Chapter
3
April
2000
It's
chilly in mid-April and yesterday I togged out in a wool winter coat, scarf, hat,
and brolly to walk to Apsley House, Wellington's golden stone home across Hyde
Park. I would have worn my lined raincoat, as I usually do, but the day before
I'd been caught sans umbrella walking home from Chelsea, and my raincoat was still
soggy! My tee shirt had been wet on the shoulders and back, soaked through my
coat! The cherry blossoms and daffodils have lasted a long time, but maybe it's
because they're in cold storage, too chilled to grow faster! They are welcome
bright alternatives to spring gray. My
Chelsea trip had been for a Pilates class and swim at a nice modern David Lloyd
gym, which has a special joining price until May. (Davis is Chris Evert Lloyd's
ex.) Compared with the Seymour Leisure Center it's palatial, but it is definitely
a long walk and I think it's too far to motivate me, even without the mildew and
peeling paint of Seymour. Maybe if we moved up to Kensington…. Three
visitors left yesterday without seeing the sun for their stay. They paid £250
a night for their room at the Hilton, even with a discount! I'd offered a place
to stay with us, but they felt three would be too many. We met at the Wallace
Collection instead and went on to the Royal Academy for a Chardin show using my
membership card, then across Picadilly to Fortnum and Mason. The Wallace family
collection of armour, paintings, and Sevres china is amazing, and yet remains
relatively unknown. I'd
attended a Chardin lecture the previous week with KCWC and seen the exhibition.
His still lifes have wonderful grays, a hundred colors melded together. Backgrounds
are very rich, but quiet. It's easy to see his influences on the Impressionists
and the Dutch influence on him. We exulted in all the gleaming splendors at Fortnum
and Mason's, especially the basement' various table settings and the assortment
of fifth floor antiques. The desks, tables, and paintings were near a pianist
playing an inlaid grand piano for those at tea; another restaurant, The Fountain,
on the ground floor, has aisles nearby stacked with every kind of candy, tea,
preserve, spice, and coffee from around the world, often in stunning packaging.
Nearby, the plant section overflows with orchids and bamboo arrangements in arresting
kinds of pots. There were tiers of beribboned filled chocolate eggs and chocolate
rabbits for Easter minded by bustling store clerks in formal dark gray striped
trousers and black jackets with tails. Their store windows are always among the
best in London for quality seasonal decorations. The
visitors came by for a drink that evening, and we were to have fish and chips
at the pub and try the weekly quiz, but unfortunately they were so late that we
had to go to the little Italian café. The pub doesn't serve food during
the quiz! We stopped there for a nightcap-except that Mike and I were the only
ones drinking-and they got a little taste of pub life before a cab back to the
hotel. One taking photos was invited behind the bar to pose pulling a beer. The
UK has 61,000 pubs, where everyone over 18 may sip a pint or a half, and even
14 year olds may come in unattended if they order a meal. There's talk of accommodating
European visitors with much later pub hours-past 11, as now, except 10:30 for
Sundays. There would no more bell for last call! Social
life has continued. Beth hosted a discussion group for our new monthly Book Club
and I met several neighbors. With KCWC (Kensingtn Chelsea Women's Club) I attended
a golf coffee, a visit to Windsor and Eton, the Chardin lecture, and the Apsley
House tour. With the OWL group (Officers; Wives, London-even though everyone isn't)
I lunched at Anacapri, near Baker St, and attended a coffee with a speaker on
Ireland, held at the base at West Ryslip. Margaret Smith offered a ride in her
new bronze Camry, bought for her trip home to the states. It's a long ride, west
of London, and a driver makes it easy to run into the base exchange and commissary
after meetings to pick up things not conveniently or economically found in town.
I helped Margaret fill her trunk with two more window boxes, some groceries, and
some bargain priced millennium cognac now on sale. It's odd being in a left hand
drive car here! Windsor
was another freezing day. My sister Peggy was leaving later that gray, windy,
and rainy day, so I blew off my trip until I realized I'd already paid £12
for tours and admissions! Off I tore to Paddington to meet the group at the ticket
window at 9:30, only to learn that all trains were delayed by trouble on the tracks.
With that, I decided I'd never catch up, but felt if I'd gone that far, I might
as well continue and not give up. After a long sit on a motionless train, whom
should I meet, but YES! My cronies-to-be were there and we continued together.
(They aren't my friends yet: I don't know anybody well enough, but we're all new
and needy.) Richard
was a blue badge guide who began our tour from the train station as we walked
to Barry Avenue past ducks and boats on the gray Thames. Since the weather was
"filthy" there were fewer tourists than usual, he said. We walked through
town, past the round Victorian postbox to the brick and stone buildings of Eton.
Watching postboxes has become an interesting hobby. The ruler's initials are upon
each, so a V is for Victoria, an E for Edward, G for George, and many ER II's
for the queen, whose initials have now been stamped for about 50 years. Unfortunately,
we saw none of Eton's 1200 young students in striped trouser, tails, black waistcoats
(vests) and white shirts, the school uniform, since school was out. However, we
met a guide who could be from central casting. Tall, heavy, stately as a battleship,
with flyaway graying curls, in heavy brown and black wool tweed suit, she carried
a stout wooden cane designed more for business than aesthetics. Her hefty legs
were swaddled in thick woolen beige stockings tucked into sturdy brown oxfords.
She jangled a set of large iron keys that opened several areas, and led us to
classrooms and meeting halls once used by Percy Bysse Shelly and George Orwell,
poets and prime ministers, and luminaries like Walpole, Gladstone, Eden, Macmillan
and Douglas-Hume. Brass plaques displayed names of old boys killed in service,
and carved desks and windowsills contained hieroglyph initials attesting to jackknife
skills through the ages. The
chapel, with stained glass, fan ceiling, and magnificent organ with painted pipes,
was begun by pious King Henry VI for poor boys studying to be priests, and is
now attended daily by Prince Will and his classmates. The school is theoretically
open to all; it's easy to see how impossible admission would be without the finest
early schooling, which few inner city or foreign students may access. The famed
playing fields of Eton, the supposed foundation of the great war wins, surround
the school and offer required sports activities to all students, who must live
on campus. We were assured several times that "although once the food wasn't
very good, now it is really very good." Every time our guide became befuddled,
she fretted that we were her first tour this year and the wheels weren't turning
quite properly. She then reassured us on the food! Boys in the chapel choir often
go on to bursaries (scholarships) at "Oxbridge" -- Oxford or Cambridge.
The government picks up many college costs in Europe. There
is a dining hall for seventy boys, the king's scholars, and they are offered free
tuition and meals. A shop in town makes underclassmen's uniforms and seniors'
white starched shirts with "stick up" collars. Boys wear normal starched
collars but may "earn their stickups." Other town shops offer silver
manicure sets, brushes, sweaters, and high quality male clothing. Girls were briefly
admitted to the school, possibly those who lived in town or were children of masters,
but "things didn't work out" and they are no more. After
a bookstore visit and lunch in a charming pub, we met at Queen Victoria's statue
and trudged uphill to Windsor Castle, fighting the wind at every step. Hardy blossoming
trees and flowering hillocks softened the stone castle buildings that have housed
royals for a thousand years, and Queen Elizabeth had just returned from one of
her visits to Australia. Her sitting room chimney smoke indicated she was at tea,
a chatty guard confided. She liked a coal fire then, he whispered. The
chapel and Prince Albert's chapel are filled with relics of famous lives, punctuated
with marble sculptures. A remarkable part of the tour was the royal private quarters,
filled with paintings, armor, furniture and chandeliers enough to fill several
boxcars. A recent fire damaged St. George's hall, now beautifully restored in
time for Elizabeth and Phillip to celebrate their 50th anniversary. Royal goods
were saved by a human chain. The next time I go, I will take binoculars! It's
too hard to pass by Raphaels and Rembrandts and not be able to see them closely
across rooms of gilded furniture and draped beds. (People do come with binoculars
for that reason.) Downstairs
is a big tourist hit: Elizabeth and Margaret were given a one-twelfth size Victorian
mansion with furniture, carpets, paintings, garden and garage, all perfectly crafted.
Wine bottles hold vintage port, and the chandeliers really light. Garden tools
and bedspreads, dishes and tiny china hold one's attention. I brought some books
at the shop, saved from the urge to buy more because it was closing. However,
everyone-guards, clerks, police-was cheery and polite, never seeming to rush us
out. There are many gift shops on the castle premises.
After tending to housekeeping, Mike and I visited Covent Garden on a Saturday
afternoon to watch jugglers, musicians, and mimes, and on that unusually sunny
afternoon the place was packed. We wandered past shops and through dense milling
crowds awhile. "Statues" moved when coins were tossed into their cups;
steel bands on a far corner interfered with music played from a guitarist or sung
to a canned accompaniment. The trés chic Savoy Hotel has one of the best
deals in town: a pre theater two course dinner for £15, including service
and VAT. There's a big roll tray and biscotti and chocolate served with coffee,
so two is plenty, and it's in the theater district. We
attended Copenhagen, an award winning three-character play about the meeting of
Neils Bohr and German Werner Hiesenberg, his former physics post-doc, who may
have offered considerations about delay in producing atomic weaponry for Hitler.
The stage is bare but for three plain chairs, but the dialogue is riveting, between
the men and Mrs. Bohr. Not a carefree evening, but a thoughtful one. This was
the first play we've attended. The following week, we had a silly antidote to
the drama as we attended HMS Pinafore, since we'd noticed it's in the same building
as the Savoy, and Gilbert and Sullivan were great fun. The D'Oily Carte Company
is fantastic, performing in a refurbished theater, after a fire, featuring shiny
silver art deco squares and sleek sculptures. Behind us sat a visiting tourist
group from Houston. We
tried Bertolini's for dinner stopped after wards at Simson's piano bar nearby
before taking the tube home, since it's impossible to get a taxi when all the
plays are letting out. These evenings aren't inexpensive, but we're determined
to see what we can while we're here. The stock market has not been healthy lately! We
made it to the Texas Exes meeting for Thirsty Thursday, a monthly get together
at a bar called the Texas Embassy, near where an embassy really once existed.
The bar is owned by Aggies, and our eight didn't fill the cavernous upstairs,
but we're told that football season is the time for action. We met several expats
over longnecks and 'ritas, and it was nahs talkin' sutth'in agin'. But it does
seem strange to hear a proper English accent at the door instead of a "Howdy,
folks!" We ate supper at a brasserie chain, Café Flo, and walked around
my favorite London animals, the huge black lions, bathed in moonlight in Trafalgar
Square. In golden
stone, the column-fronted Apsley House is a museum, but the Duke of Wellington
bought it from his older brother and entertained there in style. It is in another
corner from Speaker's Corner and was once at the end of a long line of fine homes,
since demolished to make way for busy Park Lane and all the posh hotels. What
a pity! The side windows have a view of the park. I hadn't realized that besides
being a great general, the Iron Duke was also prime minister, Ambassador to France,
and held other offices after he left the military. He died at 83. Gifts given
to him after Waterloo are amazing. There are large paintings and exquisite china
dinner sets, swords, and silver that line walls and cases. The china sets, hand
painted, have thousands of pieces. As
he was busy taking over Europe, Napoleon had appointed his brother Joseph the
emperor of Spain. Fleeing the Allied forces, he leapt from his carriage that held
over 200 rolled paintings looted from Spanish royalty. Wellington sent them on
to London, restored them and offered them back, but the King of Spain felt they
should remain with him since they were procured honorably. There are Velasquezs
and Murillos that give a Spanish flavor to the array of paintings large and small
that cover wall after wall. One interesting piece is a nine foot white marble
nude statue of Napoleon, assuming a Greek god pose, and it sat in the Louvre until
the great little man spied it. He spun on his heel, they say, and declared it
"too athletic" so the British bought it and presented it to their hero.
It weighs over a ton, so probably will stay put in the curving stairwell. Wellington's
funeral was the grandest ever in London, still leaving the start after the procession
had arrived at St. Paul's after millions viewed it from the roadsides, where they
gathered in masses. The tall slender man supposedly joined the Army because his
mother thought his nose too ugly for him to have another career. Americans are
always driven to their history books after visiting European museums, and this
one is no exception! TS
Eliot thought April was the cruelest month. It is cold, windy, and bitter. When
will spring come? After Mike made a fruit and veggie run to the outdoor Church
Street market (Eat pears! We have a mountainful!) we strode off to Kensington
Palace through the park and past the round pond, which was added to the landscaped
gardens in the 18th century. The palace was originally sought by William and Mary
because of his asthma, as a refuge from London's coal fires, fogs, and horse manure
pollution. It was a house remodeled by Christopher Wren to royal standards. Abandoned
by George III and bombed during the war, it became the London museum, today relocated
in the City. It
also housed Diana, Princess of Wales, until her shocking death in 1997. Inside
are her couturier dresses on display, and those of court visitors since the 1700'
s. It's amazing to realize that many court outfits could be worn only there, and
had to be the finest ever made. Women's court dresses dragged trains, initially
extremely long, and heads were covered with tall white ostrich plumes attached
to long veils. After presentation to the ruler, women backed up for about 60 feet
in these trains in what, except for their wedding, was the most important day
in their life. They wore light colored dresses, and their sponsors slightly darker
colors. In the earliest days, men's coats featured a black ribbon rosette below
the rear neck to prevent powdered wigs from staining wool fabric. The rosettes
continued after the wigs. Men also wore two pair of stockings with knee breeches,
long after the style of trousers took over: one cotton pair next to the legs and
one silk pair over them, to ensure that no hairy legs protruded from beneath embroidered
gold braided coats. Men also carried a large tall hat that was held under the
arm. It was thinly folded and never worn, since heads were bare in deference to
the sovereign. Silver shoe buckles, leather pumps or high boots, jeweled swords,
golden insignia -- all were carefully noted in a courtier' s book of manners,
but the book could be dispensed with if one's manservant or valet knew the rules
to keep one looking perfect. Which was greater: impracticality or formality? American
visitors sometimes dress quite informally and usually can be detected by the women's
denim, or by white sneakers-called trainers. The baseball caps are no giveaway
for the men, since everyone wears them and the team crests are often immaterial. Eileen's
Ode Regarding City Denim
March 2000 The
British ladies, so refined,
Dress rather formally, I find.
In heels, they
stride down cobbled streets.
(It doesn't seem to hurt their feets!) They're
very quick with "if you please,"
And "Lovely, brilliant!"
say with ease.
They wear chapeaux for grand events
Adorned with bows and
ornaments. They're
seldom ever seen in shorts
Unless they're at seaside resorts!
So are they
pained in tourist season
Viewing folks with no clothes reason? I
still love my faded jeans--
I've worn 'em ever since my teens--
But in The
City , I suppose
(Except for parks) I'll change my clothes. And
though the Queen's not my ideal
Of urban chic -- those hats! Surreal! --
I'll
play the game, and, when in Rome,
I'll dress up 'til I get back home. Along
with the mind-boggling splendors of court clothing came the sobering information
that many young seamstresses suffered health problems and early death because
of the poor air, dim light, and long hours they worked beading, stitching, and
embroidering exquisite clothing. Many were poor immigrants with no education who
sewed silk and wore rags. Although
the house was never meant to be as grand as some other palaces, there are grand
corridors and many huge paintings and tapestries. Rubens, Tintoretteo, and other
masters filled walls, and there's a marked predilection for seventeenth century
chiaroscuro and descending angels, plus an admiration of the Greek pantheon. We
looked into the Orangery once for winter plant storage and now a tea room, and
walked home in a misty shower after luckily missing a hard rain, past Peter Pan's
statue and the ltalian Fountain gardens, under a dark violet threatening sky.
The ducks, swans, geese and herons seemed unconcerned, but 1 wished I'd brought
an umbrella. The
next day was Palm Sunday, so again we walked to the Brompton Oratory, over the
Serpentine Bridge and past Prince Albert. The processions and singing are beautiful,
but seem to me to be less a religious experience than a music recital and an awesome
spectacle. The lengthy passion was in Latin, with the choir being "the people"
in four part harmony. If every person there devoted one hour a week to teaching
somebody to read, or rocking an AIDS baby, the world would be a better place--and
we would still have good music. The Times today has a hot story about past sexual
abuse at a trendy Jesuit boys' school here. It's impossible not to question an
institution run by elderly celibates living a life of comfort and celebrating
mass (3 concelebrants and 7 others on the altar, plus altar boys) in their totally
male club. Do they work hard? Do they get sweaty, or pull all nighters? Do they
perform works of charity? I hope so. On
the way home, we stopped to watch a Scottish bagpipe and drum troupe practicing
next to Albert' s monument. They would play at Albert Hall that evening, with
other groups. That afternoon, Mike jogged in the park and 1 tried to speak better
French, conversing with my new computer program. Have
1 discussed the washday wonders of our Zanussi Turbodry aka "The Great Wrinkler"that
sits under the kitchen counter? Pull open the circular front door and put in the
clothes. Anything more than 4 socks and a hanky fills the small drum, but dare
to stuff in a few more items. First punch in the "wash and dry" cycle,
then select the wash temperature (many), the drying temp (two), and set the drier
time for 80 minutes. Pull out the little drawer for "washing powder"
and partially fill the middle section. Push the on/off switch. The wash cycle
will swoosh and swirl noisily, eventually filling and washing the c1othes. (You
can watch through the glass door, locked until the cyc1e ends.) Eighty minutes
after they're washed, pull out your clothes, note they're drenched, and set drying
time once again. SeveraI jobs, pages or programs later, check again. When done,
attempt in vain to dewrinkle your stiff clean clothes. Damn the fact that there
is no gradual heat wash and wear cyc1e. Wear clothing and repeat. As 1 write,
our flannel bottom king-size sheet is in its third eighty minute dry cycle! There
is an alternative. Take the c1othing from the drier while it's damp, and strew
it over every piece of furniture in the house. lnvite the nearest batch of Gypsy
refugees to join you for a party; they'll feel right at home. Our garbage disposal
has died and we are waiting for Terry ("the builder") to replace it,
but this is Easter weekend and a bank holiday, so we must wait a week to see him.
Tuesday evening
the 18th was memorable, albeit again in cold rain. In his tux, Mike was dispatched
to the corner to hail a cab for Inge and me, which pulled up to the door, sparing
our gowns and shoes. We left for the MV Silver Sturgeon, docked in the Thames
embankment behind the Savoy Hotel. Aboard, we were met with champagne, then introductions
to some of the Worshipful Company of World Traders for their first livery banquet.
We were there because of Inge's invitation, since she is one of the founding members
and has worked a lifetime in shipping. She is thrilled about the company. As
he left the cab, Mike popped his tuxedo jacket button, fortunately retrieved at
curbside before the cab left. For awhile he was in shirtsleeves, as one of the
crew sewed it back for him! He offered to give them his shoes next, to no takers!
We floated down the river dining on a duck dinner after a crab starter salad,
cruising past the Tower of London and under Tower Bridge, past the great floodgates
and the Old Globe Theater, followed by brief speeches with the port or brandy.
We sang grace, and stood to sing God Save the Queen . (Since we were in banquette
seating, 3 abreast, moving was awkward!) The Right honorable The Lord Mayor and
Lady Mayoress were there, along with people from many nations and backgrounds;
our seatmates were Jillian and Richard Ford from Folkestone, Kent, and Christine
Soden, a tall CPA from Virginia, Wales. They, like many people we met, seem to
travel in and out of London frequently. The toast reply was by the High Commissioner
of Canada. The
wines flowed freely, and the varied lapel and neck decorations glistened, hanging
from colored ribbons. One man represented the Company of Fletchers, who once made
arrows. I asked how they keep up with bankers and computer people in other companies,
or if they had evolved into making other defense or military items, and was told
that today they are small and poor. They support archery services to the disabled,
and had sent archers to Wheelchair Olympic meets and worked with Down Syndrome
archers. At the end of the evening, we three landed only one cab despite our best
efforts of waving and peering, and he was going home in the opposite direction.
We walked through the Savoy in our glad rags to catch a cab on the Strand instead.
Mike left early the next morning for Italy until Good Friday. The next day's Times
had the-official word: this April has surpassed all others since records began
for London rain! Are we lucky or what? Here'
s a bit of cricket, straight from the sports section. "Ealham was within
a single stroke of winning the match for Kent after taking wickets cheaply in
both his bowling spells, then hitting with customary power to keep his side just
in touch of a target of 176. When the last over, bowled by Mark llott, started
he and Paul Nixon, playing his first match for his new country, still needed 16
to win. Nixon, who had overcome a sticky start by clubbing llott over long-on
in the 37th over, managed five off the first three balls, whereupon Ealham added
two before timing a pull-drive to perfection over the midwicket boundary. That
left only three to score from the final ball, but llott bowled it straight and
full and Ealham, choosing to make ground to meet it and aiming this time to hit
inside out, missed. That it was a ball of full length that did the trick is a
lesson for Essex to heed as they seek to improve on their disappointing 1999 season.
The great majority of boundaries conceded by their swing bowlcrs were punishment
for the cardinal sin of dropping the ball short on a soft pitch that allowed a
bit of movement all day." The
postal system is clearer than cricket. Since our address is W2, that means we
are very close to the center of town, west of where they start the mark. (Not
sure exactly where.) The 2NU is our street. Because there are so many streets,
avenues, places, parades, mewses, closes, and alleys all with the same name, and
because the towns of, say, Kensington and Chelsea were once separate and probably
each had a King's Way and a High Street, this tells exactly which street it is.
If you reply W2 2NU to one requesting your mailing address, the person asking
will then say number, please? He'll already know the street and area. The High
Street is basically the Main Street, where the shops are, in any town. On
Holy Thursday, 1 attended a C of E neighborhood service, but stayed in on Good
Friday. (Ágain, it rained!)) That night Mike returned, and we used Saturday
morning for chores. In the afternoon, we walked down Bayswater Road, planning
to catch a bus, but by the time we were on Oxford Street, we kept walking, in
the thick of blaring traffic and bustling crowds. We walked past Oxford Circus,
stopping in bookstores and shops, and continued down fashionable Regent Street
past Piccadilly Circus to St James Place. We stopped in the Godiva store to sample
wonderful chocolate and buy a few Easter eggs on sale, the Steinway store for
a demonstration from Peter, the salesman, and bought Mike a cashmere coat on sale
on Regent Street. We saw statues of Florence Nightingale carrying her lamp near
the Crimean monument, and a mounted Edward VIII statue, admired the pediments
of the classica1 architecture and blooming irises and lilacs in the gardens. The
weather, amazingly, was dry and fairly bright. After a few hours, we took a bus
down Oxford Street part way home, hauling our parcels to the upper floor for a
better view of the streets and got off at St. Christopher's place, a little alleyway
packed with restaurants dotted with awnings, curbside tables. and pots of flowers.
We chose a small Italian restaurant ca11ed Christi's for a marvelous meal before
completing our walk home. The
next day was Easter, and we walked to the Brompton Oratory, past the house with
the plaque where John Kennedy once lived. Eleven o'clock mass lasted untiI12:30,
with dense crowds and beautiful music, and we were somewhat entertained by a 2
1/2 year old sitting in front of us who wasn't used to such long services. Most
adults weren't either! We discovered the church hall, for cake and coffee afterwards
(profits to the choir.) and chatted with a lively little old woman from Richmond
who sometimes made the long tube journey in by herself because "the group
at Richmond aren't too creative." We shared dinner with Austin visitors.
and even located our Easter table decorations for the table. They are big Bush
backers, and gave Mike a George W. Bush pin. I'm not sure George is the right
boy--he seems shallow--but if he wins, Austin will have a successor to the LBJ
presidential legacy. George and Barbara are still holding court in Houston. Lady
Bird is still carrying on in her upper 80's in her Austin apartment, slowed by
a stroke. Headlines
on both sides of the Atlantic feature Elian Gonzalez's being snatched from Florida
relatives by police, to be reunited with his Cuban father. Bush says that' s deplorable,
and is using it as an election issue. Al Gore is distancing himself from the Clinton-Reno
order, but over half of Americans support the boy's right to live with his father.in
Cuba. The anti-Castro Cubans in Florida burned tires and rioted to show their
disapproval, and carried sick children to the fence of Elian' s house to be healed,
since they felt the child's survival was divine. Ole! We
walked our friends to the comer for a cab, leaving dishes for later, and on the
spur of the moment, walked over to the pub. We had heard that on Sunday nights
they had a piano player, and thought we' d see if there was one, since, after
all, it was Easter. What a fantastic evening we had! The smoky bar was packed
(as opposed to the rear room, where we generally sit for the weekly pub quiz),
and we were certainly among the youngest there. Every seat and table was filled,
and the roof rang as the boisterous crowd sang heartily, seldom pausing between
songs. June, the piano player, changed tunes and tempos as occasionally soloists
strode to the fore. She followed them perfectly, thumping out pub nonsense songs,
war and patriotic songs, and Broadway tunes. Several performers had excellent
voices, and all but one large woman were in their seventies, often bringing in
the crowd for a chorus or repeat verse with large waves of both arms. It
was very touching to hear of the love songs of these old blokes and to ponder
what they must've looked like when they sang in their prime. For most, the war
songs had been a part of their growing up. There was general encouragement, from
"Give us a song, Bob!" to whooping and applause after a particularly
wel1 sung piece. June carried on, smiling, her old curly head bobbing, past the
final call, until the pub closed at 10:30. The barmaid, who had worked alone,
was assisted by customers ready to help out, and one of the patrons made a little
speech on her behalf and put out an ashtray for tips. June, l was told, never
took money. Most singers seemed to be working class British, but at the bar there
was a visiting woman from Houston with her boyfriend from Chicago. We found that
out during a rendition of Deep in the Heart of Texas. which ran right into Oklahoma.
Patrons often pointed a finger or waved their arms or stamped their feet at certain
times in a song, all in unison, and 1 don't think it would be possible to detect
a shred of unhappiness or ennui in the place that night. We felt that we had experienced
a precious look at a fast disappearing way of life, and were most grateful for
the glimpse. 1 give it my highest accolade: REAL! We may never be able to watch
Sunday evening TV again. Years
ago in a smoky Welsh pub, we listened to a very old veteran sing On the Road to
Mandalay after urging from the crowd. His was a weak quavery tenor. He had been
in Burma for the war campaign and, as he sang feebly, the entire pub fel1 silent,
to catch every note. Tonight was like that. lt was sacramental. The
Monday after Easter is a bank holiday, and six percent of England has left, seeking
the sun. Mike went to work for a teleconference, but by late afternoon was home,
so we headed for the V &A, a place he had never been, and stayed until it
closed, just as we were watching a mini film of glass making. Today was the first
day 1 have walked outdoors with no coat! Outdoors, 1 admired Beth and Bob's new
plants, which enliven the mews, and 1 also finally finished the London Times crossword
puzzle: they're quite different from the American ones. That
night we had our neighbor lnge, the Great Dane, here for dinner, and she brought
the first course, marinated Danish herring on rye bread, with a jigger of schnapps
to whet the appetite. lt's actually morning now, nearly one, and 1'11 complete
the Chronicle after Bath. The
month concludes with our train trip to Bath, set up after 1 read about a special
two-night deal: breakfast and dinner at the five star Bath Spa Hotel, as long
as it wasn't over a weekend. For years I've been teaching about the classical
Nash architecture there, but had no idea of what a beautiful and historic place
it was! Our golden stone hotel sat atop a beautifully landscaped green hill with
a fountain and various trees framing it, above a stone grotto and flower gardens.
That same golden Bath stone is seen throughout town in block after block of buildings,
with symmetrical columns, large windows, often with pediments, and attractive
terraces and doorways. During George III's reign, aristocrats of all types felt
it a must to see and be seen there, and thousands of homes were built while some
royal friends took the waters; some also gambled, gossiped, and danced. It must've
been a cross between Las Vegas and Lourdes. There were physicians who advised
drinking 10 glasses of the waters before breakfast, but other docs quibbled and
reduced that number to six. There are still examples of wheeled boxes on chairs,
into which the infirm were placed, then wheeled into the waters in hopes of a
cure. Elaborate clothing, wigs, and carriages played their part in carefully constructed
social rites, shared by everyone from Jane Austin to Lady Hamilton. Pickpockets
and bookies found easy pickings. New ways of making china added richness to dining
and the table. In
the Pump Room, adjacent to the baths, the fashionable and the wannabes were serenaded
by a six piece orchestra during lunch, and when we went in, very long waiting
queues sent us off after a quick peek. The mineral-rich water is 50p a glass,
cascading from a silver shell into four fishes' mouths and served by a waiter
costumed and bewigged as in the18th century. Nearby,
the large Bath Cathedral had been conducting different rites since pre-Norman
times. Elizabeth I helped restore it, since after HenryVlIl stole the abbey to
enrich the crown, townspeople plundered silver, roof tiles, carved stones, and
lead-even pews. Today you can visit the crypt museum in the basement to see Norman
walls, or have ice cream in the courtyard in front of it and watch lively jugglers
or musicians. The walls inside are filled with more commemorative plaques than
any place besides Westminster Abbey, and a book in one of the chapels commemorates
three hundred people killed in a bombing raid in 1942. There is Britain's last
fan ceiling to be built, and beautiful stained glass, both.added to the original
building. Hourly, the priest prays aloud, and the tourists are invited to join.
Parish services are still held regularly. The
Romans used the famous ancient baths once visited by Caesar, but after Rome's
fall, the barrel vaulted roofs col1apsed and the waters flowed back into the Avon
River nearby. The Romans tried to impress with the number of slaves attending
the more important among them, and had the tepidarium to get used to the waters,
the caladarium to poach themselves in, and the frigidarium for a fast cool off.
The pool goddess Sulis Minerva was asked, on small incised lead squares tossed
into the waters, to punish robbers or remedy injustices from angry supplicants.
When asked why he bathed once a day, supposedly Caesar said it was because he
was too busy to bathe twice a day! (Besides bathing, one could have underarm hairs
plucked!) In medieval times, monks at the Abbey bathed the ill, listing miracle
cures along with the incurable in their notebooks. A hundred years ago, visitors
were scandalized by men and women bathing together in a pool; today, it's visited
by an international set in Gap and Adidas! It is next to the spring itself, still
bubbling away. Today, since the Roman lead shield was removed from the bottom
of the pool, there is mud in the waters which breeds a type of ameba, but there
are purification plans afoot so that it once again can be used to drink and bathe.
It's one of the most visited sites in England, and we met some school kids from
near Syracuse NY along with French and Italian kids on school break. We
sauntered to the low-ceilinged Sally Lunn house, c. 1480, where the bun of that
name began, and admired the Adams woodwork and art in the town's guild hall. Walking
along the river or through the attractive streets, with classic circuses and crescents
of Bath stone architecture, is a pleasure itself. One night we walked to the next
town of Bathhampon, a mile or two down the road, and stopped at the George, a
picturesque old stone pub along the canal, where several narrow boats moored.
(We had rented similar canal boats several years before, with friends.) There
are picnic tables and benches along the canal. We arrived in time for Mike to
help one longboat moor between two others in a tight docking space. In the dark
pub, a black cat sat at the windows sill, then patrol1ed the rooms. The evenings
are already growing longer, and it doesn 't get dark until after 9, but the jovial
pub bartender called a cab because our trip back was uphill in the dark. There
are several art galleries and museums in Bath. Stonehenge and castles are within
an hour's drive, and although we saw a lot, there is more to see on our next trip.
The hotel food was delicious and elegant, and we both overate, but tried to work
off a bit in their pool and exercise room. (Most hotel pools are big tubs pretending
to be pools, but this was long enough for a swim!). Basically, we had a blast,
despite a few showers. 1'11 be in the US for a month. Since we have had nearly
the rainiest April in London since record-keeping began in the seventeen hundreds,
when the US was a colony and Tom Jefferson wore silver shoe buckles l will hope
for good weather in the states. I
think it's rained every day. The amount always seems to be a mystery. TV announcers
say things like "three times normal in Brixton" without ever saying
what normal is, and then I go to our refrigerator map to locate Brixton. The papers
almost never mention weather. Mike's favorite TV forecast is, "Showers, with
periods of heavy rain."
Chapter
I
February
2000: Getting Settled
Chapter
2
March 2000:
Merchant Taylor Hall, Brighton, Cambridge, Guildhall, Brussels
Chapter
4
May/June
2000
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