone around me was silver haired and was no doubt there out of nostalgia for the good old days of the telly when Christopher Timothy made evening viewing special.

Then, I was on the bus again headed back to the city because, unwittingly, I had booked tickets for two plays on the same day (not having my calendar with me when I had booked a ticket for Tons of Money in December when I had gone to see Peter Pan, the Christmas pantomime at Richmond Theater). I knew that I would arrive in the city rather early–my next show (Oliver starring Rowan Atkinson in the role of Fagin) was not until 7. 30 pm at the Royal Theater on Drury Lane (this is the third show I am seeing there after French and Saunders Live and another one whose name I cannot now recall).

Having about an hour to kill, I hopped off at Trafalgar Square hoping that the National Gallery would have a late evening closing–and how right I was. A quick look at “Today’s Program” at the Sainsbury Entrance informed me that there was a free piano recital starting at 6 pm in Gallery 18. So off I went to take my place on a chair right in front of the baby grand piano that graced the gallery on a lovely Oriental carpet. The two performers of the evening were Kentaro Nagai and David Malusa, both from the Royal College of Music who kept me enthralled with an hour long program that included a fantastia and fugue by Bach, an unbelievable Ballad by Chopin, Iberian music from Spanish composes Mompou and Albeniz and a stunning work by Schumann. I could not have asked for a better way to spend an hour. This is what I most love about living in London. I come upon these cultural surprises in the most unexpected of ways and because I have so few commitments here, I can seize the opportunity to enjoy them as and when they present themselves.

Then, I was off on the bus again heading towards Aldwych where at Drury Lane, I hopped off to get to the Theater Royal. I keep forgetting how gorgeous the interior of these theaters are. This one is splendid–with fat putti adorning its walls in the lavish plasterwork along the ceiling and outside the boxes. The only horrid thing about this theater is that the balcony is about seven floors high–you feel as if you have scaled Mount Everest by the time you get to your seat–and being a ‘graded’ building, they cannot install elevators inside.

The auditorium was packed to capacity (as the play won some terrific reviews when it opened a couple of weeks ago). All around me were American college students, one of whom informed me that they were from Long Island’s Hofstra University studying British Drama for a month during their winter break. They were fidgety and noisy (as American students usually are), made inane comments during the interval (“That scene with Bumble was so sexual. She wasn’t supposed to hit on him like that” and “We were sitting at the worst possible angle for that scene”–it happened to be one in which Beadle’s wife bared her cleavage in a seduction scene!). I enjoyed these comments but the very proper English lady sitting besides me was besides herself with outrage at the behavior of the sprightly Americans and at the fact that she had to “get up and down and up and down” to accommodate their frequent passage to and from their seats!

Oliver was superb. I did not realize that some of the songs I have known since my childhood (Oom-Pah-Pah, I’d Do Anything) are from this musical. Apart from the stars (Rowan Atkinson whom I first got to know as Mr. Bean is unforgettable as Fagin and he can sing!–as is Jodi Prenger as Nancy), the little guy who played the Artful Dodger was amazing. Sets were truly stunning and the recreation of Victorian England so appealing visually that for a while I seemed to have transported myself to a different world altogether. It was truly one of the finest shows I have seen since arriving in London in September and I could understand why the critics have been raving about it.

Two plays in the same day, a musical concert, a sunny walk in Richmond…truly it was a day packed with pleasurable activity and by the time I was riding the bus back home, I felt culturally saturated. I could only talk to Llew for a few minutes before I called it a night.

Last Classes, British Museum, Handel’s Messiah and British Comfort Food

Dec5

Thursday, December 4, 2008
London

Hard to believe that we have reached the end of the semester. I arrived in class today with a heavy heart as it was the last time I would be meeting the students of the Fall semester 2008. This was my last class with them and in the Anglo-Indian seminar, I covered “Diasporic Anglo-Indians in the UK”. So many of my students have had personal encounters with Anglo-Indians through the ethnographic profile I had assigned. They were asked to make contact with a real-life Anglo-Indian (preferably in the UK) and ‘talk’ to him/her (preferably in person, but failing that, via email) and then prepare a profile based on the impact of the Anglo-Indianness in that person’s life (both in India and as an immigrant in Great Britain). So, as I lectured about Anglo-Indians in the UK (my observations, of course, based on my own real-life encounters with a number of them here in the London area), I found them nodding their heads in agreement with me or joining in with comments and observations of their own. It was a fun class.

They were so sorry to be leaving London. As Sophomores (or Upper Classmen, as they are called here–second year university undergraduates), they are only allowed one semester of ‘Study Abroad” and in less than two weeks time, their semester in London will be just a memory as they return to the States. I developed a great liking for these students in the course of this semester. Maybe because we were all in the same boat–attempting to discover London and our place in it–we bonded in a rather special way. I found them extraordinarily receptive to the information I shared, to the various assignments I gave them, to the uniqueness of taking a course about an ethnic minority in their own milieu. They were also a very mature group of students who were vocal and articulate and always impeccably behaved. So, I will be hosting a party for them at my flat, next Thursday, after they’ve taken their final exam. They will pool in, bringing appetisers and desserts. I will provide the space, the paper goods, drinks and Christmas pudding with brandy butter (as none of them have tasted it). We have many things to celebrate–one of my students has a birthday that day, another will be removing the plaster cast on the ankle she broke a few weeks ago, and all of them will be celebrating the successful completion of another semester in their eventful college lives. At a time when I did not have my family close to me, these students became my extended family and I have grown fond of them.

At lunch time, in my office, I met Karen’s husband Douglas and her mother who has arrived from the States to spend a week with her. Karen has very thoughtfully planned all kinds of interesting activities with her, not the least of which was dinner at the National Portrait Gallery that she invited me to join. I would have loved to, but had to bow out as I told her that I would be at St. Paul’s Cathedral, enjoying Handel’s oratorio, The Messiah. Then, I set off for Birkbeck College to teach my last afternoon class, the Writing one.

These Writing students are Freshmen, permitted to stay in London for a year. After Winter Break (when most of them will be returning to the States), they will come back to London for the Spring semester. Many of them have registered for my Writing II class so I shall be seeing them again in January. Because they do not have a final exam, this was the last time I would see them this year but I did not feel that same sadness in their class. After I issued all sort of instructions pertaining to their final assignments, we left Birkbeck and headed straight to the British Museum for our final ‘field trip’ of the semester.

It is still awfully cold (at least too cold, I think, for this time of year in London). So, it felt good to escape into the British Museum. I told them a little bit about the history of the British Museum and showed them a few Highlights: Antony Gorman’s marquette for The Angel of the North that stands in the lobby, the Millennium Rotunda, the Rosetta Stone and the Parthenon Marbles. My recent visit to Greece causes me to gaze upon them with newly enlightened eyes, as it were, and bring to my presentation new nuances.

When my tour concluded, we said our goodbyes and I headed home on the bus. I still had no internet connectivity at home and was disappointed. However, I had a chance to have a long chat with Llew on the phone before I caught the bus and headed for Amen Court where Michael and Cynthia Colclough live. They had presented me and my next door neighbor Tim with tickets to witness a performance of Handel’s Messiah in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Tim and I got to their home separately by 6pm and we started to make our way to the cathedral that is just across the road.

I was so excited. This was another first time for me. I mean, who hasn’t heard “The Hallelujah Chorus” and not been stunned? But I had never heard the entire oratorio and to be able to do so in such august surroundings was just too much of a privilege. Then, when we entered the cathedral, we found it packed to the rafters. Hundreds, if not thousands (I am awful at estimating audience numbers) were already in their seats and I hoped we could at least all sit together.

And then, to my astonishment, as Michael led us to the very front to the accompaniment of the ushers who knew him well, we were taken to the very first row and seated virtually at the feet of the musicians! It was just fabulous! The best seats in the house! Seats were actually reserved for us and Cynthia introduced me to the people she knew all around us.

And then the oratorio began. The City of London Sinfonia provided the musicians who sat in the front with large choirs of St. Paul’s Cathedral behind them–an adult choir and a Boy’s Choir. As the musicians and choir filled their seats and stands, a hush fell over the audience. One of the priests introduced the tradition of ‘staging’ The Messiah at St. Paul’s and informed us that we would be standing during “The Hallelujah Chorus” in a tradition, that Tim informed me, had begun in the reign of King George–he didn’t specify which one) who first stood up when he heard it. The priest added, in a humorous vein, that standing up would provide the opportunity to reach into our pockets and contribute generously to the collection baskets that would circulate at that point. Then, after they had tuned their instruments for the last time, the three male soloists arrived on stage together with the conductor and the music began.

The Cathedral had presented each of us a booklet with the words from the Bible that form the lyrics and I was able to follow the entire work. It was stirring, to say the very least, and I felt fully ‘in the moment’ as the phrase goes. Towards the end when the trumpeters and the drummer joined the musicians on stage, we found ourselves seated only a few feet from them and received the full blast of their prowess. There was a brief interval and then part Two began and, of course, at the end of Part Two, we stood for “The Hallelujah Chorus”. Right after this, a collection basket went around. And then the third and final section began. The very last chorister was outstanding. I had heard him at the Advent Service, a couple of days ago, and I had been so impressed by his virtuosity that I knew as soon as he arrived at the front of the stage that I was in for a treat. He truly has the voice of an angel and his clear, liquid notes floated up to the dome of St. Paul’s to the utter astonishment of the audience.

And then, it was over and we were thanking the Colcloughs and filing out and Tim and I were walking the short distance back home in the crisp night air. He had invited me to supper at his place right after the performance and informed me on our walk that he would be cooking Liver and Bacon, the cornerstone of traditional British comfort food. Barbara was home by the time we arrived at their flat next door. She had been unable to attend the Messiah performance as she had an important lecture to go to. Over a few nibbles and a glass of beer (and Merlot for them), Barbara and I caught up as Tim pottered around in the kitchen from which the most enticing aromas began to waft.

And then we were seated a table. In addition to the Liver and Bacon that looked superbly appetizing on this cold evening, there was a mound of mashed potatoes and steamed zucchini. And every morsel was just delicious. Tim, being a former chef, knew that some foods must be served straight off the pan and brought to the table and his Liver and Bacon and Mashed Potatoes fell in that category. I understood as I savored each bit why Seigfried in James Herriott’s All Creatures Great and Small had felt torn between keeping a hot date and staying at home for dinner as his housekeeper was cooking Liver and Bacon that evening! Though I am not, generally speaking, a lover of liver, I enjoyed Tim’s offering as did Barbara and while we showered him with compliments, he sat back and lapped them up!

Then, it as time for dessert–Lemon Ricotta Cheesecake served with tiny little glasses of Eiswein, a German dessert wine that was just fabulous. With chamomile tea to round off our meal, we’d had ourselves a memorable evening indeed and I felt so fortunate, once again, to be blessed by such incredibly friendly and generous neighbors here in London.

We joked about the fact that I had such a long way to get back home as I left their flat and turned my body around to place the key in my own keyhole! It had been another wonderful day for me in London filled with all the pleasures that I most enjoy in my life–enthusiastic and affectionate students, a visit to one of the greatest museums in the world, a once-in-a-lifetime performance of one of the world’s greatest musical compositions and a dinner to remember served by the most gracious and welcoming of hosts.

I am lucky indeed!

First Day of Classes and a Private Art Opening

Sep4

Today was simply amazing! Not only did I awake excited because I was going back to teach after a four month long summer vacation but I had an unexpectedly lovely evening as well.

I seem to have fallen into a wake-up routine with my body clock rousing me by 6 am.–how great it feels not to have to awake to an alarm clock anymore! This leaves me with an hour to read in bed (I am currently reading London by A. N. Wilson, a hugely fascinating account of the history of the city as told through its architecture).

Breakfast done, I showered and left for work about 9.15 taking yet another route to Bloomsbury. In fact, I am discovering shorter and more interesting ways to get to Bedford Square from my place at Holborn every time I walk that route. Today’s rambles took me past Bloomsbury Square, Great Russell Square and Bedford Square with their sedate Georgian houses lining the gardens that structure them into neat urban parcels. This planning of the heart of London is simply ingenious.

Both classes that I taught today–one on Anglo-Indians, the other on Writing–went off well. They are small classes and the students seem eager to learn.They are also quite vocal and are happy to share their views and perceptions. They are excited to be in London and seem to be enjoying the experience. I have seen two familiar faces in my classes–students who have taken my courses earlier in New York have signed up to take my classes again. Despite the fact that they are three hour classes that meet just once a week, time flew, and I wasn’t able to cover everything I meant to finish today…but then a great deal of time was spent introducing ourselves to each other and breaking the ice.

Multiculturalism reigns supreme in my classes. I have students from several parts of the globe–Korea, China, Poland, France, Canada and, of course, the good ole US of A. Their global experience is enviable and their openness to unfamiliar cultures is heartening.

Best of all, I loved the spaces in which I teach. My Anglo-Indian Studies class meets in a gorgeous room at Bedford Square with high ceilings, ornate brass American colonial style chandeliers, deep classical moldings and a fireplace! Somehow our Audio-visual equipment looks incongruous there–clashing with the Georgian ambiance of the building. Just outside my classroom is a magnificent staircase punctuated with plaster work with classical motifs reminiscent of the best work of Josiah Wedgwood. There is a certain solemnity to the space that affects me personally and I feel inspired to teach in such surroundings.

My Writing class meets at Birkbeck College of the University of London, just a block away from our Bedford Square premises. The English students have not yet returned for the start of their new academic year–they will be back at the end of the month of September. This leaves us using the premises exclusively. No doubt, it will be far more crowded when the entire student component is around. My class is on the 2nd floor–it is a corner room with wraparound windows on two sides that flood the room with light and sunshine. Outside in the quadrangle are mature trees whose branches seem to brush our windows. There is an expanse of green lawn just beneath us and the entire area is hushed. I cannot believe I am in the midst of the bustling city of London! How fortunate can any student (and teacher) be to have so appealing a view from a window?

When my classes ended for the day, I attended another freshman Orientation meeting with our Study Abroad Program Advisor Beth Haymaker and then finally decided to leave for home at 7 pm. I took my time walking back, stopping to buy an international phone card. When I reached home, I found a voice mail from my friend Janie Yang inviting me to the private opening of a new art exhibition by her friend Fletcher Sibthorp at the Medici Gallery on Cork Street in Mayfair, right next door to the Royal Academy of Art. Drinks at the opening would be followed by dinner …and she hoped I could make it.

Well, I grabbed my bag and left immediately (never one to miss a good gig!) getting there on the Tube in a jiffy. And how glad I was that I had the energy after a 6 hour teaching routine to take in the show. It was a most impressive exhibition that featured portraits in oil of women, tall, elegant and willowy, many of whom were ballet dancers. Fletcher, whom I had the pleasure of meeting, is a latter-day Degas with access to the world of ballet dancing. His portraits are realist and vibrant, his colors bold and his depiction of the dancers shows consciousness of their delicate physical form and posture. I thoroughly enjoyed browsing through the gallery which was filled with designers of every kind as most of them went to school art with each other and are old friends.

Dinner followed at Amba Restaurant at the historic Mayfair Hotel (a blue plaque informed me that “Their Majesties the King and Queen had visited the hotel in 1927…”) where Fletcher had made a reservation for some of his closest friends. Janie and Jimmy urged me to stay and I ended up enjoying a lovely meal with some of the friends I made last week–Tanya and Stewart were there–and some new friends that I had the chance to chat with, among them John Ambler and a lovely lady called Vivian whose male companion, a vet, was called Steven. I told him that I had just returned from the Yorkshire Dales where I had visited the home of James Herriott and he informed me that ever since Herriott’s novels became bestsellers the demand for seats in veterinary schools expanded so enormously that the grades required were almost impossible to achieve and it became far more difficult to learn to become a vet than a physician. I thought that was a very interesting fact to glean. Steven ended, somewhat bitterly, “James Herriott’s own grades in school were rubbish, but his success as a writer ended up making all of us swot hard to even get into vet school!”

Having started a low carb diet, I was worried that I would not find adequate choices on the menu but the Gloucestershire Loin of Pork with caramelized onions and balsamic reduction was very good and certainly met my current food restrictions.

It was almost midnight when we left the restaurant and chose to walk along some of the swankiest parts of London passing by Saville Row and Bond Street, the Burlington Gardens and Hay Hill. Shops carrying the names and logos of Bulgari and Chopard and Asprey enticed us by their exquisite window displays and an antique jewelry store called Bentley and Shepherd (if I remember correctly) sported gigantic logos to proclaim their royal warrants. I am slowly learning all these lovely parts of the city and am delighted to be introduced to them by native Londoners who love their city as much as I do and are very pleased to share it with me.

It was long past midnight when I reached home but by then I had received my second wind and sat down to hammer out these lines before bed.

Tomorrow also promises to be a busy day what with our Freshman Trip to Greenwich; but the forecast is calling for heavy rain all day and I hoping it will not be a complete washout. Fingers crossed!

Our Highland Fling–Travels in Scotland and Northern England

Sep2

More Medieval Wonders in Yorkshire
Wednesday, August 27, 2008, Yorkshire, England

We awoke on our 14th wedding anniversary in Alan Bowyer’s B&B to partake of the last full English breakfast of the heart-clogging kind. Tomorrow, we will awake in our flat in High Holborn and will eat sensibly again. I took a turn around his lovely cottage garden—extremely overgrown but quite lush and wonderful, complete with algae-ridden pond, statuary, an old-fashioned hand-swung pump, etc.—and then we loaded our baggage and were off.

Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal Gardens:
We had decided yesterday to skip the visit to Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire which was on our itinerary (since we had seen the palatial Castle Howard yesterday) and to spend the morning touring a place that Lonely Planet said should be a Must-Do on any Northern itinerary. Since I do not think that I will return to York again in a hurry, I did believe that we should take in Fountains Abbey and the adjoining Studley Royal Gardens. Llew agreed and we were on our way, driving around once again to Ripon from where it was a ten minute ride into the Dales that seemed in the midst of nowhere. The place opened at 10 am and we were there a few minutes earlier which gave me a chance to become a member of the Royal Oak Foundation, a membership valid for a year that gives me free entry to all the National Trust properties anywhere in the world. This cost me £46 and since the entry to the place was £7 each and the attendant let Llew in for free, we were able to save £14 right away. I know that I shall easily recover my membership in no time at all during the next year. Then, giving ourselves only one and a half hour to tour the premises, we made straight for the ruins of the Fountains Abbey itself, a superbly serene set of buildings in a state of complete ruin that dates from the 1100s.

Built by the Cistercian monks and set in a sea of emerald green grass, an exhibit gave us a quick idea of the history of the place. It was very heartbreaking to see the manner in which the abbey was destroyed by King Henry VIII during his Dissolution of the monastries in 1538.This was after the abbey had become an extremely profitable venture for the monks who made their money selling their sheep fleeces to merchants in Italy and France. Walking through the ruins was a rather sobering experience and we did wish we had more time to take it all in. The immensity and vastness of the whole complex is so astounding and you simply cannot understand how it could have been so deliberately destroyed.

Joining the abbey are the gardens that were build in the 18th century by Lord Aislabie who acquired the property and set about creating the water gardens which are meant to complement the abbey. Together, the abbey ruins and the water gardens create a tranquil, almost spiritual space of contemplation. We walked through the first of the artificial lakes but did not have the chance to take in the gardens in their entirely as it is literally a walk of a couple of miles to see it all. Despite the paucity of time, we were grateful that we had the opportunity to take in these sights. Then, we got hopelessly lost trying to find our way back to the parking lot. The map misled us into believing that we could take a short cut and then before we knew it we had left the premises altogether and were out in the fields walking for at least a mile just when we were running late and wanted to get back into our car and on the road to London as soon as possible. I guess this is Murphy’s Law—if something has to go wrong, it will.

Anyway, Llew did a splendid driving job and we were back in London in record time, munching sandwiches in the car on our way in and then following the National Express buses back to the Victoria Coach Station where we were able to return our car before 5. 30 and then took a cab back to our flat as we had so much baggage that we could never have managed in a bus or on the Tube.

Back at our building, we met Arben our concierge, and he introduced himself to us and seemed to be a very nice guy. We just stashed our stuff indoors and then rushed off to buy a phone (a landline for my flat) and some detergent washing powder so we could do our laundry and then we were picking up a take-away meal from Sainsburys and were upstairs, relaxing on our anniversary after being exhausted by all we had to do today! A glass of wine each had to suffice to mark our anniversary!

In Herriott’s Fictional World of Darrowby
Tuesday, August 26, 2008, Yorkshire Dales, England

Awaking near Thirsk in the village of Sinderby at Glen Free Holmes B&B, we had a full English breakfast served by Alan Bowyer and drove off to Ripon again to find some presents for Chriselle and Chris. I was able to find the little Souvenir dish commemorating the Queen’s Golden Jubilee which I decided to use as a tea bag holder when using my new tea set. Also found some lovely 100% lambswool scarves by James Pringle in the Edinburgh Wool Store and was thrilled at the prices we received (just £12 for 2—we bought 4 to give as gifts).

The World of James Herriott at Thirsk:
Then, we headed off to Thirsk to visit The World of James Herriott, an interactive museum that is based in the real-life home of the famous vet who was born James Alfred Wight, was known in real-life as Alf and took the pen name James Herriott because he liked a Scottish footballer by that name.

Well, from the minute we entered the village of Thirsk, I felt completely at home, as if I belonged to its world of the 1930s. We paid £5 each to enter the place which allowed us to tour the interior of the house and to use an audio tape that cost us an extra £2. Narrated in the voice of Jim Wright (the son of James Herriott), the tour took us through the various rooms in their house as it was lived in from the years 1950-1957 when the kids were little. The same house was used as a surgery, however, right up to the year 1997 which was when his son Jim Wight who also became a vet moved to larger premises. The place is decorated to look like a museum belonging to the 1950s—the decade in which I was born and for some reason I feel so much at home in that atmosphere. Then, we went through the garden (which is also so well described in the books and TV shows)—the beloved garden of Skeldale House where the family worked hard and where the kids spent so much time. (I realized later that the name Skeldale came from the valley of the River Skel which is where Fountains Abbey is located and, no doubt, the Wight’s home took its name from that location). I took a picture in the car, the Austin Severn, in which the vets scoured the Yorkshire countryside in the early days as they paid house calls to their horse, cow and sheep patients. The 10 minute film, narrated by Christopher Timothy who played Herriott in the series, was excellent and took us through the entire life of the author in a nut shell. Then, upstairs, we saw a reproduction of the wonderful TV sets that were so easily recognizable to fans of the series All Creatures Great and Small. The entire visit was so worthwhile and to be walking through the rooms in the company of fans who are equally besotted by the enthralling work of Herriott was itself an experience.

Outside, I took some pictures by the main door and also of the building. In a few paces of a quick walk, one comes to the main Market Square of Thirsk where many stores carry Herriott memorabilia and are named after the characters (Jim and Rosie’s Bric-A-Brac and Furniture Store; The Darrowby Inn—a pub, where later in the evening, Llew and I had a local beer.) It is the place where a weekly farmer’s market is still held exactly as it was on Mondays in Herriott’s day. It really was a fun excursion and I am glad that Llew seemed to enjoy it as much as I did.

Castle Howard: Brideshead Revisted!
Then, we were driving along quiet country roads towards Malton to visit Castle Howard, one of the most splendid buildings in all of England and highly popularized in the TV series Brideshead Revisited which used it as a location in the 1980s and then again a few months ago for the release of a new version of the film. Conceived as a grand country home by the 8th earl of Carlisle who requested his friend John Vanbrugh, the playwright of the Comedy of Manners School, to design a new home for him, this is one of the most spectacular English coutnry estates and one I have long wanted to visit.

Vanbrugh drew up plans for a grand domed home (the only private home in England that sports a dome with a ‘lantern’ on the top of the cupola) and asked his friend Nicholas Hawksmoor to work the final plans for him. They collaborated to create this confection of grand rooms filled to the rafters with all kind of accoutrements and furnishings. A tour of the house in which very well trained guides told us about the history and the decoration of the rooms was quite fantastic and left us awed at the wealth of the nobility in previous eras.

We also toured the lovely rose garden, a walled garden with dozen of roses (most of which, alas, were past their prime) and also a great potager which had an abundance of fresh green vegetables that are sold in the plant shop on the premises. Certainly a visit to Castle Howard is memorable and takes more than half a day if one wants to do it thoroughly and at leisure. We were fortunate in that we got a chance to see a special exhibit on the filming of the new version of Brideshead Revisited (comin g soon to a theater near you) which took place earlier this year and I seized the opportunity to pose by the bed draped in green velvet hangings in which Lord Marchmain dies in the film.

The Medieval City of York:
Then, Llew and I were headed, once again, in our car, for the medieval city of York, hoping to catch some daylight hours and a glimpse of the renowned York Minster, one of the best Gothic cathedrals in the world. Parking our car in the public parking lot, we headed straight for the Minster or church that dominates the city’s skyline. There, since a service was just beginning, we had a chance to take in only a peep of some of the main interior features such as the astounding choir screen decorated with all the kings of England unto the time the church was built and the magnificence of the medieval stained glass windows.

Then, we sauntered out into the streets intending to return to the church when the service was complete. York is truly a tangle of narrow, cobbled medieval lanes lined on both sides by antiquated buildings that formed stores on the ground floor and homes on the first. They have such an abundance of character that it is hard to believe that we are in the 21st century when one strolls through these streets. Everywhere, there is some charming item to catch the eye. I have never seen a town such as this one anywhere—Oxford and Cambridge are medieval towns but their buildings are immense educational ones built on the model of the abbeys and cloisters of the Middle Ages. This town is composed of streets such as would have been populated by the common people and the entire atmosphere is extremely evocative of this use. We sat on a bench and munched on Cornish pasties as we were starving by this time.

Our random rambling brought us back to the main entrance of the Minster where the service had ended and we were able to enter without paying the hefty entry fees as it was the very end of the day. How stupendous is this work of art! Inside in the conical chapel is a very unusual Chapter House, a meeting room for the prelates of the church. We saw the little niches in which they sat to discuss affairs of the church. The ceiling is beautifully decorated in the Mannerist style. The Rose window featured the white rose and the red rose of the houses of Lancaster and York which were finally reunited after the 100 year war by the marriage of two of its members. There was so much to see, so much to dazzle the eye, it was hard for us to focus on any one thing. We were so glad we got to see this grand edifice of Christian worship.

We did not leave York without walking upon its fantastic medieval walls that encircle the old city and provide fascinating glimpses into its Roman past–for York, was, of course, one of the seats of Roman adminstration in ancient times and fiercely retains vestiges of its classical civilization.

Then, we were out on the streets again, getting into our car and driving back to Thirsk where we resolved to get ourselves something to eat. I loved Thirsk even in the fading light of the evening and after all the crowds had left the market place. We settled down to beers at The Darrowby Inn (named, of course, for Herriott’s books in which the town of Thirsk is fictionalized as Darrowby), then picked up sandwiches at Somerfield supermarket just before it was about to close. Because I was unable to tear myself away, we took one more stroll around the Herriott home and were on our way, driving back to Sinderby where we went to bed completely exhausted.

In The Footsteps of The Da Vinci Code
Monday, August 25, 2008, Yorkshire Dales, England

We left Scotland this morning after having had a memorable time there. Kathleen’s Carneil Farm B&B offered our last full Scottish breakfast which included kippers which are smoked herrings–superb! The drive which skirted Edinburgh after we crossed the Firth of Forth took us into velvet-smooth green dales on a very drizzly morning under overcast skies.

Rosslyn Chapel–Dan Brown’s Gift to the World.
Our destination was Roslin Chapel made popular in recent times as the final setting for Dan Brown’s book The Da Vinci Code. Though it has been a while since Llew and I read the book and watched the movie, I did remember many of the last parts of the plot that are shot in this chapel and decided that it was worth visiting. I had also read that the carvings inside are exquisite.

Getting there was no picnic what with the rain and the slick roads and the heavy traffic on the motorways. This was contrasted by a quiet one-lane country road that actually got us to the spot where we found the car park filled with tour coaches. It is a bank holiday in Great Britain and many people are out for the weekend. We paid the £7 entrance fee and found the place under heavy fortification with a large metal canopy concealing the roof.

The history of the chapel goes back to the 1400s when it was constructed by William St. Clair. Over the years it has come to be associated with the Knights Templar and the secrets of the Holy Grail and the preservation of various precious items from the history of the Church including the scrolls from the Temple of Solomon. This sort of rumor gave rise to Dan Brown’s purely fictitious novel and has brought all the modern-day pilgrims seeking answers to the puzzles raised by his plot.

The carving is indeed exquisite, done in sandstone and featuring scenes from the Bible, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy and two interesting pillars, one a square version, the other a rounded one with skeins encircling it. The former was said to have been carved by the Master mason, the other by his apprentice; but since the latter’s was better, the jealous master killed the apprentice. In many ways, the carvings inside the chapel reminded us of the sandstone temples we have seen in India in which the walls appear lace-like because the intricacy of the carvings is so closely wrought. Not surprisingly, Dorothy Wordsworth is supposed to have commented that the inside of the chapel reminded her of Brussels lace.

We went down to the crypt which also featured in the film only to find it empty and certainly not concealing the sarcophagus of Mary Magdalen! We had a superb half-hour lecture by a very good guide indeed and she filled us in on the history as well as the architecture of the chapel. We also climbed up the scaffolding that led us to the same height as the roof and the flying buttresses of the chapel—all being protected while the chapel is undergoing restoration—and found a very interesting perspective on the carvings from that height. We spent over an hour in that hallowed space and thought the visit was completely worthwhile. It is little wonder that when the book first came out, the chapel received 179,000 visitors in one day while today some 1000 visitors still come through each day.

Walking Upon Emperor Hadrian’s Wall:
The next stop on our tour was Carlisle, just south of the English border, where we went in search of the remains of Roman Emperor Hadrian’sWall that was build in AD 220 with the idea of demarcating the extent of the Roman Empire. When it was completed, it ran across the width of the island from the Solway Firth in the west to the River Tyne in the east (close to today’s Newcastle). Today, it is a UNESCO protected monument and is far from complete. But where it is intact, it is deeply evocative of that interesting era of British history under the Romans and, inevitably, it took me back to my visit to Pompeii in March.

We took a very narrow foot path that led us under a railway bridge and across a small river to the old milecastle marking of the wall and then on to Birdoswold where we saw the remains of a Roman fort and much larger and longer remains of the wall. Indeed, this too was something I had wanted to visit for a very long time and I was so glad that I came face to face with this gigantic enterprise that is reminiscent of the Great Wall of China about which we have been hearing so much since the Olympics ended only a couple of days ago.

Arrival in the Yorkshire Dales:
We bought ourselves a sandwich lunch and then began the long drive eastwards towards Newcastle (running parallel to the Wall on many occasions) and southwards towards the Yorkshire Dales where we would be spending the night. We tried to find the village of Thirsk made famous by James Herriot’s books and indeed when we were there, we drew a blank as we didn’t have a good address for the B&B at which I had made a booking. Well, it turned out that Glen Free Holme was not in Thirsk at all but in a nearby village called Sinderby. It also has turned out to be rather tired looking farmhouse without an attached bath though our room is quite spacious and comfortable and has a washbasin in it. There is a labrador called Sam in the house and two very docile horses outside in the stable! All this truly makes me feel as if I am in a James Herriott story even though there is little resemblance to the landscape described by him in his books in the area in which we are staying. Tomorrow, we shall go in search of the James Herriott Museum and find out how authentic the setting of his home is to the TV series that made him a household name.

Then , since it was still rather early and there was so much good daylight outside that we did not want to waste, Llew and I settled into our B&B and then drove out to the neighboring town of Ripon which is called the “Cathedral Town of the Dales”. And how delightful it turned out to be! The cathedral truly does dominate the town but leading out from it is a maze of narrow winding cobbled roads that are lined with old-fashioned stores that were just very appealing as we browsed around them. Of course, apart from the restaurants, everything else was closed but we enjoyed our stroll, nonetheless, and thought that Ripon was indeed a very sweet little town and an unexpected find in this quiet place of natural beauty. I am looking forward to exploring the James Herriot Museum tomorrow and especially Castle Howard of which I have read so much and in which the BBC TV version of Brideshead Revisited, one of my famous novels of all time, was shot.

Close Encounters of the Royal Kind
Sunday, August 24, 2008, Royal Deeside, Scotland

Today was quite quite extraordinary—certainly the most memorable part of our Highland Fling! We awoke in Ballater, the quaint Victorian village of the prettiest kind, at our Schoolhouse B&B where we had a lighter than usual breakfast and set out to see Balmoral Castle and, hopefully, catch a glimpse of the Queen en route to church.

Balmoral Castle:
Since we were a little early, we started off by taking our hostess Kathleen’s advice and going in search of Knock Gallery, just a mile outside Crathie, the village in which Balmoral Castle is located. The reason for the detour to Knock was to see Balmoral Castle from the only point in the entire village of Crathie in which it is visible—in the distance but there, nevertheless, a fairy-tale castle with its Scottish standard flying high and proud to pronounce the fact that the Queen was in residence there. Climbing the hill to Knock, we were rewarded with that glimpse indeed, the only one that would be permitted us on this trip. But if our disappointment needed to be consoled at not being allowed to enter Balmoral or to tour the grounds, it certainly was—over and above our fondest expectations.

Stalking Royals in their Favorite Stomping Grounds:
Returning to Crathie where police and security men were already present and crowds had already started to gather in time for the 11. 30 am service, we parked our car in the car park and climbed the low hill towards Crathie Kirk (Church). Though Kathleen had told me to expect no more than “a dozen, maybe two dozen” folk, the Lonach Games had drawn a sizeable crowd to the region and not being able to enter Balmoral, they were all outside the church, like us, hoping to catch a glimpse of royalty.

So we joined the throngs, finding ourselves a prized spot at the very top of the driveway that sloped gently upwards just behind the chain barricade that was being manned by security men in plainclothes. They were the epitome of politeness and indeed “very relaxed” (as Kathleen told me it would be) as they urged people to stay behind the barricade and put their cameras away. Not having anything better to do, we got into conversation with Carole from Northumberland and her husband who were as excited as I was to see the royal family. The excitement of all the observers was infectious and I felt my excitement mounting too as I waited patiently on what was a truly spectacular day in the Highlands. The sun was out and shone golden upon the conifer covered mountains and the air was crisp and cool and somehow deliciously pure.

Then, at a few minutes before 11. 25, a car pulled up and to my enormous delight, I recognized Camilla wearing a wide brimmed beige hat and a beige outfit. She was smiling warmly. I peaked further into the car expecting to see Prince Charles somewhere and was surprised to find that he was actually driving the car himself. In the back sat a slim and tall women whom I later realized was Sophie Rhyes-Jones, wife of Prince Edward. Prince Charles and Camilla passed by rather quickly in something of a flash but they were easily discernible. Llew thought that it was all over but just then a policewoman came and stood alongside us and excused herself for standing in our pathway. Carole told her that since she was tiny she would be obliged if she would move and she did move aside.

Then, in a few seconds, a lovely long burgundy Rolls Royce came along and all of us knew at once that the Queen would be in that car. The car climbed the hill much slower, driver by a chauffeur and for a long while before it got right in front of us, I saw Prince Edward sitting in the passenger seat and smiling away for all he was worth. In my delight, I began to wave frantically, just so thrilled to be actually seeing these folks whose pictures we have all seen forever. “That’s Prince Edward,” I said for Llew’s benefit so that he would not miss the sight of this lesser royal.

Then, just when it seemed as if my joy would know no bounds, the car stopped, unbelievably, for just a couple of seconds, right in front of us so that I found myself looking directly at the Queen not even two feet in front of me. Resplendent in bright pink silk with a lovely formal pink hat, she wore a double strand of pearls around her neck and large pearl ear-rings. Her hand was raised as she waved—the famous royal wave, that has been satirized in comedy shows for as long as I can remember–and she was smiling brightly and widely and taking in the enthusiasm of the crowds. For all those who have talked about the aloofness of the Queen, her inability to connect with common folk, her remoteness and everything else, all I can say is that for those couple of minutes, she seemed anything but friendly and approachable and truly kind. Seated right besides her was her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, his head stooped slightly to allow him to be seen by the crowds and his hand also raised in a friendly wave. To say that I could not believe my eyes would be an understatement. I was filled with the utmost delight and a true sense of having just witnessed something that I could write home about. Truly it had been worth standing there outside the church and the half hour that we spent waiting patiently there was more than rewarded.

Braemar–Location of the famous Highland Games:
Since no one was allowed about the premises as long as the royal family was inside the church, we got back into our car and drove about 15 minutes to the neighboring village of Braemar, home of the famous Highland Gamers which are scheduled for next weekend. If I thought Ballater was pretty, this village was picture-perfect. Astride the River Dee that bubbled furiously beneath me on the stone bridge that spanned it and built around a number of stone hotels, town halls and a church, this was truly a tourist’s dream. Llew and I strolled around, charmed by every corner before we got back into our car and returned to Crathie.

Visit to Crathie Kirk:
The service was over by this time, the royal family had returned to their secret abode at Balmoral and the congregation was making its way down the hill towards their cars in the parking lot. That gave Llew and me the chance to visit the interior of the church and to pray there for a few minutes before we walked around the pews, saw the one used by the Royal Family right at the front and bought a few postcards by which to remember our recent experience. We saw marble busts of Queen Victoria and Georges V and VI and lovely stained glass windows. I made my way to the Royal Pew which was covered, by this time, with a rich purple slipcover and found, to my astonishment, the printed copies of the service that had been used, not half an hour previously, by members of the Royal Family. Since they just lay there and would certainly have been discarded, I picked one up for my scrapbook, thrilled to know that it had just been used by royalty!

Visit to the Grave of John Brown–Protagonist of the film ‘Her Majesty Mrs Brown’:
The church itself is very tiny, almost cozy, rather dark inside and heavily beamed. Kathleen had also told me about the old graveyard right across the road from Crathie church in which lies buried John Brown, Queen Victoria’s faithful and dedicated groomsman. Her relationship with him following the death of Prince Albert had led to speculation about a possible clandestine relationship between them. Some even allege that they were secretly married though there is no historical evidence to support this conjecture. This became the subject of the excellent film Her Majesty Mrs. Brown in which Dame Judy Dench played Queen Victoria rather superbly.

Of course, Llew and I had to go out in search of his grave and of the prominent gravestone erected in his memory by a grateful Victoria who called him her good and faithful servant. None of this information is available in any of the guidebooks I was carrying with me and were it not for information disclosed by a local, I would have missed this incredibly interesting gem of history that was located not even a few yards from where we had stood in a church in which Queen Victoria had herself once worshipped.

On the Scotch Whisky Trail:
Then, we were on the road again leaded to the Lochnagar Whisky Distillery where we thought we’d take a tour as we had missed the malt whiskey trail earlier on. Unfortunately, the next tour was a good half hour later and since the tour itself took an hour and we were running short of time, we drove on as intended to take in the last bits of the Royal Deeside Tour.

Purple Mountains Majesty:
This, in fact, turned out to be the most unforgettable part of the tour as we passed by gently rolling glens and hills that were entirely covered with heather. The heather was so thick and so profuse that entire mountains in the Cairngorms National Park were covered with them. The heather, the mountains, the river Dee following us along our trail and the heavily wooded slopes combined to create sights that can never be captured by camera. As we wound our way towards Glamis Castle, our next stop, they enchanted us.

Glamis Castle–Supposed Site of Macbeth’s Murder of Duncan:
Glamis Castle (pronounced ‘Ghlams’), long associated with Shakespeare’s Macbeth (again, like Cawdor Castle inaccurately) was amazing and unexpectedly fabulous. We drove along the endless driveway past twin rows of trees that lined both sides and saw the castle slowly come into view. We decided to actually stop there and take a tour both of the interior and the exterior and we were so glad we did.

A lovely guided tour costing £8 per head gave us the services of a superb guide who took us through one room after the other all of which were stacked with the most breathtaking interiors—bedrooms, living rooms, libraries and a private chapel, all filled with furnishings of the most notable kind. Glamis Castle is closely associated with Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons, the late Queen Mother who was born here and spent her life here until her marriage to the present Queen’s father, born Albert, later George VI. Here is tons of memorabilia associated with her life as a girl including her mother’s bed, the piano that the Queen Mother played as a young lady, her carriage in which she received rides around the castle, etc. The present owners, the Duke and Countess of Strathmore and Kinghorne, who still inhabit the castle look after it very well indeed and there are so many stories about the ghosts that haunt the environs including the one of Lady Jane Grey who was declared a witch and killed. There was so very much to see and admire about the interiors and we thoroughly enjoyed every second of the tour.

Off to a Round of Golf (hahahha) at St. Andrew’s:
Then, we were on the road again, this time headed to St. Andrew’s, home of golf. We reached there about 5. 30 and decided to go out in search of an early dinner. The town is just beautiful, made up of medieval buildings that form the core of the oldest university in Scotland (build in the early 1400s). These converge beautifully in commercial areas where the shops doing modern business still seem rather ancient.

We found a traditional Scottish Angus steak dinner in a bar and enjoyed our meal very much. Then, we headed south towards Dunfermline in search of the Carneil Farm B&B in Carnoch where we were going to spend our last night in Scotland. We got there about 8. 30 pm and gratefully made our way up to the room we had occupied a week ago, just thrilled to have had such a spectacular day.

Stalking Royalty by Deeside
Saturday, August 23, 2008, Aberdeen and Royal Deeside, Scotland

As always happens when Llew and I are on holiday, we lose track completely of dates and days. When Ray informed us at Eilidh B&B in Inverness that breakfast would be served at 9am because it was the weekend, we realized that it was Saturday and that we have been on the road for 8 whole days! Unbelievable.

After showering, we sat down to one of Ray’s enormous full Scottish breakfasts, then left his home soon after. Headed for Aberdeen, we decided to stop en route to see some of the more interesting sites on the 106 mile journey.

Cawdor Castle–Setting of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’:
Our first stop was Cawdor Castle, popularized by Shakespeare’s Macbeth but bearing little or no historical accuracy with the real events that led to the grizzly happenings of the play. Paying £4 each to tour the grounds and the gardens (we chose to pass on the interiors for want of time), we spent about an hour just taking in the magnificence of it all.

The castle has been beautifully refurbished to keep up with the huge tourist interest in it but the full rate (almost £8) seemed a little too pricey. However, for the half price we paid, we got to see the stone exterior which was very impressive indeed, we crossed the grass-filled moat to the entrance and I even had a peep into the interior which was furnished rather opulently in typical English-country style.

Cawdor has a spacious maze and we had a peak at that as well before we made our way into the spectacular gardens that were just full of autumnal blooms and I saw my very first blooming thistle for the first time in Scotland. Lavender was everywhere as were Asiatic lilies and rows and rows of a dropping white flower that I couldn’t recognize. We took so many pictures with the castle in the background and I found it hard to believe that I was actually in the venue of which I had read when I was in my teens—Cawdor Castle. I actually saw a bubble hole and a cauldron at the very entrance to the castle that was reminiscent of the first lines of the play–Macbeth.

Double Double, Toil and Trouble
Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble.

Over to Elgin:
Our drive took us further on to the seaside town of Nairn past a very small and very appealing country road—almost a bike pathway–before we caught the main roadway again and headed to the medieval town of Elgin which has a 13th century Town Center with cobbled streets and old stone cottages—just very beautiful. It also has a 13th century ruined cathedral which made some lovely pictures. We had a fantastically sunny day which was such a relief after all the clouds and drizzles we’ve passed through in the past week. But then my guidebook informed me that Elgin is the sunniest town in the entire UK and is known for its bright blue skies!

Well, just as we were about to leave the cathedral precincts, I spied a sign that announced Johnstons of Elgin Visitor Showroom and I told Llew that I wanted to visit it. This is because I am familiar with their products and love them dearly having used a 100% lambswool throw made by them which I bought over 10 years ago. Since we are decorating our new media room, it made sense for me to consider purchasing another throw for the new space. How delighted I was to explore the environs of this century-old showroom in the very place where the local sheep provide the wool that makes those luxurious items. Of course, we did find a throw that would suit the colors of our room and for a very affordable price –just £30 for a lambswool throw in a very bold plaid—in keeping with the plaid designs of Scotland–a very fitting souvenir indeed of a country that is filled with sheep at every turn!

Homeless in Aberdeen!
Back on the road, we drove through very gentle glens towards Aberdeen. There were very charming villages along the way, some no more than a single street with a few old stone cottages along the road, others complete with churches and greens and bridges. When we did arrive in Aberdeen, we tried to find ourselves accommodation for the night as this was the only place in which I did not succeed in finding accommodation in advance. Well, everything in Aberdeen was chocobloc and we could find nothing. We did walk the length of two streets for about an hour trying to find something but drew a blank. Finally, I suggested to Llew that we should start driving along the Royal Deeside (i.e. along the banks of the River Dee) and that we should keep our eyes open for any possibilities of B&Bs along the way.

The Royal Deeside Tour:
Of course, we followed the Royal Deeside Driving Tour as given in the DK Eyewitness Book and came upon Drum Castle, now managed by the National Trust of Scotland, a fine medieval building that was associated with Robert The Bruce and his standard bearer to whom he gifted the castle. Back on the road again after taking a couple of pictures, we stopped a little later at Crathes Castle, this one less visible from the car park than was Drum. Another round and another picture later, we arrived at Ballater, a town that lies about 15 minutes from Balmoral Castle which is the residence of the royal family in Scotland. This town, made famous by Queen Victoria, who used it as a railway base for her many trips to Balmoral which she so loved, is full of shops that proudly display their royal warrants on their store fronts as so many of them supply provisions to the royal family. Since it was close to 5 pm and we were nowhere near the Castle, I suggested to Llew that we stop to find accommodation. It was at that time I discovered that the Tourist Office right next to the red and yellow picture-perfect Old Royal Station would be able to find us accommodation. I raced there and was relieved to find that despite the fact that every town along the River Dee was packed to the gills with tourists who had arrived to witness the Highland Games that are being played at nearby Lonach, there was actually a place available in the town in a B&B called the Schoolhouse run by Kathleen and Allan Low. It was so pricey at £75 for the en suite room but we had no choice and we took it. Kathleen then suggested we have dinner at the Old Station Restaurant and after we stashed our stuff in our room (very plain for the price), we went out for a long stroll to explore the lovely little village that had probably not changed at all since Queen Victoria visited these parts and crossed the stone bridge over the River Dee from where we received lovely perspectives of the place.

The ladies in the Tourist Office also informed us that Balmoral Castle and Grounds were closed as the Queen was in residence there with her family enjoying the August holidays. We were disappointed but then they also informed us that if we went at 11. 00 am tomorrow to the Castle, we would be able to see the Queen leaving the Castle at 11.30 to go to Church. I asked if we could also attend service in the church and they told me that we could do one or the other—attend the service by getting to the church by 10. 30 or stand behind the police barricade to catch a glimpse of the Queen at 11. am. We decided to do the latter and soon headed to dinner.

Dinner at the restaurant was very good value for money indeed—I had the Scottish salmon with a tomato sauce and creamy mash and Llew had a burger made with rumpsteak and lamb that was gigantic. I also had cider while Llew had red wine. Neither of us had room for dessert. After another quick stroll (it had suddenly turned chilly), we got back to the B&B and had a chat with Allan who runs a volunteer education service in India and Sri Lanka where he was born and sat by a warm fire for a few minutes. Then it was time to return to our room to relax and write this diary.

Investigating the Inner Hebrides
Friday, August 22, 2008, The Isle of Skye and Inverness, Scotland
Great weather today made our exploration of the Inner Hebrides quite unforgettable. We awoke to a spectacular view of Ben Nevis from the bedroom window of our Quaich Cottage B&B and couldn’t resist taking pictures of the cloud-enshrouded peak. After showering quickly, we went downstairs to the dining room for our full Scottish breakfast that included two venison sausages which both Llew and I found very delicious.

Well prepared for the exploration that lay ahead, we returned to the town of Fort William to a charity shop where I had spied a full Queen Elizabeth Golden Jubilee Commemorative china tea set for £20, a truly unbelievable price, and decided to purchase it, only to discover that it had been further reduced to £10! With this detour, we lost about 20 minutes of travel time but we soon hit the road to Loch Ness and drove northwards, passing by the famous Caledonian Canal where it began at the little village of Banavie. The drive was just delightful. The area is simply chocful of lakes, all of which reflect the green vegetation of the mountain slopes. It was very reminiscent of the Canadian Rockies and Llew and I swore we could well have been there.

In Search of Nessie–the Loch Ness Monster:

Before long, we spied the southernmost shores of the famous Loch Ness (above left) and joined hordes of tourists in attempts to spy the infamous Nessie, as the Loch Ness monster is known. The road towards Invermorriston curved sharply making driving both strenuous and rather slow. En route, we passed by the famous Uruquart Castle whose ramparts jut out into the lake. Lack of time did not allow us to explore the castle in its entirety, but we did stop to take pictures on the shore. There was nary a ripple on the lake’s surface—so any hopes of catching a glimpse of the elusive Nessie died immediately!

Off to the Isle of Skye:
Back on the road, headed towards the Kyle of Localsh and the Skye Bridge that would take us towards the islands of the Inner Hebrides, we stopped our car to give a ride to a hitchhiker named Joseph who happened to be an Irishman who had missed his bus to the Isle of Skye and was very grateful for the lift.

Chatting with him along the way took us past the famous Five Sisters of Kintail (gentle mountain slopes clad in green) and eventually the banks of Loch Duich on which the most photographed castle in Scotland (after Edinburgh’s)—Eileen Donan (pronounced ‘Doonin’) Castle offered wonderful photo opportunities of which we made the most.

Then, we were racing towards the Isle of Skye desperate to make our 1. 30 lunch reservation at the famed Three Chimneys Restaurant at Dunvegan about which we had read in The New York Times, three weeks ago. A quick call to them (thanks to my cell phone) made it clear that we would be unable to reach the restaurant in time and that they were unable to keep their kitchen open for us. Unable to keep our disappointment at bay, we decided to stop at the largest town on the Isle of Skye called Portree to eat ourselves a consolation lunch at a nearby bistro.

Lunch at Picture-Perfect Portree:

Skye is truly spectacular and reminded us very often of the western shores of Ireland around Connemara and Achill Island. The landscape changes dramatically presenting the motorist with the stark steeply rising mountain faces of the Cuillin Hills that are draped in a very light green but completely lack the presence of trees. Apart from flocks of sheep and brown cows that graze placidly along the slopes, there is no sign of any life. On the winding narrow roads that lead ever northwards to the more remote stretches of the island, there is barely any traffic. This is the point in Scotland when the lochs meet the ocean and the land and seascapes working in collusion are just stupendous. When we did reach Portree after dropping Joseph off at the crossroad, we arrived at a small bistro called The Bistro on the Main where we enjoyed a very good lunch indeed—glasses of Isle of Skye beer (“made with porridge oats!”) and prawn sandwiches for Llew and Fish and Chips (superbly fried haddock) for me.

Replete with our meal, we browsed around the stores and bought a few souvenirs before getting into the car again to undertake a loop around the northern reaches of the Isle of Skye where the natural scenery is most noted. Here we were rewarded by frequent glimpses of the ocean punctuated by landscapes that looked more like moonscapes. We also saw a few of the famous Highland breed of golden cattle that sport a very shaggy mane and long curving horns. They passed right by our car doors allowing us to take a few good pictures.

Having seen some of the most interesting parts of Skye, we made our way back towards Invermorriston passing by the Five Sisters of Kintail once again and admiring their rugged faces. Then, we were headed northwards towards Inverness where we hoped to find our Eilidh Bed and Breakfast before it got too dark. No reason to fear. Back on the shores of Loch Lomond a slight drizzle began but our car ate up the miles bravely and brought us into the town where we very easily found our abode for the night. Settling in our room, we took the suggestion of Ray, the owner of the house, that we take a walk towards the center of the city and the banks of the River Ness.

Indeed, Nessie makes her presence felt all around this area and the Ness Bridge that spans the river dividing the city in half offered wonderful floodlit views of the Castle of Inverness and the lovely old stone clad buildings that lined the banks of the river—buildings that turned out to be the Palace Hotel and Columba Hotel. Crossing the bridge, we arrived in the Town Center and wound our way through attractive shops that sold woolen items, postcards and a variety of souvenirs including Scotch whiskey. This corridor of Scotland, along the banks of the river Spey, is noted for its distilleries, and no doubt, we shall pass by and visit a couple of distilleries tomorrow. Indeed, we loved Inverness—it had the old-fashioned ambience of Edinburgh without the frenzy of the crowds and the dignity of Glasgow without its chaos. Our walk took us deeper into town and as darkness fell over the city, the golden orbs of the lamps that lined the River Ness’ banks, were reflected in the waters flowing softly downstream. The city was atmospheric in the extreme and both Llew and I fell in love with it immediately.

Then, twenty minutes later, we were back at our B&B, eating a sandwich and sundae dinner but not before we helped ourselves to a wee dram of Scotch whiskey which our host Ray told us represented a traditional Scottish welcome! It was warming indeed and reminded us of the brandy that our Mothers gave us when we were kids plagued by colds! A spot of TV later, news round-ups followed by some glimpses of the Highlights of the Beijing Olympics which are on right now, took us off to sleep.

Highland Fling
Thursday, August 21, 2008, Fort William, Scotland

The spectacular day we had today more than made up for the disappointments of Glasgow. The Victorian House Hotel in Glasgow offered a fantastic full Scottish breakfast and Llew and I ate well, fuelling up for the long day that lay ahead.

On the Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond:

We found our way out of the city of Glasgow fairly easily and arrived on the shores of Loch Lomond within an hour. Making our way towards the western shores for the prettiest village in southern Scotland called Luss, we passed by a few tourist buses and many holiday makers. At Luss, Loch Lomond’s “bonnie, bonnie banks” (above left) allowed us to touch the water that softly lapped the shore as kids fed ducks. This is the lake with which every kid is familiar—especially those who have gone through music lessons. Which one of us who learned to play the piano did not play the Scottish song made famous the world over by a Scottish soldier dying far away from home? I had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually on the banks of this celebrated lake.We found the temperature of the water rather chilly and for a souvenir I picked up a small pebble of slate which was the main export of this little village. It had the cutest little cottages all lined up in neat rows, their front facades thick with colorful climbing roses and the famous slate roofs sloping down low and crowned with their chimney pots.

Loch Katrine and Loch Achray:
Then, we took a detour towards the western side of the lake driving into Queen Elizabeth Forest Park in the Trossachs which reminded me of the film The Queen and I had to wonder whether the unforgettable scene with the stag in the film was shot in these environs. Certainly the landscape was as spectacular and isolated as shown in the film. Passing by tiny little villages, we stopped a couple of times to browse through their stores and to pick up our little stock of souvenirs. At Lake Katrine, famous for the novel The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott and the opera of the same name by Lammermoor, we saw the steamship The Walter Scott that has plied these waters since the late 1800s. Throughout the area, there are lakes that glisten softly in the weak sunshine. On our way out, we passed by the imposing Tigh Mor, a castle-like
building on the banks of Loch Achray, which was for me at least, reminiscent of the setting of the manor in Monarch of the Glen. We were fortunate that though clouds hung low on the mountain tops, there wasn’t much rain, not until we reached Fort William about 4 pm, which afforded Llew perfect driving conditions in the Highlands. The driving was slow and for about ten miles we were on a one-lane bicycle path that needed us to allow oncoming cars to pass in special “passing places” created along the route. The sense of remoteness was complete as we were engulfed it seemed, up to our elbows, in green pastureland and towering peaks. The villages were cute to the point of quaintness and I enjoyed these bits of the drive best of all though they couldn’t have been very easy on Llew.

Glen Coe and the Glen Finnan Viaduct:
The most spectacular part of our travels today was around the area of Glen Coe where the mountain faces of the Cairngorms rose up sharply right in front of our car. We saw the famous Glen Finnan Viaduct, which is deeply evocative of the Victorian Age when it was created—a very old arched bridge that spans two mountain slopes on which steam trains still run today and become useful props for films such as the very recent Miss Potter.

The Three Sisters, three magnificent mountains, were clearly evident close to Glen Coe right off the winding road and then we were arriving in Fort William on the banks of Lock Leven when the drizzle began. This entire area is so full of lakes that every time you round a curve in the Highlands, you pass by another picturesque body of water. Since it had started raining by the time we arrived at the tiny town of Fort William, we spent some time browsing through the souvenir stores, got ourselves a take-out tea consisting of scones and hot chocolate (which we ate at Subway and which filled us up so much that we could barely think of dinner) and spent about half an hour in the local library checking our email.

Getting back in our car, we thought we’d try to find our B&B before darkness fell. This lay about four miles north of Fort William in the little village of Bannavie and in a short time, we were at Quaich Cottage B&B run by Ian and Val McDonald who were extraordinarily friendly and offered us a cup of tea upon our arrival. We spent more than two hours chatting with them in their living room that offered a dazzling view of Ben Nevis, (above left) the UK’s tallest peak then shrouded in clouds. We met another French couple Isabel and Bruno, fellow-travelers in Scotland, who were staying at the same place. Then, we got back to our room, I wrote this diary and we decided to have a very late sandwich dinner before calling it a night.

Great Disappointments in Glasgow
Wednesday, August 20, 2008, Glasgow, Scotland

Glasgow was truly a washout—in very sense of the word. For one thing, it poured all day and I mean all day. The distance between Edinburgh and Glasgow can be covered in less than an hour but we took a while, once in the city, to find our B&B—The Victorian House—on Renfrew Street where we were placed high up on the third floor in a tall building that lacked a lift! I have made a mental note, in the future, to only book B&Bs and hotels that can guarantee placing us on the lowest floor.

Pollock Park and the Burrell Collection:
Since it was so wet, it made sense to go out to Pollock Park in search of the famed Burrell Collection and after taking the local train there and walking through terrible weather, we arrived at the famous park only to find that the place was closed as a result of “industrial action”. It turned out to be a strike of the Council workers that brought all civic services to a standstill.

With disappointment, we returned to Glasgow to find overflowing dustbins everywhere (a result of the strike) and people who were most disinclined to help tourists. Our next attempt was to find Kelvingrove Park where we hoped to see the Glasgow Art School and, of course, that was closed too, making it impossible for us to take in the work of Charles Rennie Mackintosh which heralded the arrival of Art Nouveau in Scotland. Fortunately, I ran into a man called Peter at this point, who volunteered to drive us in his car to the Hunterian Gallery at the University of Glasgow—a set of imposing red brick buildings set in a sea of green. It took Peter a while to find the place but when we did, we were treated to the largest collection of James McNeil Whistler’s works outside Europe. Overall, it was a small collection and we saw it all rather quickly.

Afternoon Tea at the Historic Willow Tea Rooms:
Back on the underground again (which they call the Subway in this city), we arrived again at St. Enoch Station, where we walked quickly up Sauchiehall Street to the famous Willow Tea Rooms designed and created by Mackintosh at the turn of the 20th century. His work, characterized by grids, straight lines, checks, etc (reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s in the USA) is a contrast to the work produced by someone like Alfons Mucha in Prague whose curlicues and curvy motifs characterize Art Deco. In the tearooms which he created for Kate Cranston, Mackintosh’s work can be seen in the décor, the printed aprons worn by the waitresses, the china, etc. Llew and I had a pot of the Willow House’s special house blend and a scone each—easily the fluffiest scone I have ever eaten in my entire life–it melted like a cloud in my mouth when spread with clotted cream—and a slice of Chocolate Fudge Cake which we split.

By this point, we were ready to get back to the hotel to relax for a bit. Llew went out in search of an adaptor for my computer and I took a short nap. Much later, when Llew returned without it, we went out to buy ourselves a sandwich for dinner as we were still full from our lovely tea. A little walk later, we found our adaptor and I was able to return to our room (after climbing three floors and exactly 66 steps) where I was finally able to continue typing this journal. A little TV later, we settled down to sleep.

Overall, I really do feel I ought to return to Glasgow again because we saw nothing. And oh yes, the rain did not let up at all. I can only hope we will run into better weather tomorrow.

Ancient History in Edinburgh
Tuesday, August 19, 2008, Edinburgh, Scotland

Awoke at 6m and tried to fill in this journal but ran out of juice in about 40 minutes and had to stop as my plug did not match any at the B&B. We showered in a very tiny but very cute bathroom and went down to an enormous breakfast that included haggis (very peppery, very strongly flavored sausage made with minced offal and stuffed into a sheep’s stomach!) and porridge (very unusual texture and served with honey—lovely!) and Highland oatcakes—tasteless biscuits, like dry toast that we ate with Dundee marmalade. We also ate scrambled eggs and pork sausages, bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes and brown toast with preserves and cheese spread and decaff coffee—on top of pineapple juice! This, as you can imagine, kept me going till 5 in the evening.

Across the Firth of Forth:
We decided to leave our car at a ferry car park near the Forth Bride and took a public bus to get into Edinburgh which we reached in about a half hour after getting to the ferry park via rural country roads and tiny villages. I slept on the bus, and when I awoke, I was in the capital city of Scotland at St. Andrew’s Square where the bus station was located.

Festival Time in Edinburgh:
Edinburgh was simply crawling with tourists and culture-vultures as the famous annual summer Edinburgh Festival was on as was the Fringe. We paused for a while at the Scott Monument to listen to a few bagpipers play for the tourists.

The Heights of Edinburgh Castle:

A quick stroll through Princes Gardens took us towards the Castle which is one of the most important tourist sights. There a steady climb took us to the Ticket Booth where for £12 we had a guided tour that included the Honors of Scotland, i.e. the Crown Jewels, the oldest in Europe—a crown, a scepter and a sword lie on a satin coverlet enclosed in a glass case right besides the notorious Stone of Scone which was returned to Scotland in 1996—I had last seen it under the famous throne in Westminster Abbey 22 years ago. We also saw the two memorials to fallen Scottish soldiers from the American War of Independence onwards as well as the magnificent Great Hall, its walls covered with arms and armor, where so many royal banquets were held—rather similar to the many castles we have seen all over Eastern Europe (below left).

We also visited St. Margaret’s Chapel, one of the oldest buildings in Edinburgh and the smallest—able to seat only 25 people—and admired its exquisite stained glass windows!

Then, we found ourselves passing through the main courtyard of the Castle where the stands were all set for the famous Military Tattoo (for which, unfortunately, we were unable to obtain tickets as they were sold out months ago) and found ourselves walking along the famous Royal Mile which is lined with souvenir stores, shops selling superb Scottish woolen products and restaurants–not to mention places where you can buy a kilt (as I had done 22 years ago).
We saw some stupendous old churches along the way including the Church of St. Giles. Everywhere, there were performers galore giving street shows and dressed in costume—part of the many festivals going on simultaneously including the famous Fringe.

Scotland’s Colorful History at Holyrood House:

About twenty minutes later, at the end of the Royal Mile, we arrived at the famous Palace of Holyrood House which is still used as a royal residence by the Queen during her visits to Scotland. I took a picture with Llew on the same bench on which I had posed 22 years ago with Hyun-Sook Jeong from Oxford (above left). Paying £8, we were given audio guides as part of our tickets that allowed us to guide ourselves through the splendid palace which was rather similar in style to the Wren-designed courtyard at Hampton Court Palace. Then, we were walking through the superbly decorated rooms still used by the Queen to host royal banquets.

Eventually, we entered the most ancient part of the palace including the area associated with the ill-fated life of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. What was most evocative was seeing her own bed chamber and the adjoining tiny dining room where she was at a meal with her ladies when three men broke in and, in her presence, stabbed her Italian secretary Rizzio 59 times. Her own husband, Robert Darnley is said to have been behind this murder being maddened by jealousy and suspecting his wife of having an affair with Rizzio—Darnley himself was killed a year later. We were actually shown the spot at which Rizzio fell as the Queen screamed in terror. Also very interesting was the Long Portrait Gallery with 89 portraits of all of Scotland’s kings who ruled the country since the time of the Egyptian pharaohs. Then, with the light fading, it was time for us to get back to our B&B by a reverse journey on the public bus—but not after eating a lousy Italian dinner at a restaurant called Montrane where I had the first bad lasagne of my life (and Llew’s prawn sandwich was pathetic).

Despite my doubts that we’d find our way back to Carnoch to our Carneil Farm B&B, we did get back rather easily and settled down for the night.

Our Travels Begin
Dunfermline, Scotland, August 18, 2008

We awoke to a typically grey London Monday morning. Rain during the night had washed the streets leaving them clean and gleaming. We downed the last of the milk in the fridge, showered and left the flat making sure all lights were out, gas turned off and windows locked. I left a long To-Do List for Yvonne at NYU for I had found the time to take an inventory of the apartment on awaking and to point out all the minor things that needed attention in our absence.

Picking up almond croissants for breakfast from Sainsburys, we caught the No. 8 bus right across the street from my flat and headed off for Victoria Coach Station—an area I know so well from all my travels—a real see-London-as-you-go route that took us through the heart of the city but crawled all the way, thanks to traffic, congestion and construction on every major road.

Eventually getting to our destination, we walked to Semley Place (not seen on our map) but not before a black cab driver tried to trick me into believing that the street was in the opposite direction from which we were headed—my first experience of the nastiness in a Londoner, for I had made it very clear to him as I asked for directions that it was adjacent to the Coach Station and yet he tried packing me off to the Railway station! Fortunately, Llew found a map somewhere at a bus-stop that confirmed both the location of Semley Place as well as the fact that I was almost tricked into dragging my duffel bag unnecessarily through wet streets on a wild good chase!

The actual renting of our car did not take any time at all (though Llew had made an error at the time he booked it by reserving it for Aug 17 instead of 18). It is a brand new Vauxhall Astra in royal blue with 977 miles on the meter. Though both of us were very nervous about finding our way out of London in rush hour traffic, in fact, it was a breeze (thanks to the many trips I have taken along that same route to Stanstead airport and to Oxford).

In the Yorkshire Dales:
In less than an hour, we were on the M1 headed for Scotland but it was our intention to stop en route at the edge of the Yorkshire Dales in Haworth to see the second most famous literary destination in all the UK after Shakespeare’s Stratford—the home of the Brontes. Almost as soon as we left the environs of London behind, the landscape enchanted us. Neat suburban housing gave way to open farmland and another hour later, we were in the Derbyshire Dales, the little Astra eating up the miles. Llew, as usual, was a pro behind the wheel, far more comfortable, of course, on the motorway than the little country lanes which were as narrow as those in Toyland.

Hebden Bridge and Heptonstall–Yorkshire’s Pretty Villages:
At about 1.30pm, we arrived at the village of Hebden Bridge about which I had read in Sheila Pickles book entitled The Essence of English Life. The tiny village of Heptonstall was where she had grown up in the 1950s and having remembered those names, I urged Llew to stop there for lunch.

Charming Hebden Bridge was swarming with tourists and there was much to photograph—a stone bridge (above left) over a bubbling stream filled with ducks and delighted toddlers feeding them crumbs, a village square surrounded by stone buildings full of pubs (The White Swan), a restaurant (Shoulder of Mutton) and a Tea Room. We picked up Chicken Tikka Sandwiches that were as gigantic as the ones we get in America—only we do not get Chicken Tikka sandwiches in America!–and explored the village as we munched, stopping only to take pictures.

A few minutes later, we headed up a steep hill towards Heptonstall, that is perched on a sharp ridge and offers stunning views of the Dales in all their emerald glory. The homes here are 500 years old, made of the darkened black and brown stone of this region—seen everywhere in the walls that snake all over the fields forming barriers between each landholding. Cobbled streets led us towards a picturesque old church in whose churchyard lies buried the American poet Sylvia Plath who was married to the English poet Ted Hughes (later Britain’s Poet Laureate) who hailed from these parts. Because it was almost 3 pm and Llew, understandably, did not want to drive in the dark, we did not actually stop at her much-visited gravesite but contented ourselves with a view of the church from a distance. Everywhere in Yorkshire, there are black stone walls that snake around the dales and the farms and the fields bringing a deeply rural ambience to the space. James Herriott’s TV series bring these into sharp focus and it was great to actually see them in person.

Haworth–Home of the Brontes:

Then, we were on the road again, heading towards Haworth (pronounced ‘Howith’), which lies just north of the village but along a remote and deeply isolated moor whose barrenness gave truth to the myths that the sensibility of the Brontes’ was negatively affected by the wide loneliness of their environment which led, in turn, to the moroseness of their plots. In the house (above left), we trooped through the rather tiny rooms actually inhabited by the family members from 1820-1861 and where they wrote their best-known novels. The house is full of memorabilia from the lives of the family and their dogs, Flossy and Keeper. There are many paintings by Branwell Bronte, their brother, a drug-addict, including the famous one that hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London. Next, we visited the Haworth Parish Church where their father, Patrick, served as pastor for many years—a small cute church with a graveyard attached with really old gravestones. The entire space was so steeped in Victoriana that we were transported to another era. I almost felt as if I was walking into the plot of a Victorian film.

Then, we walked along Haworth Main Steet (above left), which slopes down steeply and offers excellent views of the moors. Of the many shops that line the street, the Rose and Co. Apothecary had a very authentic atmosphere and was the place from where Branwell obtained his supplies of opium. By then , it was about 5-5.30 pm and Llew wanted to get back on the road again before it got too dark.

So, we started up north again in the rain which started rather hard. Fortunately, we were warm and cozy in the car and the scenery kept us enthralled. We passed over the edge of the Yorkshire Moors and entered the Lake District rather close to Kendal from where we bifurcated and entered Scotland, passing through the evocative town of Gretna Green known for the many marriages that took place at the blacksmith’s shop following the many scandalous elopements of he era.

By then, darkness had fallen and we were around Lockerbie, site of the infamous Pan Am disaster. We called Kathleen at our B&B for directions. She led us through unmarked country roads which gave us several hairy moments as Llew battled fading light and then pitch darkness, very narrow roads many of which were under construction and driving rain. In the midst of those rather stressful conditions, we reached the village of Carnoch and found Carneil Farm B&B, a real working farm house where we finally met Kathleen who registered us, took our order for a full Scottish breakfast and showed us to our room on the first floor—a very cozy, very charming room beautifully decorated. We fell asleep resolving to get back to our homes wherever these may be early enough and without having to battle such bad driving conditions. Both of us have realized that our eye sight is not what it used to be and we need to work around our limitations.

The Exploration Continues
London, August 17, 2008

Llew found it hard to believe it was almost 9 am when I woke him today, so soundly had he slept through the night. The groceries we’d picked up at Sainsbury’s, the previous day, stood us in good stead for we breakfasted at home (using my pop-up toaster for the first time) on toasted multi-grain bread with strawberry jam and freshly brewed coffee.

Then, our showers done, we walked briskly along Victoria Embankment, once again, in time to attend the 11. 15 am service at Westminster Abbey (above left). Only those visitors who intended to stay for the entire service were permitted inside as sightseeing was temporarily suspended. Attending Sunday services is a great way to see London’s most monumental churches for free. I had last been to Westminster Abbey 22 years ago and was delighted to be in that hallowed Gothic place of worship once again, Indeed, as luck would have it, Llew and I were led by the ushers to Poet’s Corner itself where the benign bust of John Dryden looked down upon us as we listened to the choir sing in Latin and the deacon preach a very thought-provoking sermon on Multiculturalism in the United Kingdom. I thought it interesting that I who had come to explore the impact of Anglo-Indian immigration on Great Britain and of Great Britain on the Anglo-Indians was treated to a sermon which concluded with the line, “In my opinion, multiculturalism need not be a threat but a positive virtue”.

Then, the hour long service ended and I was so pleased to have listened to a Sunday service in the midst of some of the most amazing workmanship in the form of carvings and gilded wooden pews and arches. Nothing was more delightful to me that discovering the memorials to Shakespeare and to the more contemporary of British writers and poets. On the way out, we spied the memorial to Issac Newton that Dan Brown has so popularized in his novel The Da Vinci Code. There was the giant orb—the planet Earth—that plays such a big role in his mystery. I also spied the memorial to Lord Thomas Babbington Macaulay (also in Poet’s Corner) about whose ‘Minute’ I spend so much time discussing in my South Asian Studies class. It was deeply stirring for me to see all these reminders of the intellectual activity in which I have been steeped for so many years and it made me realize, once again, why I love London so much.

Then, Llew and I were filing out of the Abbey with the other members of the congregation and since the day was so perfect, after a short browse in the gift store, we decided to take a walk through the Royal Parks, our steps leading us through St. James Park and Green Park, passing Buckingham Palace en route through Constitution Hill on to Marble Arch and No. 1 London, or Apsley House, former home of the Duke of Wellington and on to Hyde Park. We sat on a bench at about 1. 30, our walking having rendered us hungry, to munch on the ham and cheese sandwiches I had fixed for our picnic lunch.

Then, when we had rested sufficiently (Llew even stretched out on the bench for forty winks!), we walked towards Speaker’s Corner, where we spent a good half hour listening to a bunch of passionate men and women espouse their beliefs, most of which, surprisingly, had to do with religion rather than politics. But for one young man who spoke about the human rights abuses in Zimbabwe, most of the others spoke either in favor of Christianity or Judaism or Islam, each haranguing and arguing with the other to the extent that the exchange became heatedly personal.

When we’d had enough of this raucous banter, we walked off, and made our way along Oxford Street and the thick of the shoppers. Llew and I then nipped into Marks and Spenser to buy a few essentials for my home (a wooden chopping board, some wine glasses, a sauté pan) before we took Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus. This offered us the opportunity to check our email in the Apple store at the corner for free—an amenity with which I was familiar from a previous visit to the same place! There, by the statue of Eros, we rested our legs for a while, then began the walk up Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square with colorful signs proclaiming that we were in Chinatown and arriving at High Holburn. We decided to get some dinner but by 6. 45 pm the supermarkets had closed (it being a Sunday) and we had little choice but to go to McDonald’s for a Big Mac and a Fillet o’Fish Burger respectively. Back home, we ate our dinner while watching the Olympics on TV, packed our bags and got ready for our departure for Scotland where we will be heading tomorrow.

Holburn—Heart of Legal London
August 16, 2008, London

A few steps from my building lies the entrance to Chancery Lane, immortalized by Charles Dickens in his novel Bleak House. Llew and I discovered this upon awaking to a sunny Saturday morning and streets outside that were devoid of any human signs. It had been a fitful night for me and falling asleep only in the wee hours of the morning, we awoke at the lazy hour of half past nine—or “half nine” as I must get accustomed to saying.

After our first showers in our new bathroom, we set out to find Paul’s, the French patisserie that was recommended by Yvonne Hunkin, my Woman Friday at NYU—London who recommended the place for our first breakfast in our new home city. She could not have suggested anything better—the almond croissant and the pain au chocolate that we munched as we set out to explore the neighborhood sure did the trick.

Because we are such enthusiastic walkers, we followed High Holburn towards Bloomsbury in the hope of discovering the exact distance of the NYU campus from my flat. Everywhere, we found ourselves exclaiming at the accessibility of the shops, supermarkets, restaurants, Tube stations and bus-stops. Nothing was very far away at all. Our rambles took us past the stately Neo-Classical façade of the British Museum and the neat squares of Russel Square and Bedford Square.

We found NYU in London (left) soon enough at 6 Bedford Square and after we took a few pictures to immortalize my first visit to my new work environs, we made our way back home to begin unpacking and settling down.

After lunch, we began our exploration of London taking Fetter Lane to Fleet Street. Every street corner was deserted as the legal community enjoyed the weekend—no doubt this place will be buzzing during the week when British solicitors and barristers rush about their frenzied lives. Once on Fleet Street, we made our way along the Strand towards Aldwych passing Somerset House where the central square swarmed with happy kids douzing themselves in the spouting fountains and having a blast. We decided to see the Courthault Collection on another day and made our way out.

Noticing a crowd on a street at the right, we followed our ears towards the commotion and arrived at Covent Garden where we have never seen so many people in one place at one time. Watching a rather entertaining busker who did everything from jumping through hoops to juggling with deadly knives, we got our fill of tourist energy, then continued walking towards Trafalgar Square where Llew was delighted to watch Michael Phelps winning his seventh gold medal of the Beijing Olympics on a gigantic screen set up for the patriotic pleasure of passers-bys (see below).

Then, because we wanted to attend Sunday service, the next day, at the oldest church in the city—Westminster Abbey–we walked along there to find our the service timings. Of course, that meant that we were in Parliament Square gazing upon the gilded face of Big Ben still dodging the crowds. Indeed every tourist in the world seemed to be in London, so crowded were the tourist venues.

Deciding to make our way back home, we walked for the very first time along the Victoria Embankment (above left) on a lovely evening taking in the sights of the London Eye and Cleopatra’s Needle before we climbed the access stairs to Waterloo Bridge, made our way through Kingsway and Drury Lane (Oh yes, I know the Muffin Man who lives there!) and arrived at the Hare Krishna complex where we listened to a few bhajans, then walked out to pick up dinner (canneloni and Moussaka from Sainsburys) which we heated in our oven on our way home. Over glasses of Cabernet and roasted almonds, we chilled out and when our meal was heated sat back to enjoy it with Wall’s Chocolate Feast ice-cream for dessert. It was about 11pm when I finally hit the sack and slept clear through the night awaking only at 8. 45 am.

Airborne at Last
August 15, 2008, New York

Our departure from Kennedy airport on Indian Independence Day and Llew’s late Dad’s birthday went off, as is said, without a hitch. We took off on schedule at 8.3 0 am hoisting ourselves into cloudy skies that obscured our view of the North Atlantic coastline for most of the flight. I busied myself reading London: A Short History by A.N. Wilson, a thoughtful and much appreciated birthday gift from our English friends William and Caroline Symington of Westport, Connecticut. Before we had quite flown over the island of Nantucket, I was deeply absorbed in the account, marveling at the manner in which the author has chosen to retell the story of London through its most renowned monuments. And before we had quite crossed the Atlantic, I knew so much about the little ‘village’ of Holburn in which my flat would be located. More about its fascinating history later.

Breakfast consumed, some more reading undertaken, a longish nap and then the map on the overhead projector indicated that the possibility of spying land beneath us was imminent as we skimmed the southern coast of Ireland. Though Llew had the window by that point, at his suggestion, I moved two rows ahead to an empty window seat and feasted my eyes on the glorious sight below. How delighted I was to discover that we would be approaching Heathrow airport through a route I had never before taken—not southwards from Scotland through the backbone of England but eastwards through Cornwall and Devon. There before me, easily spotted through almost cloudless twilight skies were the notorious beaches of Daphne du Maurier’s most famous novels and the craggy coastline of Bournemouth. As almost every one of you knows, I thrill in the perspectives of our planet offered by heights of 20,000 feet above mean sea level. It is as novel a view of the world as one could ever hope to achieve. Just as I was hugging to myself the knowledge of how privileged I felt to see Southwest England from this angle, we were flying right above the Isle of Wight with the port city of Portsmouth clearly visible beneath us. Indeed so clear were our views that The Needles, that white natural phenomenon composed of three rocks that jut out into the Atlantic at the extreme east end of The Isle, reposed silently below us lapped by foamy waves.

Just when I thought there was no way I could have a more exciting landing into Heathrow, the aircraft began to make a sharp turn northwards exposing the green patchwork blanket of Surrey below. Then, we saw it—the M25, that notoriously traffic-choked Ring Road that encircles the environs of Greater London making its serpentine way around the city. I was so excited I could barely stay belted in my seat. Then, there it was—the Thames, and I knew that if we were really lucky, we would fly right above my favorite city in the whole world.

And I couldn’t have been more correct for there on our right was the white Millennium Dome—the 02—its funny needles jutting out into the sky. Then, Tower Bridge came into view and the Tower spread-eagled on the opposite bank. As my eyes followed those unmistakable landmarks from the air, I recognized them all and pointed them out to Llew—that giant ferris wheel, the London Eye on the south bank, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, the neat quadrangle of Buckingham Palace with the statue of Queen Victoria in the circle in front of it, and the broad expanse of Hyde Park with the Serpentine snaking its way through its center. In the distance, I could see the area I would inhabit for the next one year—the legal district of London, Holborn.

Then, just when I thought we could not have been more fortunate in having made so memorable an approach into the city, we were touching down at Heathrow. Immigration took a good 45 minutes, the queue moving agonizingly slowly. All went well at the counter as the Immigration Officer, a South Asian, joked with Llew and assured him that since he was returning to the States in two weeks leaving me to work in London, he was about to be dumped! Then, we were picking up our four bulging suitcases plus four pieces of hand baggage from the conveyor belt and making our way to the Terminal only to find that the driver from Addison Lee & Co who was supposed to pick us up took another passenger by mistake discovering his error only after he left the airport precincts. Fortunately, another driver from the same company was around and acted as our substitute—Mahen proved to be a good guide to the city as he pointed items of interest and within an hour was dropping us off at my flat. By then it was 10. 45 pm local London time.

Hauling our baggage out of the taxi, we were heartened to note that the entrance to Chancery Lane Tube station was just six steps from the lobby of our building (left). With the keys easily opening the security doors downstairs, we made our way to the elevators (I guess I better get used to calling them lifts) and then to the third floor, liking the look of the building’s entrance immediately. The elevator arrived on the third floor and at that point my mind shut down. I had memorized my new address and made a huge error in my flat number. Trying the keys to a neighboring flat, both Llew and I were in a state of despair before we realized that my allotted flat was quite possibly another one. It was a next door neighbor called Milan who solved the mystery by informing us that the previous occupant of the flat next door to his had recently moved. He tried my keys in the keyholes of that flat and, presto, to our enormous relief, the door swung open and we were entering the place that will be my abode for the next one year.

To say that we love the place would be an understatement. It is a darling flat in a new building. A one-bedroom space, you enter via a sizable lobby. It includes a spacious fully-fitted bathroom with a roomy hall cupboard and a superb kitchen that is attached to the living room. The entire apartment is fitted with furniture in a warm shade of maple so there is conformity of design throughout. A comfy leather sofabed in the living room pulls out into a double bed. On unpacking at my leisure later the next afternoon, I discovered that there is ample storage particularly in the very roomy closet in the bedroom which has a double bed fitted with a down comforter and a duvet and two fluffy pillows. All appliances in the kitchen are stainless steel and brand new, though I could have done with more storage in it. There is a dishwasher and washer-dryer, an electric kitchen range with four burners and an oven, a microwave oven and a toaster, a blender and a juicer. The sink includes a compactor—something I have never had before. In other words, the flat affords every desirable amenity and I feel truly fortunate to live here.

Having done a quick survey, Llew and I sipped a glass of Cabernet (that we had purchased duty free at Heathrow) to celebrate our safe arrival and my incredible opportunity in London and we then called it a night, noticing quite contentedly that though we were located in the heart of central London, we could not hear a sound from the streets, thanks to what the British call “double glazing” .

We looked forward to waking the next morning in our new home and to discovering the neighborhood at our leisure.

Rochelle's Roost

Welcome to Holly Berry House!