Sunday, September 14, 2025
London
Day Two of London Open Festival Week Finds me Hanging out with the Saints at St. Etheldreda’s Church in Holborn; With friends over Brunch in Soho; With poet John Keats in Hampstead and Rocking with the cast of the Number One musical in the West End, ‘Hadestown’.
When I am in London, no two days are alike—but Sundays start pretty much the same way! I must follow my own well-respected tradition and head to Holborn Circus (I lived two blocks away) to worship at the Church of St. Etheldreda, my erstwhile ‘parish’ church. Mass is at 9.00 am—so I made my way there at 8.15 am as I departed from Chelsea. I had slept the sleep of the dead and woke up feeling like a million pounds! Rarin’ to go, I showered, dressed, grabbed a small pastry that I ate on the bus and made my way down four floors to catch the bus No. 14 all the way to Tottenham Court Road Tube Station. London was having a weekend lie-in, the bus flew through empty streets and I was already in Heaven! I switched to the Tube’s Central Line for two stops going East, alighted at Chancery Lane from where I walked two blocks to well-hidden Ely Place (once home of the medieval Bishops of Ely) although only the church remains today. I took my regular seat for the start of Mass.
Sunday Mass at St. Etheldreda’s Church:
Two familiar faces were missing: those of Fr. Tom Deidun (who was parish priest in my time but retired recently) and Jane, a local lawyer who was the Lector for donkey’s years (she too has moved to her second home in South London to look after her ailing husband). The parish church is run by the Rosminnions, a medieval order and is led today by Parish priest, Fr. Anthony Furlong with whom I chatted after Mass to become up-to-date on the church’s affairs. He is wonderfully friendly and voluble (unlike Fr .Tom). I kept thinking of my friend Barbara and seeing her in the pew, sitting beside me—my former neighbor and, somewhat unusually a Catholic, she and I often attended Mass together in this church before we strolled together to Holborn Station so that she could buy her newspaper—the newsagent is there doing brisk business there. Mass included a lay sermon from one Tony, who became a ‘scribe’, ie. sought lay membership in the Rosminnion community and told us what the privilege involves. After Mass, I spent a while chatting with him and Fr Furlong.
What Makes St. Etheldreda’s Church Special to Me?
I always feel greatly blessed to be able to worship in this most historic of London’s Catholic churches. A church has stood on this ground since at least 1100. King Henry VIII, his daughter Queen Elizabeth I, Shakespeare and his contemporaries, Cardinal Newman and other luminaries of Roman Catholicism have worshiped here—which is why I always felt deeply honored to be included amidst their tribe! After the closure of the monasteries, much of the seat of the Bishops of Ely, here in Holborn, was destroyed. The church, however, was salvaged and became the first Catholic Church in London to return to Roman Catholicism after the Reformation (hence, it is considered London’s oldest church).
To enter this church is to enter London’s Medieval Life of monastic austerity. There is none of the exuberant decoration of the Baroque Brompton Oratory or the architectural soaring of Westminster Cathedral. This is Gothic simplicity, accentuated by dim lighting, earthy colors and the absolute and complete stunning glory of stained glass. The main window facing the congregation is in the French ‘royaume’ style—tiny bits of colored glass welded together with lead tracery while the window at the back is modern, post-World War II. The walls on both sides are filled with stained glass panels dedicated to the memory of the Church’s most prominent members and from what I saw the oldest dates from 1140.The church is proud of a wooden casket, a reliquary, containing a piece of the arm of its patron saint, Etheldreda, a medieval saint who is associated with the small town of Ely, outside the university Town of Cambridge, where the Bishops of Ely have their country seat. She was a pious lady of fine birth who denounced her family wealth to found an order of nuns and led them through the most turbulent of religious times. She is buried in Ely Cathedral, one of the most striking Cathedrals in the country. The church in Holborn is profoundly proud of its history and offers all sorts of pictorial memorabilia for sale to visitors. Before leaving, I visited the Crypt or Undercroft where a wedding reception had clearly been held the previous evening.
On the Bus and Tube to Soho:
London was still unstirring when Mass ended and I decided to take either the 25 or another bus to Holborn from where I would switch to the Tube to get off at Piccadilly as my next appointment, at 10.30 am was there. Only when I reached the bus stop, I discovered that all the bus routes with I used to use daily have changed—no more 25 or 242. There is still the 8 but it terminates just a few stops ahead. Only the Night 8 runs to Victoria. There were two or three new lines added but they take very different routes. Gosh! I have found so many changes already since I lived here, now going on 18 years. My memories of these parts are as fresh today as they were about two decades ago and I still tread these paths with almost hallowed reverence laced with strong nostalgia.
Arriving for Sunday Brunch at Nessa Soho:
My next port of call was Nessa Soho, a truly chic eatery in the heart of Piccadilly. It was the venue of choice of two of my closest friends in London, Murali and Nina. They made their way from Wimbledon to see me and decided to combine the visit with a peep into the National Gallery as they are members and also passionately fond of Western Art. We had such a fond reunion as I realized that I have known them for almost 18 years.
So how and where did we get to meet? In the most unusual of ways. In 2008 when I came to live alone in London, I started my blog, Rochelle’s Roost in London, in which I penned my daily goings-on, in a kind of personal journal. The blog attracted a vast number of readers, one of whom was Murali, who is an intrepid explorer himself. I had reported on one of the Gresham series of lectures that I had attended in nearby Greshman Hall, and since he happened to be interested in the mathematician who was speaking that day, he avidly read my blog about the talk and then decided to follow me. Slowly, in the Comments section, he began giving me suggestions for places to see and discover in London and before long, we made plans to actually meet and once that was done, we began exploring London together on foot. He made a worthy walking companion as he is rife with historical data and is also a constant student. Over the years, we have met every time I visit London. In course of time, I became introduced to his wife, Nina and their lovely, super bright son (now, unbelievably, at Uni). I always make connection with them when headed to London.Murali and Nina were already in the restaurant when I arrived on the dot of 10.30 am. They had scoured the menu and placed orders for hot drinks. I went for the Eggs Royale—the kind of brekkie I adore and rarely eat. It is an innovation on the famous Eggs Benedict—here, the bacon is swapped for smoked salmon and instead of poached eggs, I had mine scrambled. The eggs and salmon sit on a toasted English muffin and the whole concoction is bathed in hollandaise sauce—yummy! Together with a decaff latte, they formed a meal that would keep me going right up to 7.00 pm when, in a complete contrast of venues, I chose a fillet o-fish burger at next-door McDonald’s before I nipped into the Lyric Theater at the West End. But that will come later.
Brunch was the perfect opportunity to free wheel, conversation-wise. We chatted about everything: our family members and loved ones, our kids’ future plans, our own plans, our lives in Bombay and Wimbledon, current art offerings in the city, the job situation (bleak) all around the world, government, immigration policies, you name it…we discussed it. Two hours later, with Time having slipped by, we reluctantly shifted to other pastures, took pix outside to immortalize our meeting and disappeared—only to meet next time, inshallah!
On the Tube to Belsize Park:
My next port of call was Hampstead—I intended to cover two more Open Houses today and they are both in Hampstead. The first place I chose to visit was Keats’ House as he is simply my favorite poet of all time and he wrote my favorite poem of all time (‘Ode to a Nightingale’) and a clutch of his most famous poems while living briefly in this house.
My journey to Hampstead was long and complicated. I took the Piccadilly and then switched to Northern Lines to alight at Belsize Park from where I took the C11 bus to Keats’ Grove. Only the bus stop is called South End Green and I did not realize this—so I stayed on the bus much longer than I should have before I realized something was wrong, turned to the driver for help and was instructed by other passengers to alight, turn around and get off at South End Green. By the time I walked up the Hill and arrived at the House on Keats’ Close, a good 90 minutes at least has passed.
Touring Keats’ House:
Keats’ House is probably one of the more popular venues during London Open House Festival Week as entrance is free and who doesn’t love the poetry of John Keats, right? So when I eventually got there (after nipping into a few thrift stores to look for treasures), there were about a dozen people in a line ahead of me. Entry was being regulated by volunteers for safety reasons, but the wait gave me the chance to survey the garden and become lost in my thoughts.
It was while seated on a bench in this garden that Keats heard the plaintive song of the nightingale and grabbed a few sheets of paper to put down his thoughts. By this time, he had been diagnosed with advanced tuberculosis and told that his chances of living were slim if he continued to stay in the dampness of England. He was also a man deeply in love and engaged to be married to the lovely 19-year old Fanny Brawne who had moved in with her mother and sister, next-door. Keats and she soon connected and fell in love. He proposed to her, was accepted and gave her an engagement ring to seal their union—although both knew that his chances of survival were slim. The ring is on display in the exhibition inside the house.
Keats moved to Italy and settled down in Rome, finding rental accommodation which he shared with his friend, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, right behind the Spanish Steps. Their home is also a museum that I have visited for it was in this home that Keats died. He was 26 and had left a body of work behind that rivals everything else produced by the Romantic Poets (in my humble opinion). He and Shelley are buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome and legions of Keats and Shelley devotees visit the venue today where they lie, side by side, exactly as they were in life. I cannot walk into these houses without my sight being blurred with tears.
So on this self-guided tour (we were given little leaflets) we passed through the Shop or Reception room and into the ground-floor rooms. These were, at one time, two homes but somewhere in time, the partitions separating them was removed and it became one large house. Keats lived her with a roommate, his friend Charles Brown. The Dilke Family that loved next-door were soon replaced by the Brawnes—Mrs. Brawns arrived with her town daughters and Keats promptly fell in love with Fanny. By this time, he knew he did not have long to live—so was reluctant to declare his love. She accepted his proposal, however, and hoped for the best. They spent as much time together as possible through the fear of her contracting the disease from him. She was heartbroken on receiving the news of his passing away in Rome, wore his engagement ring her entire life and never married. Their sad love story is one of the greatest 19th century tales of unfulfilled love and it never fails to move me.
As we walked through the rooms, we could see the lifestyle of upper middle-class residents of London. Keats had trained as an apothecary and hoped to pursue a career in medicine and health care. His older brothers, George and Tom, were his mentors but they soon realized that they would outlive him. While living in this house--then called Wentworth Place—Keats was highly prolific and wrote some of the best-known of his poems (all the Odes, Lamia, The Eve of St. Agnes, etc.). It was a huge thrill for me to wander into one of the rooms and listen to a reading of ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ by someone with a brilliant voice while I looked out into the garden and could imagine Keats seated in it and scribbling the poem. I also listened to a vocal rendition of ‘Ode to Autumn’, a poem I also love dearly, while autumn had already begun to color foliage outside the window and mellow sweetness had already begun to bring chestnuts down from still-lush trees.
I also walked through Keats’ bedroom where he had lain feeling poorly while overlooking the garden and knowing the love of his life was next-door—so near and yet so far. There are items from Keats’ life preserved in this house, eg. locks of his hair, his nedical training note book, his ink pot, et. And what happened to the scribbling about the song of the nightingale? Well, after penning those immortal words (“Though wast not born for death, Immortal Bird”), they lay casually on the table and were found later by his brother, George. He collected the scribbling and published them together with five other odes penned by Keats that summer. As time went by, long after Keats’ death, his poetry caught the public imagination as did his tragic, short-lived span. The home was purchased and became a museum, a hundred years ago. Generations of Keats’ lovers have trekked up the hill to pay homage (as I did for the first time in 1987 while a student at Oxford) and once again, more recently, about fifteen years ago. Each time I come here, I learn something more about my favotite poet. I have a little pocket book of his poems by my bedside and I will frequently dip into it before falling asleep—feeling grateful that I still draw breath and live.
Next Item on my Agenda: Kenwood House
I had planned to visit Kenwood House too today. But, having lingered so luxuriously over brunch with my friends and in each room of Keats’ House, it was already almost 3.00 pm. Kenwood House, that I wished to visit, was closing at 3.30 pm and since it is on the other side of Hampstead, I realized I would not be able to make it today. Perhaps sometime, later in the week ahead, I can try again.
Knowing that my next appointment was only at 7.30 pm (a play at the West End), I had a lot of time to kill. Sadly, it is a Sunday and many shops close early. I resoled to take the long and slow route to return to London—a bus, because buses offer free built-in tours and Hampstead and the localities around it (Camden, Belsize Park, etc.) are really beautiful. Yes, a truly lovely day can suddenly get marred by a fierce downpour—but this is England and one takes it in one’s stride, equipped always with a small umbrella and with the realization that if you wait five minutes, the weather will change again.
So by 4.00 pm, I was delighted to find a No. 46 bus returning to the city. I am familiar with it as its route passing right along Gray’s Inn Road outside my former building. It took me about forty minutes to arrive there. Alighting before it turned towards Smithfield Market, I nipped into the M and S across my building on High Holborn and browsed through the Sunday papers on the wracks They were full of news about the rowdy protest demonstration at Parliament Square yesterday. I surveyed the offerings but was not hungry yet—my brunch was still keeping me going. I walked then to Sainsbury Local at Holborn and surveyed its offerings. I did not do any shopping (although there are some things I want to buy and take home) as I am reluctant to pile on the weight only to haul it all down four floors of my current lodgings which have no lift.
Off to the West End:
It was not quite 6.00 pm yet and Waterstones, the book shop chain, would be closing at 6.00 pm. So I simply decided to take the Tube from Holborn and get to Piccadilly to be within a stone’s throw of my theater, the Lyric. I arrived at the Statue of Eros at about 6.00 pm, nipped into the tempting new Lindt chocolate store there, then walked ahead to the McDonald’s at the corner as I knew I could sit there with my phone and catch up on my mail for as long as necessary. That was exactly what I did. It was time also to order an early dinner and I chose the Filet-o-Fish burger meal with fries and a diet Coke. Downstairs, I made myself at home among the dining tables and enjoyed my meal while also checking out mail and communicating with family members and friends. I was there for over an hour, resting wonderfully after my action-packed hours, and then leaving to get next door to see ‘Hadestown’.
Seeing ‘Hadestown’ at the West End:
Yes! I had snagged a ticket to see the hottest musical in Town. I had missed it in New York (where it is still impossible to get tickets), so was overjoyed to find one here. I did not know what to expect and hoped it would not be rap music as I had not connected at all with ‘Hamilton’ because I dislike that genre of music (is it even Music?).
But, boy oh boy! From the get-go, this play simply scintillated. I loved every second of it and every aspect of it--the musicians, the music, the singing, the acting, the choreography, the technical elements such as lighting and costumes, stage sets and design. Everything was gripping from the first notes and I was hooked. I must say that my knowledge of the Greek Myth of Orpheus, Eurydice, Persephone and Hades, God of the Underworld, is a bit hazy. I resolved to get back home and read up on it again…but for the time-being, I was glad to live entirely in the moment and to watch and listen and marvel at the most phenomenal talent spread out before me.
As it turned out, it was the last performance of the actress, Victoria Hamiton-Barett who took her last curtain calls as Persephone tonight amidst undying adulation and unending applause. She was presented with a huge bouquet of roses and a really brilliant and very moving tribute from Chris Jarman, her co-star who played Hades. Overall, I could not have picked a better night to see the play and I left once again fully moved and exhilarated.
Back on the Bus Home to Chelsea:
I was back on the No 14 bus to Chelsea at a little after 10.15 pm—much later than yesterday. As always, I am scared to be out so late when I am traveling alone but I have no choice and I try to keep my wits about me. I reached home in half an hour and had to climb Mount Everest to my flat while ready to collapse. I did not stay up too long and after editing and sending out a few pictures, I crashed into bed.
Tomorrow is a significant day as I will be moving house. There is stuff to pack and organize and I need my energy for the next phase of my London stay. Basically, I will take it easy and not rush from one venue to the enxt. I am looking forward to spending much of the day with London friends who are very dear to me and whom I see only very rarely.
Until tomorrow, Cheerio...
