Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Last Day in London

Monday, August 2, 2010
London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As they say in the UK, Cheers!

Anglo-Indian Mela in Croydon

Sunday, August 1, 2010
London

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, August 1, 2010

My Kind of Last Day in London

Saturday, July 31, 2010
London

Because I will be tied up with a work-related assignment on Sunday (World Anglo-Indian Day will see me at the mela in Croydon), I considered Saturday my last day in London and decided to do all the things I most love to do when I am in the city.

One leisurely breakfast of Michael's oatmeal later, I was on the bus headed to the National Portrait Gallery where I hoped to meet the Copyright Officer to discuss the possibility of using a particular Cliff Richard photograph that I'd seen at the 'Beatles to Bowie' exhibition in Norwich in my proposed book. Only I ought to have realized that the person concerned would not be around on a Saturday. I used their museum's data base to try to identify the photograph by John Pratt and find its 'call number'--only to find out (as I had suspected) that being owned by a private collector, it is not in the museum's possession. I raced to the book shop in the basement hoping to get my hands on a catalogue of the exhibition that might have provided more details of provenance but they were all sold out--again, as I had expected, as the catalogue was extremely popular and just flew off the shelves. Disappointed, I left the premises, intending to initiate email correspondence with the copyright officer.

It was time to get next-door to the National Gallery, another one of my favorite places in London, where I discovered that a Highlights Tour was about to begin in the Sainsbury Wing in two minutes. I flew off across Trafalgar Square and with just minutes to spare to drop off my bag joined a Michael Williams, Free Lance Lecturer, on his tour. We started off with the 12th century Coronation of Mary by Lorenzo Monaco in the Medieval section where I learned about the use of beaten gold sheets and stamping techniques to produce uniform 'patterns', then made our way through paintings by Rubens' (Minerva Protects Pax from Mars--Peace and War)--the only one that we can be sure was done entirely by his hands and not his vast workshop of assistants; Canaletto's Venice: The Feast Day of St. Roch (in which he takes liberties with scale and geography (and I had always thought his work was most remarkable for its accuracy); Velasquez's Portrait of King Philip IV of Spain and one more painting, but I am blanking out right now. As usual, I came away from the tour marveling at how much I had learned but also a trifle impatient that the guides at the National Gallery spent so much time at a single painting (sometimes as long as 20 minutes). We, at the Metropolitan in New York, have a strict rule--no more than 5 minutes at each work and a total of 10 works on every tour.

Of course, I could not leave the National without visiting some of my favorite works--Pieter de Hooch's Courtyard of a House in Delft, for instance, a clutch of Vermeers and Constable's Hay Wain--and I did manage to see a good special exhibit on 'Fakes' which featured some extraordinary works including a couple by Sandro Botticelli. I was tempted to stay on for Michael's next tour at 2. 30 pm, but I had too much to accomplish, so off I went to the bus stop, across Trafalgar Square again, this time to Whitehall to ride the No. 11 (which I always think is the cheapest bus tour of London) to get to Chelsea.

The King's Road is one of my favorite parts of the city and one I know well from former visits to London. I was tempted again to alight at Pimlico to poke around in the upscale interior design stores of the Queen's nephew,Viscount Linley (called 'Linley') and Joanna Wood but made the decision to stay the course and get off at Sloan Square where my exploration on foot began at the Saturday food market. The King's Road has some of my favorite shops (India Jane, for instance)--though the Antiques Center seems to have closed down. But I did get into M&S and Waitrose to pick up some more food (Fruity Flapjack Biscuits and Darjeeling Tea) and then I scoured the thrift shops in the area looking for treasures. Really tired, I rode the bus back to Paul's Patisserie for my favorite treats--Almond Croissants and Hot Chocolate--before I took the bus home to Amen Corner.

I had time for just a 10 minute lie-down before I had to get dressed to leave for the dinner party at my former neighbors' Tim and Barbara's, who'd asked us to arrive at 7. 00pm. We were fashionably late but as the rest of our guests hadn't yet arrived, had the chance to catch up. Tim in a trained chef and it is always a treat to partake of one of his meals--Bolinger Champagne and nibbles for starters was followed by Chicken Consomme, Roast Lamb with Roast Potatoes, a Green Bean and Mushroom Casserole (was that the Martha Stewart recipe I'd sent him at Thanksgiving?)and Carrots followed by a superb Prune Parfait for dessert. There were cheese and biscuits and coffee and chocolates to follow and I felt very stuffed indeed.

Apart from the meal, the best part of the evening was the chance to meet Elizabeth (with whom I've been corresponding through Twitter) and her husband Andrew. What a joy to see her finally! They'd traveled all the way from Bristol and made delightful dinner guests. Together with Cynthia and Michael, we made a merry lot and after some photographs, it was time to say Au Revoir!

I walked back home with the Colcloughs laughing over the silliest things before I sank into bed unable to believe that my days in London are coming to a swift end.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Covering More Bits and Bobs of London

Friday, July 30, 2010
London

The tolling bells of St. Paul's Cathedral roused me at 7.oo am. After a shower and muesli breakfast (so thoughtfully fixed by Cynthia), I set off with two handsome escorts--Bishop Michael and his son Edward--for an insider's tour of St. Paul's Cathedral. The Bishop's presence opened magical doors for me as I was taken on a guided tour of the library in a hidden recess of Wren's magnificent building. We also had the chance to walk up and down the winding spiral staircase in one of the steeples. Its minimalist design was revolutionary for its time. Michael then requested Simon, an assistant in the library, to take me into the room housing The Great Model of 1763. It was a thrilling experience indeed to gaze upon an item not seen by the public. Christopher Wren created it at a cost of 300 pounds (the price of a house in his day) in walnut wood to give the selection committee a glimpse of the church he intended to erect after The Great Fire of London burned down the original timber building in 1666. The Model was designed in such a way as to enable the monarch to enter it and gaze upwards when standing directly below its stupendous dome. Inside details included the proposed coffering on the ceiling. Unfortunately, the design was rejected on grounds that it looked too much like the Catholic churches of Italy! Modifications to Wren's original design included the addition of twin steeples which, in my opinion, improves upon it and adds tremendous character to the edifice. In the same room as the Great Model is also exhibited Wren's Death Mask--he looked nothing like his portraits because "his teeth were missing, you see", as the good Bishop informed me!

I spent the next half hour up on the dome photographing London on what was a particularly splendid day. The city lay bathed in golden sunshine and I could easily pick out its landmarks, not the least of which were the many steeples of Wren's many post-Fire churches (including neighboring Saint Vetas' which Michael and Edward had taken me to see prior to our visit to St. Paul's and where Michael had once been Rector). I was especially pleased to be able to pick out my former home, the apartment building on the corner of High Holborn and Gray's Inn Road.

Later in the morning, I made my way down to the Crypt to see the newest Occulus exhibit which features four short films projected on to walls to create 360 degrees of viewing space. I recognized many of the people I have begun to know through the Colcloughs, including, of course, Michael himself. The film of the Great Model was of particular interest to me as I had just come back from viewing it and felt deeply privileged indeed.

In the book store, I spied a book I'd been wanting to purchase since last year--London Sketchbook: A City Observed which contains water colors and paintings by Graham Byfield and text by Marcus Binnery. Having visited most of the nooks and crannies of the city that the artist has portrayed in it, I had intended to buy it last year before I left the city but simply did not have the weight allowance in my bulging suitcases. Cynthia and Michael very kindly presented it to me as a gift, much to my delight. I know I shall spend many wonderful hours perusing its pages and thinking of the generous spirit of my lovely friends.

It was time to check out a museum in the East End of which I had read so much. Confusing information on their website made it necessary for me to take a bus there to find it--The Brahma Museum of Tea and Coffee. It was supposed to be located alongside the famed Borough Market which is open to retail customers on Friday. I spent the next hour browsing through the stalls and practically eating my lunch there based on the vast number of 'tasters' thrust at me. Unfortunately, the Brahma Museum seems to have closed down completely--I do wish its website would update the information.

It was time for me to take a bus to Liverpool Street Station where at the Tesco Metro, I picked up a vast stock of its Finest Fruit and Nut Muesli to take back home. I do feel like a glutton as the only souvenirs I now carry back from holidays overseas consist of food items that I cannot find or get in the States. I have finished buying my stock of English biscuits and English tea and I can only hope they will all fit in the single bag that American Airlines permits me to carry across the Atlantic.

With my shopping done, I took a bus back to Amen Corner to deposit it in my room and after a ten minute power nap I set off for the City Thameslink station to meet Rahul, a close friend of Chriselle's and a young man who became my close friend after he'd helped me move from Holborn to Smithfield last year. Over a coffee in a nearby Starbucks, we caught up with so much and I was pleased to discover that like my young friend, Jack, he is contemplating a visit to New York soon--when I hope to continue our conversation.

I walked briskly then to Bloomsbury to buy my stock of tea from Bury Stores on Bury Street just near the British Museum where I have been buying tea and biscuits for ages before walking again, past the flower-filled windows of the many hotels on Montague Street, to get to Russel Square Tube station where I met Gordon Beale, an old London acquaintance. Gordon runs a cultural activities group for international expatriates in London. Membership in his group is strictly by invitation only (I was vetted by someone two years ago). One you appear on his mailing list, you are kept informed of all sorts of cultural goings-on in the city--from classical music recitals in really special venues to lectures to walking tours to parties at the various consulates and embassies. I chose to meet my friend Murali who'd signed up as one of my followers of my blog posts and whose eclectic tastes in music would, I knew, encompass this one. Murali met me at SOAS (The School of Oriental and African Studies) in whose library I'd done so much of my research last year and which I know very well. There, in one of the basement auditoriums, we were treated to a very unusual combination of musical instruments led by an Iranian musicologist called Peyman Heydarian on the santur who with accompanist Emad Rajabalipour on the daf ( a large tambourine) presented Kurdish and Turkish music that was eminently likeable. They were joined by a lovely young student named Vicky Anastasiou whose vocal accompaniment added immensely to the trio. After the interval, the Middle Eastern musicians were joined by two white musicians, one playing the banjo, the other a tiny stringed instrument whose name I can't remember. Together, they presented Irish jigs and Scottish reels using the santur and the daf! Having attended a santur recital, many years ago, in India by the one and only Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, I would never have thought that it was capable of jamming with Western instruments or could possibly produce the sounds of Gaellic music. But indeed it did and how! We loved every minute of the session and enjoyed chatting during the interval with the young musicians.

It was time for dinner as I was starving and I took Murali to Pizzeria Paradiso just off Gower Street where he had ravioli and I had a pizza--Quatro Stagioni --with ham and mushrooms, olives and artichokes. It was the sort of thin-crust pizza I love and often make from scratch at home--very good indeed. At just past 11.oo pm, Murali and I said goodbye as he returned to his home in Wimbledon and I took the bus back to St. Paul's.

Cynthia and Michael had just returned from a formal evening out and were still togged out in their glad rags when we sat down for a chitchat until midnight! Hard to believe that my week in London is coming to a close and I haven't yet visited the National Gallery. It will be top of my agenda tomorrow!

Friday, July 30, 2010

Cheerful Chinwags, Shakespeare in the Park & A Celebrity Chef

Thursday, July 29, 2010
London

Today was a day for reunions--with some of my closest London friends and my former NYU colleagues. I had the best time, sometimes tearful, as they (my friends, not my former colleagues) went over the sad recent events in the Almeida family and gave me warm hugs and much friendly advice. I adore them and was so thrilled to have had those uplifting chinwags.

First stop was Queen's Park, on the Tube. There, on Salusbury Road at a coffee shop called Gail's, I met my Swiss friend Marilyn who, together with her Belgian husband Phillipe, had provided me with ever so many gourmet meals at their fabulous home in Willesden Green. The unexpected bonus was a chance to meet their lovely daughter Emma-Louise who in her chic bob looked ultra glamorous. She stayed long enough to take some pictures with me before scooting off.

It was a lovely reunion indeed. I was struck by Marilyn's insights, clairvoyance and compassion. She shared so many nuggets of wisdom with me that I came out of our meeting genuinely edified with lessons I know I can actually use in my life going forward. On the way back to the Tube, she drove me past the home I loved so well and in which our friendship had been ignited and grew to a roaring blaze. Swollen by the power of friendship, I said goodbye to her and popped into a pharmacy to ask the well-trained pharmacists (both of Indian sub-continent origin) what I should take for the beginnings of a cough and scratchy throat. Their over-the-counter prescriptions turned out to be very effective indeed (as I found out as the day wore on).

On to NYU:
I took the Tube next to Tottenhan Court Road from where I walked to Bedford Square and our NYU campus. It felt wonderful to retread the pavements upon which I had left so many footprints a year ago. I got a warm and very special welcome from the security guard Mo who was joined by Mark, both of whom were delighted to see me again. I walked down the winding stair to my well-remembered basement office before I went upstairs to see the administrative staff, Anna and David and Yvonne and Ruth, who had made my life so easy while I'd taught in London for a year. What a great joy it was to reconnect with all of them and catch up on every change that has occured in the past year! I met new recruits and spent a while at the window of Yvonne's office overlooking the huge archaeological 'dig' at the British Museum where intentions of adding a new wing have led to the unearthing of the bones of a large herd of cattle--there is one intact skeleton, horns and all, that lies in a grave--all so clearly visible from Yvonne's window. Hard to understand how these remains could be found in a house that once belonged to Lord Montague (which became the British Museum).

Shakespeare in the Park:
More chinwags later, I changed two buses to get to Baker Street Station where at the Sherlock Holmes statue, I met the person who was supposed to give me two complimentary tickets to see The Comedy of Errors at Regent's Park Open Air Theater. This arrangement is open only to a select group of expatriates in London whose cultural interests run to theater. Admission to the group is strictly by invitation only and I was delighted to have been signed up when I first came to live in London.

I invited my friend Cynthia to go with me ( as I had received two tickets) and she was delighted. She actually rescheduled her Pilates class to join me at the same venue. We walked past the serpentine queues outside Madame Tussaud's and entered the Queen Mary Rose Garden at Regent's Park on our way to the venue. Having seen Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest last year at the same venue with my young friend Jack, I knew the place well. We found our seats after another chinwag in the garden outside the Open Air Theater.

Both Cynthia and I were glad that Michael had printed out the plot of the play for us as it is hugely complicated. Mistaken identity, the separation of twins as children, the reunion of long-lost spouses--all the stock features of Shakespearean comedy--made this a play that was difficult to follow unless one was forewarned what to expect. The production was very original indeed--set in Turkey of the 1930s and involving elements of musical theater. There was song and dance and a trio of jazz musicians who heightened interest in the plot and gave substance to Shakespeare's poetry. Lots of rough and tumble and physical comedy were part of the show and both Cynthia and I enjoyed it immensely. We'd lucked out with the weather which was just right--cool with overcast skies that eliminated glare and made for a very pleasant experience. I couldn't think of a better way to enjoy an afternoon in a London park than by listening to the cadences of The Bard.

It was time for us to part company as Cynthia and I took the Tube. I got off at Charing Cross, hoping to catch a glimpse of at least a couple of my favorite paintings at the National Gallery but all I had the time to do was use the restrooms inside before the museum closed for the day. I lazed around the steps of Trafalgar Square that were filled to bursting with fellow-tourists as I admired Edward Landseer's lions. I realize that while I have pictures of Chriselle astride them at age nine, I have never straddled those lions myself--and perhaps someday I should!

A Celebrated Restaurant:
At 6. 30 pm, I walked to the steps of the Church of St. Martin-in-the Field where I'd made plans to meet yet another dear English friend--Rosemary, whom I know as Roz. She arrived on schedule and we looked for a pub in which to have a drink before we kept our dinner reservation. Unfortunately, the one picked by the barman at the Jerusalem Tavern, the previous day, as his favorite pub in the city, The Harp at Charing Cross was so tightly-packed, that we forewent the pleasure and headed on the Tube to Tower Hill intending to get a drink at the restaurant itself.

I had made reservations for two at Cafe Spice Namaste, the restaurant owned by Cyrus Todiwala, a Parsi chef from Bombay, with whom I had become familiar on the UK TV Food Network when I lived in London. When I returned to the States, I had purchased his cook book and made his superb Bread and Butter Pudding (Parsi-style) from it. It was my intention to eat in his restaurant upon my next visit to London, so I was as pleased as Punch when Roz was free to join me.

We sat at the bar for a while nursing our drinks before moving into a vast hall for the restaurant is located in an old red brick building on Prescott Street (which took some finding) near the Tower of London. Of course, I had hyped up Todiwalla's Parsi cuisine so much that I hoped Roz would not be disappointed--and indeed she was not. She left the ordering to me and I started with that Parsi classic--Prawn Patia--for starters. It was superb--just the right touches of sweet, sour and spicy notes. We went on to order Aunt Leeli's Coriander Coated Salmon which was served with a Bombay-style Potato Bhaji studded with carrots and peas and the piece de resistance of any Parsi wedding banquet--the Dhansak which is a Mutton and Lentil Stew served over brown rice with a kachumber of onions and minced coriander leaves with a light squeeze of lemon and dash of lime juice. Everything was great--just as your Parsi neighbor in Bombay used to make it!

Roz and I talked non-stop and like Marilyn, she too sent warm verbal hugs my way as we caught up. She was keen to lay eyes on chef Cyrus whose wife Perin had taken good care of us all evening long. So, you can imagine how delighted we were when Cyrus, presuming I was a Parsi myself, came up to our table to shake hands and chat with us. He was not disappointed when he discovered that though I am not a Parsi, I am almost a Goan (Mangloreans once having been Goans themselves!), for he had spent many years in training at the Taj in Goa where he picked up fluent Konkani in which he began to speak to me! He was also raised in Bandra in Bombay, so we had so many elements in common. We told him how much we'd enjoyed our meal and he was thrilled when I said I owned his book and had actually tried out his pudding! Needless to say, I requested him and his wife to pose for a picture with us (which he willingly did) before we ordered the Lagan Nu Custer (the traditional Parsi wedding style custard dessert). Indeed, we had a wonderful evening that was made more meaningful by the presence of the chef who actually graced our table!

Neither Roz nor I could believe that it was almost 11.oo pm when we rose to leave after coffee. Our talking had been continuous as we spoke about our beloved kids (and grand kids in her case), our beloved ageing parents, our Significant Others and our common friends as well as our common interests as Roz had often been my companion to the theater, cinema and art galleries when I had lived in London.

Before we knew it, it was time to go our separate ways--I took a bus back to St. Paul's, she took the Tube to her lovely home in Battersea.

Friends! What would one ever do without them?

Thursday, July 29, 2010

A Museum, Tavern, Court, Church, Store, Restaurant, Theater...

Wednesday, July 28, 2010
London

The Foundling Museum:
With the sun shining down upon London today, I thought it a shame to be spending time in a museum, but after a delicious muesli breakfast, my friend Cynthia joined me on the bus to the Foundling Museum, one of London's best-kept secrets. Tucked away in a recess of Brunswick Square is a place that has its origins in the 18th century when no less than 1000 babies were abandoned on doorsteps by unwed mothers to fend for themselves. Most died in infancy or early childhood on the streets of the city. It was time, thought the merchant seaman Thomas Coram, to create a safe haven for these unwanted mites. He sought the financial aid of the king (George II) in his philantropic scheme but met with little cooperation. It was not until the Duchess of Salisbury granted his venture her patronage that others lent their support. In course of time, he managed to garner the assistance of two leading artistic lights of the period--the composer Frederic Handel and the painter William Hogart. The trio eventually raised the 'hospital' that stood in what came to be called Coram Fields--a 'foundling' home for society's littlest rejects. By the Victorian Age, it was a thriving resource for miserable young women who brought no less than 60 babies in per week (of which, by a cruel lottery system, no more than 20 were admitted). The Foundling Home was moved from its city location to Berkhamstead and continued to function until the 1930s where it was finally closed.

To walk through this museum is to suppress tears and deal with a constant lump in the throat. The most poignant exhibits are the 'tokens' left by the poor mothers--a medal, a small coin, a necklace of cheap glass beads, a cross--items that would identify their babies whom they hoped would be restored to them if and when they saw better days. Some were happily reunited with their children (whose names were changed as they went through a baptism upon entry into the home), most found that their babies had died already (the infant mortality rate was high) by the time they had the means to retrieve their little ones.

The museum also has a clutch of wonderful paintings that filled The Picture Gallery, which was used as the Dining Room when the foundlings lived in the building. Rich Victorians made a Sunday afternoon outing of visiting the Gallery while the children were at lunch--a bit like visiting the zoo today, I suppose. The Court Room is a splendid place decorated with intricate plasterwork by William Wooton and sporting an unusual olive green color. It contains some fine paintings by Hogart themed around the finding of children--as in the case of Moses from the Bible.

There was a particularly intriguing painting by William Stuart depicting the Battle of Trafalgar which caught my eye because, apart from the HMS Victory (upon whose deck Nelson died), it featured the Temeraire, the ship that features in Turner's famous painting The Fighting Temeraire, which hangs in the National Gallery in London and which the British pick repeatedly as their most beloved painting of all time.

Upstairs, in the Handel Room, is the composer's own copy of The Messiah which was performed as a fund-raiser in the Foundling Home. Coram was far-sighted enough to realise that he could use the space for cultural activities that would raise the money to fund his enterprise. Sadly, much as I would like to believe that the children were treated kindly, I discovered that Charles Dickens based his Oliver Twist on this place--so it could not have been a haven at all. In fact, children were raised to do hard physical labor since most of the boys were farmed out to the army at the age of 13 (if there was a war at the time, they were expected to go out and fight in it) while the girls were 'picked' out to be domestic servants and subjected to a life of further hardship. You can tell why, while it was a fantastic experience to be in the museum, it was by no means an uplifting one. Still. The Museum was on my To-Do List, so I was glad I 'did' it.

Cynthia and I then nipped into the Waitrose at Brunswick Center so I could buy my supply of English powdered soup. She had no idea there was a Waitrose in this location and wondered at my knowledge of the city. She told me that she and Michael think I ought to become a London tour guide! Well, that's one job I think I would gladly accept if anyone offered it to me. Except that in London, I'd have to go through six years of grueling study to be certified as a Blue Badge Guide--unless I'd want to be a free lancer!

The Jerusalem Tavern:
It was time for me to part company with Cynthia and hop on to a bus to Britten Street which I overlooked from my room from the loft I had stayed in for the last 2 months of my year in London. I had plans to meet Jack Cooke, son of my friends Paul and Loulou (who happen to be in Italy) and there he was, awaiting my arrival at a little past 1.00 pm. Jack used to be my occasional theater companion. A strikingly intelligent young man in his 20s, I enjoy his company and have always been struck by his degree of general knowledge and humor--both of which were in evidence at the Jerusalem Tavern that I wanted to visit as it is listed in one of my books as one of London's most interesting pubs. Dating from 1710, it is a quaint, crammed space (which explains why there were always hordes of lawyers crowding the pavement in the evening, pints in hand, when I passed it on the way back to my digs from the bus stop). Jack bought me a drink (my choice was a very good grapefruit beer), his was a glass of red wine. We caught up on everything that has happened in the past year before he told me that he would be in New York in September where we promised to continue our conversation as he had to rush off back to work.

A Session at the Old Bailey:
There are some London guide book writers who say that if there is only one thing you can possibly find the time to do in London, it should be attending a session at the Old Bailey. Since I can actually see the dome right outside my bedroom window and have never been there before, this visit seemed as good as any to accomplish that goal. So off I went, on foot, down Warwick Passage to the imposing building on Newgate Street (where the notorious Newgate Prison once stood), to find the entrance to the sessions court. I was admitted into Court 6 on the Second floor where I spent a half hour listening to the reading of a transcript of a case that has been going on for months. The accused, two women--one white, one black--were in the dock awaiting the verdict in their role in aiding and abetting a robbery. It was interesting to see that the judge and the barristers still sport the white powdered wigs of the 18th century--a custom that has died out in every other part of the English-speaking world. I do wish I had seen the proceedings in an actual case, but my appetite was whetted enough to consider making another trip to this venerable old building on another trip to the city.

St. James' Church, Piccadilly:
It was time to hop on a bus again--this time to Piccadilly--with the hope of getting inside the Church of St. James which Christopher Wren considered his own personal favorite among the many post-Fire churches he built. En route, I passed by the Apollo Theater on Shaftesbury Avenue, and on impulse I hopped off the bus to try and see if I could get a single ticket for the evening's show of Arthur Miller's All My Sons which has received fantastic reviews and for which half-price tickets are not available at the theater booth at Leicester Square. Can you imagine how my heart sang when I snagged the last ticket in the balcony for the show? Boy, I thought, this could easily become the highlight of my visit.

Set in a lovely courtyard which has special personal memories for me (it was here that the late Indo-British author Kamala Markandaya upon whom my doctoral dissertation is based, had posed with me after treating me to afternoon tea at next-door's Fortnum and Mason, 23 years ago). St. James' was open, thankfully, which allowed me to enter a hushed space and after a few moment's of prayer and reflection, treat my eyes to the sight of the wooden carvings on the altar which I recognized instantly as the work of the one and only Grindling Gibbons, the most skilled wood carver of the 18th century and one of my own favorite decorative artists. Apart from his skill in wood, I saw, for perhaps the first time, a marble carving by him at the Baptismal Font where none other than the poet William Blake had been baptised. The church is full of artistic interest and I can see why Wren loved it so much--its ceiling with its gilded plasterwork is particularly interesting. I was delighted that I finally managed to see the inside of a church that Wren had so loved.

Fortnum and Mason:
It was time to enter another temple--this one a temple to Mammon. It is one of my all-time favorite London stores--the 18th century F&M where I make at least one pilgrimage on every visit to London. I always find some little trinket to tickle my fancy and this time I found an unusual musical biscuit box for Chriselle and a reversible tea cozy for me that sports the logo of the store. I saw a lovely exhibit of artistic ceramics on the first floor, took a glance at the famous picnic hampers for which the store is renowned and paused around the tea counter wondering if or not I ought to buy one of their assorted tea caddies. I decided against it--perhaps on another trip.

St. John's Bar and Restaurant:
On the bus again, I fought against the clock to make my 6.oo pm appointment with my friend John at the St. John's Bar and Restaurant where it was my aim to have an early dinner of Roasted Bone Marrow and Parsley Salad on Toast, apparently the signature dish of its acclaimed chef Fergus Henderson whose philosophy of Nose to Tail Eating has put the restaurant on the city's gastronomic map. John arrived at the appointed hour to join me in a glass of wine while I finally had the pear cider I'd been craving since I arrived in London. The salad was every bit as good as it sounds though the presentation was odd. I was served four large marrow bones (thankfully with a long picking fork), and the well-dressed parsley salad on the side with a teaspoon of salt. The combination of flavors was very good indeed and this is easily something I could reproduce in my Southport kitchen. The last time, Stephanie and I had eaten in this restaurant, the salad had gone and I had promised myself I would return to taste it.

All My Sons at the Apollo Theater:
It was great catching up with John, who was one of the respondents in my Anglo-Indian immigrant survey before I scooted off, this time by Tube, to Piccadilly Circus to make the 7. 30 pm show of All My Sons. Starring David Suchet (best known to me for his role as Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot--though I can't stand him in that avatar) and Zoe Wannamaker (whom I had become acquainted with through her role as the mother in the long-running Britcom My Family which I used to watch religiously during my year in London), it is considered Arthur Miller's best play and among the handful of best plays of the 20th century. Though I have seen many stage versions of Death of a Salesman and A View from the Bridge, I had never seen All My Sons on stage, so I was thrilled to have the opportunity to do so in London in a production that has earned rave reviews.

And I could easily see why. Even my nose-bleed seats (my opera glasses helped tremendously) did not stop me from fully immersing myself in a play that tore at my heart strings and left me a snivelling mess at the very end. I had no tissues with me (I travel light) and as I fought back tears provoked by the crushing denouement, I had a very hard time indeed. If you live in London, run--don't walk--to the Apollo and book yourself a ticket. As I had imagined, it is easily the highlight of my stay, so far. Talk about drama...this was theater at its finest and I felt truly privileged to have been allowed to partake of it.

It was about 10. 30 when I sat on the bus and was home at Amen Court about 20 minutes later. Cynthia and Michael had just returned from a black tie dinner appointment at Mansion House with the Lord Mayor of London and presented me with the printed menu from their formal evening out. We sat chatting for the next half hour as we caught up on our day before we thought we could close shop for the night.


Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Hovering around Hever Castle in Kent

Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Kent

Hever Castle was the childhood home of Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII, mother of Queen Elizabeth I and the woman whose face launched the Anglican Church of England. It is tucked away in the emerald folds of the Kentish countryside, just a stone's throw away from Penshurst Place whose most famous resident was Anne's contemporary, the courtier-poet Sir Phillip Sidney who wrote a beautiful poem immortalizing the ancient pile ("To Penshurst"). When, over a year ago, my friend Stephanie and I had taken one of our frequent detours on our Sunday sightseeing routine in the UK, we had strayed onto a path that led to Hever, only to arrive at its lovely Tudor gatehouse and find it closed for the winter. So I was particularly happy to actually get within its gates.

By medieval standards, Hever is tiny. I have toured castles far more impressive in size and grandeur (Glamis Castle in Scotland comes to mind, as, of course, closer to London, is Windsor). but then this wasn't owned by royalty. It was the family home of one of the most ambitious of the monarch's underlings, Thomas Bullen, whose father Geoffrey had purchased the property and surrounding acreage as a family home. It passed into the hands of the conniving Thomas who would not draw the line at pimping his daughters Anne and Mary to the King just so he could swell his wealth and rise in royal stature. A really sinister portrayal of him is played superbly by Nick Dunning in the HBO series The Tudors which Llew and I have been watching on DVD. He lies buried in adjoining St. Peter's Church, Hever, which a lot of visitors also enter.

His spirit was more than evident at Hever, a pretty ivy-covered, double-moated castle with the cutest Tudor entry courtyard I have ever seen just past the drawbridge--all exposed black gables and stone turreted tower. Inside, there is some of the most ornate linen-fold wooden panelling I have ever seen--not for the Bullens the ordinary kind as found at Hampton Court or Sutton House in London's East End--this is embellished superbly with aristocratic symbols. There are paintings on the wall that depict the pomp and splendour that was lavished upon King Henry each time he came along for a sleepover. Indeed his bedroom is the coziest and the brightest--large windows (unusual for Tudor homes) threw light upon his 'tester' bed--I bet there was no pun intended there!

Every attempt has been made to revive the spirit of the ill-fated Anne Boleyn through portraiture, wax models (as at Madame Tussaud's), her own personal Book of Hours which poignantly has the words "Le Temps Viendra, je Anne Boleyn" inscribed on its first page--did she have a premonition that her time would come? Anne was especially fluent in French which she considered her first language having spent her formative years at the French court where her father dispatched her so she could acquire sophisticated European ways and eventually wow an English monarch who was best known for his roving eye. Elaborate family trees trace the origin of some of the times' key players and I always come away from such exhibits learning just one more tidbit. For instance, I could never remember what made Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots 'cousins'--the family tree allowed me to see that Mary was the daughter of Henry's sister Margaret--hence Mary was Elizabeth's father's sister's daughter. Still, despite all the memorabilia from Tudor and Elizabethan times, I came away thinking I'd learned more about the Astors.

That is because in the early 20th century, Hever passed into the hands of the American William Astor who made his fortune in fur trading. For some reason, at that time, Americans seemed to think that getting their hands on England's real estate would increase their own stature and vied to make property investments across the pond (consider this: William Randolph Hurst, the Californian publisher-millionnaire bought nearby Leeds Castle; the Vanderbilts went one step further and arranged their daughter Consuelo's marriage to the then Duke of Marlborough so they could get their hands on Blenheim Palace--poor thing had a miserable time until the couple divorced, but not before the Vanderbilts poured their ample funds into restoring what was then a crumbling pile. These bits of Anglo-American trivia have, somehow, stuck in my mind from past travels in the UK). The top floors of Hever are devoted to an exhibition about the Astors and there are a bunch of paintings and pictures depicting the clan way into the 20th century smiling for the cameras against the Castle's ivy-clinging backdrop.

Hever's Gardens are just as special as the House itself--there is a beautiful Rose Garden, an ornately laid-out Italianate Garden, a Half Moon Fountain and sweeping lawns that dip into a lake that boaters made idyllic. Children giggled in the Water Maze and in the other old-fashioned amusement area for there is a great deal to keep them occupied.

Close by is the pretty and very tiny village of Chiddingston which my guide book described as the kind of place from which you expect Agatha Christie's Miss Marple to emerge from behind a hedge. It is a one-horse village with just three large structures--a stone church, a gabled guildhall and a Castle Inn that adjoins Chiddingston Castle, but taken together, the three present a chocolate box image of the quintessential English country village and are well worth a visit.
I saw a determined group of walkers, led by an equally focussed guide, disappear behind a corpse--no doubt, they were in search of the Chidding Stone that gives the village its name.

In the evening, when the day came to a close, my cousin Cheryl and her husband David who live on the Isle of Sheppey provided a snack supper. It was great to see them and their ageing cats, Morgy and Buttons, again and to catch up on their lives. As we ate in their living room, I enjoyed a view of the North Sea along the Minster Lees waterfront.

My travels outside London have come to an end. I am hoping I will have good weather as I spend the next few days dipping into lesser-known bits and pieces of my favorite city.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Coursing Around the Cotswolds...

Monday. July 26, 2010
The Cotswolds and Oxford


It apparently came down in buckets in London today...but I wouldn't know. I was far away in the Cotswolds, one of the prettiest parts of England and one of my particular favorites, where it remained dry though overcast--perfect conditions for a drive into the country and for gentle strolling. And indeed there is so much to absorb--from honey-toned villages composed entirely of the famous Cotswolds stone to 'wool' churches created by wealthy wool merchants in the Middle Ages when the area was the center of English trading; from cute shops stocked with trinkets and edible goodies (I almost bought out the entire stock of Border's Dark Chocolate Gingers--my favorite English biscuit--in Stow-on-the-Wold) to stately homes (Kelmscott Manor, home of William Morris, for instance) to spectacular gardens (such as Hidcote Manor, which is world-famous). Unfortunately, though Kelmscott was one of my targets, I realized before my friend Bash and I left London by car with him behind the wheel, that it is only open on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Faulty scheduling on my part meant that we had to keep this treat on hold for another day--but then I will take any excuse to re-visit the Cotswolds.


I met Bash outside Northhold Tube station which allowed us to zip on to the M40 Motorway to Oxford at a leisurely pace. Hard to believe it was just another manic Monday--there was no traffic at all, at least none leaving London. While the rest of the poor sods were making their way into the city to start their work week, we drove under overcast skies into the countryside. Good job I'd borrowed my friend Barbara's UK Road Atlas which was very useful indeed as Bash has no GSP and relied on my navigational skills. Thankfully, I adore maps and map-reading and was fully in my element as I negotiated a way for the spunky silver Suzuki Swift to make its way around a network of leafy country lanes.

Stow-on-the-Wold:
Our first stop was the Cotswold village of Stow-on-the-Wold, renowned for its weekly market held on the square since medieval times. Since Bash had driven for almost 2 hours, it was time for a coffee break and we found a quaint tea room overlooking the square. Just next door, in a shop that stocked local Cotswold honey, home-cured cold meats, artisinal cheeses and pots of homemade jam, I spied my Border's dark chocolate ginger biscuits and bought the lot--seven packages, one of which I promptly opened and bit into right after paying for them. So that's one item off my 'To Purchase List' that I could tick off. We had a bit of a hairy time trying to find our parked car--all lanes look the same and we couldn't find it but with a bit of asking around, voila, there it was--exactly where we'd left it!

I thought so much about Llew and Chriselle and ached for their presence as we'd first toured the Cotswolds as a family (with Llew behind the wheel), at least twelve years ago, on a driving trip around the UK when Stow-on-the-Wold (which simply means 'hill' in Old English) had been one of our stops.

Moreton-in-Marsh:
Next stop: the village of Moreton-on-Marsh which is the only Cotswold village that has a direct rail link to London and is a popular tourist destination. I exchanged dollars for pound sterling at a quaint bank where wood panelling probably goes back centuries (I was asked for my passport which I'd left at home but my Connecticut driver's license provided adequate picture ID) before we took a "quick chuckkar" around yet another Cotswold town square. For me, one of the pleasures of visiting old villages steeped in history of this sort is the chance to nip into its thrift stores to look for vintage jewelery. Though I don't always find a treasure, I love poking around other people's cast-offs...plus serendipity has often led me to unique finds. Bash, who'd never been into such a shop in his life, found himself leaving with a big bag of finds after marvelling at the prices!

Meanwhile, I took a call from my London-based friend, Rosemary (Roz), who said, "I'm so sorry the weather is so bad today", as if she were personally responsible for the rain in the city!

"No worries", I responded, "I'm far away in the Cotswolds where it's dry as bone".

"Hahaha. Are you still cramming as much as you possibly can into each day?" she went, her voice muffled with laughter.

"You know me too well", I responded. We made plans to meet for dinner shortly before I hung up.

Hidcote Manor Gardens:
It was only a short drive to the Hidcote Manor Gardens which, like Wisley and a great deal of National Trust treasures, seem to be squirreled away in hidden corners of the country and remain totally inaccessible if you don't own wheels. That's why I was so grateful for Bash's chauffeuring skills. I always seem to find like-minded explorers who are content behind the wheel and willing to follow where I lead--the spirit of my friend Stephanie (now posted in Bangkok), for instance, was very much with me as I enjoyed the country vistas and I am ever grateful to my dear Llew (whom I miss dearly) for his own steering skills and his willingness to take me to tucked-away corners in the middle of nowhere.

The Hidcote Manor Gardens were the dream creation of an American horticulturist named Lawrence Johnstone who, in the early 20th century, fashioned gardens surrounding his Cotswold stone manor with a truly unique vision--he envisaged his garden as a series of 'outdoor rooms', each area superbly demarcated through the use of towering hedges. This concept was so creative that it inspired other passionate gardeners such as Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicholson, who at their home in Sissinghurst in Kent, replicated the idea in a garden that was one of the highlights of my stay in the UK last year. Though not as immaculate as the gardens at Wisley, Hidcote Manor is lush though smaller-scaled and, therefore, more intimate. Again, unlike Wisley which provides the visitor with glimpses into a sheer variety of botanical species, Johnston had a fondness for certain flowers that he planted profusely in a repeated pattern--he seemed particularly partial to phlox, for instance, and day lilies, cannas, hydrangeas and roses. In fact, his garden could belong to any one of us--there is nothing fancy to be found in it and I was easily able to identify most of the plantings.

Like Wisley, Hidcote Manor offered plenty of wrought-iron benches and bowers in which to sit and absorb the vistas. We ate a picnic lunch on one such bench before twirling around the circular pool (such a pity its fountain was not playing), entering a Mediterranean-style patio complete with tiles set into the walls, admiring a typical Elizabethan Knot Garden filled with fuchsia and plucked some of the leaves from more unusual herbs (lemon verbena, for instance) in the Vegetable Garden. The water-lily pond was in full bloom (Monet would gleefully have reached for his tubes of paint) and on the outskirts of the garden, we watched enchanted as recently-sheared Cotswolds sheep jumped awkwardly to grab a mouthful of low-growing branches from spreading oak trees.

It was idyllic, it was bucolic, it was paradisaical. I was thrilled I had finally reached a place I had long dreamed of visiting.

Oxford, City of Dreaming Spires:
It was with reluctance that we left Hidcote but I did want to have some time in Oxford where I offered to give Bash a walking tour. We coursed through more picturesque Cotswold villages such as Chipping Campden and Broadway, revelling in the uniform structure and color of each of these settlements before we arrived, an hour later, into Matthew Arnold's City of Dreaming Spires where I have only ever arrived by coach and found out that parking was a nightmare. We circled the city before we gave up finding a parking spot and since it was time for a drink and dinner, I recommended we drive to Wolvercote to park ourselves at the famed Trout Inn, one of Inspector Morse's favorite watering holes.

The weir was not in operation--it usually creates a striking aural backdrop for one of the riverside meals the ancient pub offers--so we were not too disappointed to find a table indoors (the wait for outdoor seating was 45 minutes). Hearing of my fondness for perry (pear cider), Bash introduced me to an alcoholic ginger beer called Crabbies (which I found to be very nice indeed) and over a shared starter of superb Devilled Mushrooms on Toast and then Pasta Carbonara for me and Ribeye Steak and Chips for him, we had ourselves a very delicious meal. Once again, the spirit of my other fond friends washed over me in this space, especially my dear Italian buddy Annalisa and her sons Giovanni and Giacommo with whom I'd once shared a drink at this venue after traipsing for miles through adjoining Port Meadow and Godstow Lock along the banks of the Thames.

On our way back to London, we did find parking at St. Giles (just as I'd expected) and I could not resist living up to my promise and playing walking tour guide as I took Bash around the most significant buildings such as the Christopher Wren-designed Sheldonian Theater, the Bridge of Sighs, the Clarendon Building, the Radcliff Camera and the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. Back on the High Street, I pointed out several colleges (though we couldn't enter any of the quadrangles) and the Examination Hall before I ducked into the tiny Wheatsheaf Alley to take him to Gill and Co, Ironmongers, that have been in the same family since before the birth of Shakespeare. It was while I was in Bombay, last week, that my Mum pointed out an article to me in The Times of India, saying, "Here, take a look at this item. Do you know this hardware store? It is older than Shakespeare himself and is closing down at the end of August." Gill and Co. was one of the favorite stores of author Colin Dexter who lives in North Oxford and is the creator of the beloved Inspector Morse. He would often pop in to hang out with the owner and decided, therefore, to write the place into one of his murder mysteries. The producers of the TV series actually used it as a location for one of their highly-rated episodes. So much history, so much folklore has developed around an ironmonger's shop. What a crying shame it will be to see it disappear. "We simply can't compete with the B&O warehouses," says the owner, who will close it down next month after five centuries! Now in Southport, I am sure the local residents would have clubbed together to find a way to 'save' it, if not as an ironmongers, then as a local landmark!

Anyway, dusk had fallen over one of my most beloved cities in the world (together with Florence, Paris, Prague, Jaisalmer and Bruges) so it was time to get back to London. I was dropped outside Amen Corner a little after 11.00 pm after what had proven to be another very tiring but truly productive day.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Whizzing Off to Wisley Royal Gardens!

Sunday, July 25, 2010
London

On a day that was tailor-made for exploring gardens, I set off for Wisley Royal Gardens...but not before I attended 8.00 am Holy Communion service at St. Paul's Cathedral with Aidan Colclough, son of mine host, Michael, Bishop of Kensington and his wife Cynthia. Another feeling of deja-vu gripped me again as it was at precisely this service, two years ago, that I had first met Michael and Cynthia who have grown to become such close family friends. The ways of the Lord are mysterious--especially in the manner in which He brought such fabulous people into my life while I lived in London.

After a hearty oatmeal breakfast, I caught the Central Line Tube from St. Paul's Station to Northholt (the compartments were packed--where was everyone going so early on a Sunday morning?). I'd made plans to hook up with my friend Bash. His funky little silver Suzuki was parked near at hand and off we whizzed to Wisley Royal Gardens which are tucked away in a corner of Surrey close to Woking in a place called Ripley. How great it was to see him again! I'd met him at the tail-end of my year in London but had hit it off with him immediately and not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, I'd gladly taken him up on his offer to drive me around to places I wanted to see on my present visit. Besides, he'd never been to Wisley himself (not a very macho thing for a single man to do, he informed me) which made it worth his while.

At 9. 50 pounds entry fee for perusing a garden that goes on for what seems like miles, it was the best bang for its buck, he opined. At the very full parking lot, we realized that loads of people had beaten us to it and intended to spend, what shaped into a gorgeous day, literally smelling the roses. Wisley is well beloved of the local Surrey country folks who seem to spend every summer weekend in its verdant midst.

Bash and I spent the next few hours surveying the vast property which has been brilliantly landscaped to feature a variety of gardens--a Rock Garden, a Rose Garden, an Italianate Garden with a Loggia, an Islamic-style Genaralife garden as seen in Granada, a Cottage Garden, a Cactus and Succulent Garden, a Zen Garden, extensive glass houses or conservatories, a Tropical garden reminiscent of the ones found inside the bio domes of the Eden Project that I'd visited in Cornwall, dozens of herbaceous borders punctuated with striking statuary, sculpture, sun dials and other ornamentation that one finds sprinkled liberally around the gardens of England.

We stopped frequently--to partake of a picnic lunch I'd fixed of smoked ham, Wensleydale Cheese with ginger and apple sandwiches using Waitrose's excellent walnut bread and fresh apples. We paused for a tea break when we sipped excellent cuppas served in metal teapots as only the English can do and slices of Coffee and Walnut Cake, or simply to rest our feet in shrouded bowers and on shady benches. Even someone like Bash who describes himself as having "brown fingers" enjoyed the romps so very much that he has threatened to bring his sister Zack to the garden the next time she visits London from Lancaster. For those who have never been to this place, it is the last word in serenity and I honestly couldn't think of a better way to pass a Sunday in summer if I'd put on my thinking cap and wracked my brain for hours! So get you to its website, pronto! And start eating your heart out.

When we'd had our fill of gardens, we drive to Southall, London's Little India, where we had a nice stroll together along its main artery past shops selling Punjabi 'suits', 22 carat Indian gold jewelry, sticky sweetmeats, halal meat, every condiment that the Indian sub-continent produces and packages, mangoes galore ( I bought a box of Indian 'dusseries' for Cynthia who adores them), restaurants up the wazoo...it was like walking in Delhi's Chandni Chowk, only cleaner! I could easily have settled for a meal in Gifto's Lahori Karahi, but Bash suggested a place called Barrish in Harrow, close to Wembley. So off we went and in a few minutes, we were in another part of London frequented by folks from the Indian sub-continent (desis).

Our dinner was very delicious indeed if rather a noisy experience as the place was taken over by a large post-wedding party of boisterous middle-aged males who'd gathered in London from the US, Canada and India. I ate some really interesting Indian dishes such as Chilli Paneer, Virgin (yes, you read that right!) Chicken and King Prawn Masala which we washed down with Bulmer's Cider. I haven't yet managed to find Perry (pear cider--which few bars seem to stock) but I will come upon it before I leave.

It was a little before 11.oo pm when Bash dropped me home to Amen Corner and I realized as he departed that I'd left my box of mangoes in his car...shall pick them up from him tomorrow as we are off for the day to Oxfordshire.

I felt exhausted by the time I hit the bed but had to download my pictures from my camera or I will have no room for any more pictures of the Hidcote Manor Gardens near Oxford that I plan to see.

I am so glad that Bash is in cahoots with me in getting "every box ticked," as he puts it, on my To-Do List. So nice to have a partner in crime!

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Tackling my London To-Do List

Friday, July 24, 2010
London

I had showered, changed and was ready to hit the road to Litchfield when Michael descended the stairs to inform me that he had pulled a nerve in his back and felt uncertain about sitting behind a wheel for so many hours. Our trip to the Midlands was cancelled and I was left with the equally exciting prospect of spending a truly spectacular day in London on my own.

The thing about London is that no matter how often you've been and how long you've stayed, there is still always something 'new' to see. On a glorious day like today, I was torn between staying outdoors and ticking items off my To-Do List--many of which involved museums. In the end, I chose to walk the tight rope between outdoor and indoor activity and didn't do too bad a job at it.

So, I left Amen Corner at 10 am after a delicious oatmeal porridge breakfast fixed by Cynthia and Michael in tandem--he provided the bits and bobs (oatmeal, oat bran, milk, water, sultanas, chopped nuts), she stirred and served.

Kensington Gardens:
I hopped into a bus at St. Paul's, then changed to another on Oxford Street and hopped off at Bayswater, near Lancaster Gate. My aim was to stroll through Kensington Gardens which I'd never seen before (though I have been to Kensington Palace and the Orangery when Chriselle had visited me). I admired the Italianate Gardens though they weren't in bloom, then walked on towards the lovely sculpture of Peter Pan by George Frampton which featured the boy who never grew up among the fairies and animals he adored. Right opposite is the thinnest thread of the Serpentine and the approximate spot where the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley's wife drowned herself--heart-breaking.

On I walked towards the Serpentine Gallery which I'd never visited. Hard to believe that I spent a whole year devouring London's art offerings and had never been to one of its most famous galleries. I seemed to have just arrived in time to enjoy the brand new lipstick red pavilion, the work of Jean Nouvel, that sits near the Serpentine Gallery which was once a tea room. Inside, I caught a striking exhibition of photographs by Wolfgang Tillmans before I spent a while resting my feet in Nouvel's new creation.

A Triathlon was on in the Park and I walked past groups of sprinters on the Serpentine Bridge before I went in search of the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain where I was delighted to discover that I could kick my clogs off and paddle. What cool relief for my aching feet! Ten minutes later, I was near the Lido Swimming Club admiring the hanging baskets of flowers that filled the pavilion.

It was time to hop on a bus again and as it grew warmer towards mid-morning, it made sense to escape indoors for a bit, so off I went to Leighton House.

Leighton House:
Leighton House had remained closed for renovation, much to my disappointment, during the length of my stay in London. Since it reopened only a few months ago, it made perfect sense for me to make a bee-line to the London home of one of the late-19th century's best-known artists-Frederick, Lord Leighton, at 12 Holland Park Road. And boy, was it worth the wait! The house, which is absolutely nothing to look at from the outside, was a true stunner within. I was completely floored. My five pound entry fee was waived, thanks to my Metropolitan Museum connection, so in I went after I had lingered in the garden for a bit and enjoyed a brief conversation with a lady who had curated a special exhibit inside entitled 'Flaming July.'

Lord Leighton had a passion for everything Middle Eastern and entering this home is a bit like making a lightning visit to Damascus or Istanbul. His fondness for blue Iznik tiles is evident everywhere--on the walls, the ceiling and the floors--exactly as Llew and I had seen in the harems in Turkey. He was equally enthralled by Roman decorative design, especially the mosaics of Pompeii and I saw a great deal of the motifs I had seen during my visit to Southern Italy. Dozens of his own paintings line the walls as do a huge number of paintings, drawings and sculpture that formed his own personal collection. They range in style from the classical work of Michelangelo to the Impressionist work of Corot. The visitor walks through the rooms which have been recreated to reflect the manner in which Leighton lived in them, down to the finest detail as he was obsessive about getting every element right. Indeed, though the house was designed for him by the architect George Aitchison, Leighton was personally involved in every single aspect of it and his attention to detail is evident everywhere. So smitten was I by the man, his vision and his work that I believe this visit will be one of the highlights of my current travels in the UK.

The Science Museum:
Because the day was shaping up so beautifully, I spent a while lingering on Kensington High Street--I popped into Waitrose to buy some of my favorite goodies--their Walnut Bread, their Wensleydale Cheese with Ginger, their smoked ham--good for the sandwiches I shall prepare for our picnic in Wisley Royal Gardens tomorrow. With a triple chicken sandwich in the bag, I hopped into another bus, this time headed towards the Science Museum which I had never entered before.

You can tell that Science is not one of my passions, though children seemed to be having a whale of a time. I headed straight for the basement to see exhibits on the Home which detailed the history of such familiar household appliances and gadgets as refrigerators and toasters and irons, not to mention the cistern in toilets! I guess a science buff could spend the entire day (or several) in this space, but by then it was almost 5.00 pm and I was dying for a cuppa. The cafe seemed rather too bland for my liking and knowing full well that the superb Gamble Cafe was only a stone's throw away in the Victoria & Albert Museum, that was where I sped. One large cup of Darjeeling (and a sandwich later) later, I was wading into water again--this time in the circular pool in the museum's courtyard which was full of fellow paddlers. How delightful to be able to do this sort of thing! I had such a grand time and, of course, my poor abused feet enjoyed the treat as well.

Harvey Nichols and Fortnums:
On the bus again, we rolled in the direction of Piccadilly. When we passed by Harvey Nichols, I realized that I had never been inside this fancy department store--so off I hopped and in I went into another London institution. But, of course, once I was inside, I saw that there isn't really very much to distinguish one department store from the other, so I took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked around the Food Hall for a while before I rode the escalators down so that I could walk around each floor and admire the Jimmy Choos or the Vivienne Westwoods. On the bus again, I proceeded towards Piccadilly, this time hoping I'd make it there by 7 o' clock so that I could see Mr. Fortnum and Mr. Mason do their thing when the hour tolled--a tradition about which I had read only after I'd left London.

At exactly 7 o'clock, the two boxes on either side of the clock on the second floor of the store opened and out popped two life-sized figures dressed in the ostentatious garb (wigs included) of the 18th century gentleman. One carried a tray with tea things, the other held a candelabra. They moved smoothly towards each other, bowed graciously, raised and lowered their heads and twirled while the clock played a tune.And when they were done, they turned their backs on us and walked into their wooden boxes as the doors shut behind them. It was a the cutest sight and I was enchanted! To think that I have never left London without visiting this store (it really is one of my favorites) and did not know about this clock!

I'd have loved to have shopped for a few goodies, but I was in a hurry to get to St. James' Church, Piccadilly, in the hope of seeing the interior, but alas, it was closed for the day. I do so hope I shall have the time to see it before I leave. If and when I do, I shall make sure I go into Fortnum's as well.

It was time to get on the bus and head back to Ludgate Hill. I felt very proud of myself because I remembered the bus routes so well and barely needed to consult my map. Still, some things have changed for the worse--the construction ('road works')outside Tottenham Court Road has diverted the 6, 25 and 251 buses. I reached Amen Corner at about 8 pm really tired and ready to relax though I was simply too stuffed with all the food I'd eaten and decided to skip dinner.

I fixed some sandwiches for a picnic tomorrow and can only hope that the weather will hold up for my day outdoors with my friend Bash!

London is all A-Buzz!

Friday, July 23, 2010
London

Amy and I raced off to Thetford where our friends Cynthia and Michael were meeting us. We arrived almost on time and I continued with the Colcloughs on their onward journey by car to London. The time just flew as we caught up on our lives.

By the time we reached London it was 1. 00 pm (time for a quickly rustled up lunch of toast and scrambled eggs). I was shown up to my room in a--get this--Christopher Wren home. The master architect designed this new block of terraced housing in 1670 right after the Great Fire of London in 1666. The rooms are huge and the interiors, beautifully detailed--marble fireplaces, ornamental plasterwork on the ceiling, tall sash windows, wide sweeping staircases, grand landings, a full apartment on the third floor reached by a separate servants' staircase--in other words, a home after my own heart! Who would ever have thought that one day I'd be living in a Christopher Wren home? How's that for having a dream come true? How do I know the history of this home? Because last year when I was in the Geffrye Museum, this block of housing was featured in it as one of London's earliest examples of post-fire grandeur. Gone was the timber that had gone up in flames. Brick and stone would be the new idiom of the New London. And Wren got it right--after all these years...no centuries, it is holding up splendidly, though Cynthia apologized to me about the aged plumbing and the need to have the bathrooms modernized--which should happen right after my departure. I, on the other hand, found everything fascinatingly old-world.

I drew the curtains in my room and guess what? I discovered that my windows overlook the great big dome of the Old Bailey. The Goddess of Justice holds her weighing scales in her hands in superb gilded splendour! And every hour and half hour, I hear the tolling bells of St. Paul's Cathedral reminding me that Tempus Fugit! Dreams, dreams, dreams, do come true....

The Colcoughs have made me very comfortable indeed. They are gracious hosts and are including me in everything though I have assured them that I am an old London hand and know it like the back of my...well.,.hand. After I settled in, I set off alone to cover the remaining items on my To-Do List and it was at Covent Garden that I began. It was a gorgeous afternoon--perfect English summer weather--dry and cool unlike the oppressive heat we have on the North Atlantic coast and in Canada at this time of year. Covent Garden was simply crawling with tourists and the buskers (street entertainers) were attracting large crowds (I felt such a strong sense of deja-vu as this was exactly the London Llew and I had encountered when I first came to live here, two years ago).

I headed straight for the London Transport Museum (which is one of those I hadn't covered earlier) and spent the next 2 hours there. I have to say that I was disappointed. I have certainly seen better museums. It failed to evoke in me the sense of bygone London no matter how hard I tried to capture it. Not worth the 8 pound entry fee, but that is just my personal opinion. No doubt, if you are a kid, this is paradise.

I walked around Covent Garden and wished I had more time to visit my favorite old haunts (Carluccio's for its superlative citron tarts and Hope and Greenwood for artisinal chocolates)--but I had to press on as the Colcloughs had invited me to a barbecue party in St. Paul's Gardens. I did mange to buy a citron tart from Patisserie Valerie, however, and I munched it on the bus back to Ludgate Hill.

Spent a really glorious evening meeting a variety of lovely people as Cynthia introduced me around. By far, the most interesting was a jolly white-haired man who was a personal friend of author Vikram Seth--we had so much to talk about as he was very up on Indian Post-Colonial Literature. During our very absorbing discussion, I discovered that he was once Governor of Hongkong and Master of a Cambridge college and was on back-slapping terms with the Nobel Prize winning economist Amartya Sen--you can imagine what a fascinating conversation that was! We exchanged business cards before departing when I discovered that I had been speaking to Sir David, Lord Wilson of Tillyorn. I also enjoyed meeting his wife Lady Nicola--a really pretty, very gracious lady. I am sorry that I will be missing the Sunday lunch at the Chaplain's house to which I have also been invited...but then my friend Bash has offered to drive me to Wisley Royal Gardens that are spectacular at this time of year--and it is an offer I cannot refuse.
The barbecue meal was just superb--not the usual hamburgers and hot dogs that we usually feature at a cook out in the States. This one featured juicy pesto chicken, really perfectly done burgers (yes, they were there), tasty sausages (chipolatas?), coleslaw and potato salad and glass noodles and lovely grilled radicchi0 with pine nuts. The 'puddings', Cynthia told me, would be the best part, so we waited though she became chilly as the evening wore on, for little individual cups of Pimms jelly with fruit, strawberries and cream and raspberry mousse with chocolate--all quite delicious and so very classy!

Our evening ended when Cynthia drove me to my former building at High Holborn so I could pick up my suitcase from the flat of my friends, Tim and Barbara, where I had left it on the morning I vamoosed to Norfolk. It was great to see them again briefly and off we went (Edward, Cynthia's son) and me to the waiting car.

I caught up on my email and blogging because...yes! I am finally online again in my room through wifi and how fabulous it feels to be able to reach out to the world again. Calls to Llew and Chriselle have kept me abreast of the fact that she will soon be home bound to the States and that Llew is enjoying having a houseful of friends who have descended down upon him from Canada and Maine to partake of the offerings of our local Pequot Library Book Sale in Southport.

Tomorrow, I join the Colcloughs on a day trip to the Midlands where I have never been before--just north of Birmingham in a small town called Litchfield. Hope the weather holds out...

Friday, July 23, 2010

Messin' About on the Norfolk Broads

Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wroxham, Norfolk Broads

I was excited when I awoke this morning as I've wanted to visit the Norfolk Broads for years. Trouble is, they're located in the midst of nowhere--which makes it impossible to get to by public transport. So I was grateful when my friend Amy offered to spend the day with me, which included chauffeuring me to the network of rivers and lakes that make up the famous waterways.

We arrived at Wroxham along animal-studded country roads from Gorleston-in-Sea in about 40 minutes. Wroxham is considered the entry to the Broads and it was strange to suddenly see a congregation of folks when for miles on end no one was in sight. The River Bure passes through the picturesque village that features a clutch of bridges, some old-fashioned and made of stone, others designed in the manner of the Hudson River's Verrazano Bridge with slim metal cables. Swans dotted the waters and came close to the shore for tidbits. We parked at Roy's, a famous department store that touts itself as "the world's largest village store."

Because the best way to see the Broads is by boat, I suggested to Amy that we rent one. Believing that we'd be required to pilot our own boat for the entire day, she understandably balked at the notion. When I reassured her that I had no more than a couple of hours in mind, she banished all thoughts of possible sea-sickness from her mind and fell in stride with my designs. So, off we headed to Broads Tours to book the 2.00 pm tour on the Vintage Broadlands, a steamship-like ferry--similar to the ones that huffed and puffed on the Mississippi in Huck Finn's days--and headed off for lunch.

Though I'd breakfasted fairly well, the drive through open fields and pasture had whetted my appetite for some hearty country 'fayre' and we found sustenance in Hotel Wroxham's Carvery that was a real steal at 5.95 pounds. We spent the next hour on a table by the water watching watercraft zip in and out of the Broads as we feasted on roast turkey and roast beef with all the fixin's--read Yorkshire puds, roasted spuds and a number of crisply cooked veggies--parsnips, carrots, cauliflower--oh and loads of gravy and horseradish sauce. It wasn't really very tasty but it was substantial and with the sun shining down on a gorgeous day, there really wasn't anything major to complain about.

Well satiated, we headed for the Broads Tours' parking lot where we boarded our ferry and set off to the welcome cheers of our skipper who doubled up as a guide. For the next hour and a half, he kept us enthralled with his monologue on the history of the Broads and how they came to be created--they are, in fact, the UK's largest man-made attraction. The Broads National Park is a network of waterways that were cut into the earth by thousands of local inhabitants for about two hundred years in the Middle Ages. Their objective was to draw out peat, a cheap and very reliable fuel. So plentifully was peat to be found in the area that it was exported to Europe where it was well-renowned. However, two centuries of hacking into the earth finally took its toll on the land and when the shallow water table began seeping upwards, it flooded the channels carved out in the peat 'fields'. The end result is the collection of canal-like waterways that abound today in bird life. It was mainly to go 'birding' (bird-watching in American) that I was in the Broads.

And I wasn't disappointed. Bird life is abundant and our feathered friends seemed well accustomed to the dozens of craft that skim the waters. They swim exceptionally close to the boats allowing ornithologists abundant opportunities to pursue their hobby. Amy and I exclaimed over the cute thatched roof cottages that were perched along the banks and at the families of coots we saw everywhere. I now understand the expression "as bald as a coot"--coots are black birds with white patches in the middle of their foreheads which make them seem as if they are bald. In addition to coots, we saw ducks, mallards, teals, white and the very rare black swans, herons, geese and a bunch of other unusual birds with whose names I am not familiar. The waters were calm and so clean that water-lilies grew in the vast expanses of Wroxham and Salford Broads over which our boat skimmed. We could not have asked for a nicer day or more pleasant temperatures.

All too soon, we had to stop messin' about on the river and into the car we scrambled just as fat raindrops pelted us. We drove at top speed towards Norwich and the University of East Anglia where Amy wanted to take me so that I could see the permanent collection of the Sainsbury Center for Visual Arts, one of the smallest but most significant private collections in this part of the UK. What was even more significant to me than the art works themsevles was the fact that the building was designed by Sir Norman Foster with whose work I am familiar (he designed Wobbly Bridge as well as the City Hall Building in London--which Prince Charles infamously described as being "a carbuncle on the face of the city!") Be that as it may, this building, with its exposed metal work on its two sides, set a Modernist trend that has been endlessly imitated by other contemporary architects.

Inside, the permanent collection is a small and very eclectic one. The works on display belong to Lord Sainsbury who bequeathed his collection to the university. He had a marked fondness for certain modern abstract artists as was evident by the many works of Picasso, Francis Bacon and Modigliani that were recurrent. In addition, the collection comprises small to medium sized pieces (mainly sculptural) from exotic corners of the world such as Papua, New Guinea, Hawaii, Peru and Benin. They are superbly curated and very interestingly showcased. It doesn't take more than a hour to see these works which are free to visitors. I kept wishing that more people would take advantage of viewing this fascinating collection.

Back en route home, we stopped at Tesco's for groceries for our evening meal and settled for spinach and ricotta cheese ravioli with Jamie Oliver's Pasta Sauce with Chilli which had a nice bite to it. I made up a salad with rocket using lemon vinaigrette as a dressing and by the time I had eaten my last morsel, I was stuffed and ready to hit the sack.

Tomorrow will be a long day as I journey to London to start the next segment of my English holiday.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

In Norwich, Norfolk's Cultural Capital

Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Norwich

Those who own cars know nothing about long-distance public transport. Amy blanked out on how I could get to Norwich from Gorleston by bus. Me? Having lived in the UK for so long without a car, I had become something of an expert on figuring it out. Drive me to the High Street, I said, and I'll find the way.

Inquiries from a sweet girl at the bus-stop revealed all the answers. Yes, the X1 gets directly from Gorleston to Norwich. No, no need to change at Great Yarmouth. Yes, the buses come every half hour. Yes, I can pay the driver cash on the bus. And yes, the driver does give back change. Yesssss!!!

Fifteen minutes later, I was on the bus passing through North Norfolk. We drove through Great Yarmouth (a bustling town) and then through miles of flat country punctuated by windmills (influence of the Dutch across the North Sea, perhaps?) and flocks of sheep, black and white cows and beautiful sturdy brown horses. I even saw a family of swans--Mum, Dad and about a handful of grey chicks! Awwwww!

Once in Norwich where we arrived in 55 minutes, I asked at the Information place for a schedule so I could get back home peacefully (lone travelers never want to have just missed the last bus!) when I discovered that I could buy a ticket there for the Hop On Hop Off sight-seeing bus (just £8 and such a boon to the single traveler--especially one afflicted with plantar fascittis). Buy a ticket I did and in exactly five minutes, along it came. It is a good suggestion to stay on the bus for one entire loop to get the marvelous commentary which provides the history of the place and orients one to the location of the main attractions. It also allows you to decide what your order of priorities should be in terms of hopping off and hopping on again. Norwich is compact and very walkable but the advantage of buses like these is that they take you to vantage points, sometimes way out of the city for wonderful views--as this bus did. It climbed a steep hill to Mousehold Heath which offered a stunning overview of the city and its magnificent church spires--there is a church for every Sunday of the year and a pub for each day of the year in Norwich--go figure!

During Saxon times, Norwich was a bigger 'city' than London--both in acreage as well as population. It made it's wealth through the wool trade (not surprising, really, as sheep farming still thrives as I saw in the miles of open countryside). It is a city of impressive structures (castles, cathedrals, churches, gabled houses, guildhalls, etc.) and a popular tourist attraction. Unfortunately, it was a tad too hot for me and I found myself tiring much too easily because the heat sapped my energy levels.

I decided to Hop Off at Elm Hill (because I am a fan of all things Tudor) and walked straight into the Church of St. George at Tombland. They probably don't get enough visitors because one of the volunteers latched onto me and then gave me a walking tour of the church pointing out pieces of masonry that were significant as well as the oldest piece in the church--a lovely Norman font.

Through Elm Hill I walked, utterly charmed by its cobbles and the Britton Arms Cafe which Lonely Planet touts as a delightful place--and it is, except that it was that funny time of day when you're not really ready for a cup of tea or a snack. I kept going, nipping in and out of antiques shops and admiring the gabled buildings and the exposed timber facades (did not see any pargetting, though, as one finds on the medieval structures in Suffolk).

Across the street, I entered the Anglican Cathedral through the Erpingham Gate right by the statue of Edith Cavell and found myself in an enormous Cathedral Close. Admission is by donation only and the cathedral's highlights are a fan-vaulted ceiling with 'bosses' (wooden discs set in the ceiling that depict stories from the Bible). They are really much too high up for one to appreciate them fully. Also wonderful is the Depenser Reredos, a medieval alter-piece divided into five sections showing Christ's Passion, Resurrection and Ascension that was hidden for years during the post-Reformation turmoil to keep it from being stolen or ruined. I saw the newly-refurbished library before eating a sandwich in the Refectory. Surprisingly, there weren't many visitors to the Cathedral at all which made it a perfect time for quiet prayer and reflection. Then, a kindly old lady, a Norwich resident, told me about the Herb Garden and how I could reach it and within seconds, I found myself in a lavender-scented bower with hollyhocks taller than me elbowing their way through the paths for attention. Norfolk is famous for its lavender which seems to grow wild everywhere--England's Provence?

Next stop was the Castle, but I got waylaid en route by the seductions of an Edwardian closed shopping arcade called the Royal Arcade (lovely Art Nouveau tiles all over its walls and similar motifs on its floors). Inside was the Colman's Mustard Shop and Museum as Jeremiah Colman who made his fortune with all the yellow dots of paste that people left on their plates initiated and 'grew' (as they say) his business in Norwich. Tasted a variety of mustards before I left without being tempted to buy anything. Saw more posh shops in the Royal Arcade before I wandered out on the streets to entwine my steps through Norwich Market--a colorful warren of stalls selling everything from food (bacon baps and fish n chips were some very British choices) to souvenirs.

Enough distraction, I chided myself, time for some serious sightseeing again. So I entered the Castle and spent the next hour viewing it's excellent exhibition rooms on the ground floor--there was a wonderful collection of water colors and oils by John Croom who is considered one of England's best landscape artists (a close rival of Constable), a superb collection of tea pots (the world's largest) bequeathed to the museum by a private collector and quite significantly placed in the Twinings Tea Pot Gallery and a special exhibition entitled 'From the Beatles to Bowie' which featured a collection of black and white photographs of the pop icons of the 60s. I was thrilled to find one by John Pratt taken in 1963 featuring Cliff Richard at home with his mother Dorothy and sisters Jacqui and Joan in the new home in Nazeing, Essex, that he bought them after he struck it popular and rich. If all things come to pass as I hope they will and my book on Anglo-Indians in the UK is finally written and finds a publisher, I shall recommend this photograph for my book's cover--provided I recieve permission, of course. I can dream, can't it?

The Castle's Keep is humongous--the largest in the UK and one of the best-preserved examples of a Norman castle. It has been recently refurbished (and rather well at that). The castle stands like a solid cube of Caen (French port) stone dominating the city and is visible from most points.
There is a lot to see and do in the inter-active exhibits inside the Keep but I had loads to see...and so I moved on.

I did find the time to nip into The Assembly House (one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture outside) with stunning plasterwork on its walls and ceiling inside (in the manner of Robert Adam), winking crystal chandeliers and lots of statuary. Most of the rooms have been converted into posh bars and tea rooms, but again, I had to move on to the nearby Forum (a recent glass structure that brings modern panache to an ancient city) and The Church of St. Peter Mancroft opposite that has a magnificent timber ceiling. As I wound my way through the city, I was simply amazed at how many churches there are--all made of the black flint stone so plentifully quarried in this region.

Time to hop on to the bus again and go to the Shrine of St. Julian of Norwich that my friend Bishop Michael told me I must not miss. I found it up a small hill and was stunned when I discovered how tiny it is. St. Julian (also known as Juliana) was a medieval mystic who saw visions of the Lord. She cloistered herself in a tiny cell adjoining the church and spent the rest of her life meditating upon those visions and writing down 'The Revelations of Divine Love' which is considered the first book written by a woman in English in England. Michael told me that she had two windows in her cell from which she looked out at the sick and the forlorn who came flocking to meet her. Her cell became a famous center of medieval pilgrimage. Even today, the quiet serenity of the spot is striking. I got in stride with a very pretty nun as fat raindrops suddenly fell from out of deep blue skies--'Where are they coming from?' asked the nun, perplexed.

By then it was almost 5.00 pm and I badly needed a pick me up I found a cuppa in the cafe at M&S where I settled down with a slice of White Chocolate, Raspberry and Coconut Cake which sounds far better than it was! I was amazed at how much I'd managed to cover and was disappointed that I could not find the time to squeeze in the Roman Catholic Church and the Plantation Garden behind it as well as the Sainsbury Center for Visual Art...but Amy has promised to take me there tomorrow after we tour the Broads.

Back home, we fixed a vegetable frittata and ate some good English bacon and baked beans for dinner before we gabbed about our respective day and went to bed.