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’.

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...

Hovering Around Hampstead: Kenwood House, Serpentine Pavilion, Dinner with London Friend

Wednesday, July 15, 2015:

Hovering Around Hampstead—and Back in London again!

            We awoke to the knowledge that it is July 15 and my brother Russel’s birthday. We started our day with a call to him—for I had also purchased a Lebara SIM card as the O2 Big Bundle plan that came with my new British cell phone did not permit international calling. Although it was almost mid-day in Bombay, India, where Russel is based, he was delighted to hear from us and the call gives us the opportunity also to speak to my Dad.

Breakfast with Another Friend in Hampstead:

But we have a very early start as it will take us about an hour on the Tube to get to Hampstead, a lovely little village on the outskirts of London, where we have plans to breakfast with our friend Marilyn Rixhon who suggested we meet her at White and Ginger, a snazzy coffee shop not far from the Tube station. We leave our flat at 8. 30 and hop into the Tube to Hampstead.

I am always charmed by this part of London which happens to be one of my favorites. Walking through its leafy streets is a simple treat—a little village right in the heart of the city. Taking in its grand mansions, its spruce gardens, walking on its Heath, climbing Parliament Hill for unrivalled views of the city are some of its selling points. Visiting its national properties open to the public such as Keats’ House, Fenton House, 2 Willow Road (home of architect Erno Goldfinger) have brought me to this part of London many times over and it is always with renewed delight that I discover something new and wonderful about it. It was on Church Lane in Hampstead, home of a weekly antiques market, that I found the lovely dropdown antique desk that I had shipped back to the States when my working stint in London had come to an end. I use the desk daily and always marvel at its acorn-shaped drawer pulls and the Tudor linen-fold panel decoration that I adore. This time, since Llew is with me, it is unlikely we will have the leisure to wander aimlessly in the area as I often do when I am alone. Furthermore, it is drizzling and chilly—not ideal walking weather. In fact, it might be a good day to lose oneself in a museum and my mind begins to explore other possibilities since we are in the Hampstead neck of the London woods.  

 It is just 9. 15 am when we walk into White and Ginger at precisely the same time that Marilyn arrives there too. We have an affectionate reunion. I had made friends with her when I had lived in London and it is an association I cherish and nurture by email and regular visits on my forays into the city. Marilyn is a Swiss woman married to a Belgian and has lived in London for a couple of decades. Getting together with her is an opportunity to chat about all sorts of things—our daughters (she has Emma-Louise, now an Art History major at the University of London), our work, our pursuits, our love of travel, etc. We order breakfast: it is Ham and Cheese Croissants with Hot Chocolate for Llew and me and Scrambled Eggs with Smoked Salmon on Toast for her. The coffee shop is full of wealthy and pretty North London housewives married to physicians and financial whizzes who have seen their kids off on the school bus and are now getting together for a gossip session before going home to their chores. Our hour or so passes quickly and Marilyn, who has just returned from her yoga class, is headed to a work appointment. She has treated us to breakfast and we are thrilled to have had the time with her on a busy travel schedule for us and a busy work day for her. We say goodbye regretfully but I know I will see her again for our paths cross frequently.

Exploring Recently-Renovated Kenwood House:

            It was my plan that I should introduce Llew to Kenwood House, a grand mansion designed by the 18^th century architect Robert Adams, not too far from Hampstead High Street. The drizzle continues unabated and it is wet and grey—the perfect day to spend indoors inspecting a world-class manor and enjoying its world-class art collection. Llew is willing when I explain the plan of action. He has never been to Kenwood while I have been there often. It was closed for a long while as it underwent renovation—and now that it has reopened, I too am keen to see what changes have been wrought.

            We take the 268 Bus from the High Street and three stops later change to the 210 bus headed to Finsbury Park. It stops right outside Kenwood House which makes it very convenient for those attempting to get there by public transport (this is not the case with many country manors in the UK which are usually located in the middle of nowhere). Llew is repeatedly struck by the assurance with which I use public transport and find my way around this city and its outskirts.  

            We cross the street, enter Kenwood House, and are greeted by volunteers in the lovely Robert Adams’ foyer that is done in the style of Josiah Wedgwood’s Jasperware: think pale matt shades such as pink, blue and lavender with embossed white motifs all over. We have all seen ceramic bowls, plates and teacups in this design. Now imagine the same aesthetic transferred to the walls and ceiling of a country home and you can guess how stunning the effect can be. Robert Adams created and popularized this look by using Plaster of Paris to cast the various rondels and other decoration that would adorn the homes he designed. The Library is the piece de resistance in this home—it is the one room that was most affected by the renovation. The excessive gilding that had been added later in the Victorian Age was painted over as it was not part of Adams’ original conception. The room looks far more subdued today. Ceiling paintings by Antonio Zucci bring it the only bright spots of color. There are mirrors, chandeliers, a marble fireplace and mantelpiece and period furniture that are not original to the home. The home was built for Lord Mansfield and was later purchased by the Irish aristocrat, Lord Iveagh (pronounced Ivor), heir to the Guinness Brewery fortune.

            Our exploration of the art work then follows as we enter the huge Dining Room where many of the masterpieces in the collection are to be found: Jan Vermeer’s The Guitar Player, for instance, is a huge draw. One of Rembrandt’s last self-portraits stunningly occupies one wall. There are important portraits by Gainsborough, Franz Hals, Van Dyke, Thomas Lawrence’s charming portrayal of Miss Murray, loads of works by Sir Joshua Reynolds, even John Singer Sargent. We move from room to room admiring these works and chatting with the guides in each room who are exceedingly knowledgeable about the rooms and their decoration. Lord Iveagh amassed the small but exquisite art collection that he bequeathed to Great Britain in his will as he wanted the general public to be able to enjoy Art free of charge in a house he loved. Hence, entrance to Kenwood House does not cost the visitor anything. When we climb the stairs to the second floor, we find more portraits from the Tudor period to the 18^th century. There is so much to see, so much to read, for the exhibits are well-curated. When we have spent over two hours in this lovely home, we get ready for our 1.30 meeting with my relative, Joel, at Shepherd’s Bush in the Westfield Mall.

            Thankfully, it has stopped raining and the skies are brightening up miraculously. The sun quickly dries up pools of water that have accumulated everywhere but the rain has left a residual freshness that adds to the purity of the air. We do not have the time to walk on the Heath, but head straight to the Bus stop to take a bus to Hampstead Tube Station.

 A Chat with a Former Professional Cricketer:

                It is while we are waiting for the bus that takes an unusually long time to arrive that I get into conversation with a fellow passenger. Before we know it, we are deep in discussion with him. A few stops later, he alights with us and then offers to accompany us as we walk downhill to the Tube station. Introductions are done and he turns out to be a Michael Huxley who once played professional cricket for Middlesex as a reservist and who toured the world with the team. His best friend even today is England’s former cricketing captain Mike Brearly who, he informs us, married an Indian woman and has settled down in Hyderabad, India. Instantly, he and Llew have a lot to discuss about cricket past and present and, on the walk to the station, our conversation scintillates. I am repeatedly struck by the way people I turn to randomly for a few minutes’ chatter end up being some of the most interesting folks I know. He tells us that he began playing cricket at the age of six while in school in neighboring Highgate. He continued at university and turned professional shortly afterwards. The Ashes matches have begun, between England and Australia, and England has been hammered on Day One which has made the nation feel down in the dumps. Michael shakes our hands, bids us goodbye when we arrive at the station and is gone. We are left with the distinct feeling that our meeting was fated.

 On the Tube to Shepherd’s Bush:

            My Dad’s cousin’s daughter Sybil (now an invalid in a hospice in Kent) was once married to a man called Joel with whom I have continued to keep in contact despite their divorce. Joel, who now lives in Guildford, Surrey, suggested we meet for lunch at the Westfield Shopping Mall in Shepherd’s Bush as this would be mutually convenient for us. He has never met Llew and was keen to make his acquaintance. Those of you who know me well also know that I am allergic to modern shopping malls and avoid them like the plague. However, this Westfield in Shepherd’s Bush, had opened to much fanfare when I had lived in London and I was pretty keen to see what the fuss was about. Hence, when Joel suggested it, I complied.

            Like any mall, the Westfield, an Australian chain, is huge, crowded, noisy, filled with designer showrooms (that do nothing for me) and food courts that I find equally bland and characterless. After meeting Joel, we had a long debate on the best place to eat and Joel suggested the “Set Lunches” offered by the restaurants outside the mall.  It was at Madmaloun, a Lebanese restaurant that we finally settled. I chose their Mezze Sampler which included some of my favorite spreads: hummus, babaganoush, lebnez, dolmas (Greek rice stuffed vine leaves), salad and taramasalata—all absolutely delicious eaten with pita bread. Llew and Joel chose to have the Lamb Shwarma Platter which seemed to have impressed neither of them. One of the other reasons I love being in London is the ability to indulge in all sorts of ethnic food offerings although, truth be told, I am partial to standard British classics myself such as Bangers and mash, Shepherd’s Pie, Steak and Ale Pie or Cornish Pasties. Still, the meal was secondary to the opportunity to catch up with Joel and his family news. He is always so eager and happy to meet me and to drive me around to places outside London. This time, he seemed less buoyant since he was recovering from recent surgery.

 Off to See the Serpentine Pavilion at Kensington Gardens:

            At 2. 30 pm, we bade Joel goodbye and got back on the Tube after spending some time shopping for our food goodies from Waitrose before we returned to the city laden with our grocery bags. The sun had come out fully by this time and walking outside was a sheer pleasure. I suggested to Llew that we should get off at Kensington Gardens and make our way to the Serpentine Gallery, one of London’s better-known art galleries with changing exhibits.

            Each summer, for the past 15 years, the Serpentine has invited artists to create what they call a “pavilion” right outside the main entrance of the gallery—an installation that reveals the innovative thinking of the Artist. Over the years, I have visited many of these pavilions that have taken the form of gardens, outdoor seating areas, etc. This year, the Serpentine Pavilion has been designed by Spanish architects SelgasCano who are showing off their nature-meets-synthetics genius. The duo has designed a stunning chrysalis-like structure made from brightly-colored transparent plastic. Once you cross the broad expanse of lawns that is Kensington Gardens, past the Italianate formal gardens at Lancaster Gate, the pond that teems with mallard life and the lovely sculpture of Peter Pan that is a tribute to author J.M. Barrie who frequented the park and was inspired by the family he met here to write his masterpiece, it is, to quote from the Gallery's publicity material, “a space in the middle of London to get lost in, to marvel at the Modernist architecture and to realize that, yeah, London’s actually not too bad after all! There’s talk of a ‘secret corridor’ from which to marvel at the building’s awesome stained-glass effect. Other than inspiring daydreams of caterpillars mating with Fruit Pastilles, what else is going on here?” Well, whatever you make of it, really, for the installation is fully open to interpretation.

            Llew and I spent a lovely time here. We entered the pavilion which reminded me of a colored plastic igloo. Inside, Fortnum and Mason had set up snacks, beverage and ice-cream stands and people were enjoying the relaxed ambience. The long trek across the Park and the sudden heat had rendered me thirsty and looking for a water fountain and finding none, I was offered a cold glass from a staff water cooler—God knows how far away they walked to bring it to me. It is little gestures of kindness like this that continually strike me in London for its people are nothing if not kind and polite, considerate and compassionate.

Homeward-Bound on the Bus:

            We then walked briskly out of Kensington Gardens and found a bus on Kensington Gore Road to get us to Holborn. The day had been saved miraculously and the city was crawling again with visitors being tourists or shopping for that special something to take back home. We needed to offload our shopping, take showers and get dressed—for we had yet another dinner invitation from yet another London-based friend that I had made when I had lived there: Sushil Velu. And since he lived on Theobalds’s Road right behind High Holborn where we were based, his place was very easy to reach.   

      Sushil is a very good cook and he chose to cook us a meal himself. He lives alone in a flat in a wonderfully central location. He had also invited another mutual friend, Owen Berkeley-Hill who was supposed to arrive with his English wife, Barbara. She, however, was tied up with something and Owen arrived alone. Llew was meeting all these friends of mine for the very first time, so conversation was more of an introductory sort. Sushil served wine and brought out the most delicious sautéed chicken wings we’ve eaten. The marinade was truly finger-lickin’ good. He also served us steamed rice with his signature Beef Curry and a marvelous concoction of cauliflower with broad beans flavored with mustard, coconut and lime juice. Dessert was ice-cream, vanilla and chocolate, and a simpler, more scrumptious home-cooked meal would be hard to find. I was pleased to see Sushil looking so well. It has been a few years since I have seen him as his travels to India often caused us to cross one another on my visits to London. Llew was finally able to put faces to these names with which he has become familiar over the years.

            At about 9.00 pm, after Owen had left to return to Kent where he lives, Llew and I had some alone time with Sushil who filled us in on his future plans now that he has retired from the BBC. We resolved to continue to stay in touch and left his home about 10.00 pm for our short and very pleasant walk home to High Holborn where we called it a night.

            Another very pleasant day had come to an end for us in London—a day that started and ended with friends and which had been punctuated by world-class art offerings in grand country manors and en plein air. We were not disappointed with the way it had turned out despite its gloomy start.                

            Until tomorrow, cheerio!

Highgate Cemetery, Kenwood House and A Get-Together at Sushil's

Wednesday, June 10, 2009
London

I decided to visit Highgate Cemetery because travel writer Billy Bryson had raved about it on his video Notes from a Small Island. He had said that it was as good a place as any other to begin an exploration of the history of London as so many eminent figures from her colorful past were buried in this graveyard. Having surveyed Brompton Cemetery at the end of last year and been deeply impressed by the quality of the funerary statuary on the grave stones, I had decided that Highgate would be just as significant and off I went.

Remnants of the Dick Wittington Legend:
I have to say that Highgate Cemetery is not the easiest part of London to get to--for one thing, it involves a long bus ride or a Tube ride to Archway. Then there is a steep climb up a hill that is fatiguing and not considered very interesting. What made it fascinating for me, however, were the many reminders of the life of Dick Wittingdon scattered around the neighborhood. There was the Wittington Stone, for instance, with a black stone cat perched upon it. Carved on the stone were the dates during which Wittington was Lord Mayor of London (four times--in the 1300-1400s).

Just a little ahead lay the Turn Again Pub--the obvious reference being to the Bells of Bow Church which pealed, "Turn Again Wittington, Lord Mayor of London". And further up, I saw another reference to Wittington at The Wittington Arms Pub. Well, then, my curiosity could not be quelled any longer and I inquired of a female passer-by: "Why all these references to Wittington?" And she responded,, "Well, when he ran away from London, it seems he arrived here on Highgate Hill and sat down on a stone because he was weary. It was at this point that he heard the bells of a church ring out "Turn Again, Wittington, Lord Mayor of London". So, since it was on Highgate Hill that Wittington was inspired to return home, the place is chocful of reminders of that fateful day. Charming indeed and it made the trudge up that dreary hill on a rather dreary day (it was drizzling almost non-stop) tolerable.

Just when I thought I would be climbing forever, I passed by a stately mansion called Lauderdale House which was, for a short time, the residence of Nell Gwynne, beloved mistress of Charles II (remember the famous line, "Be Kind to poor Nell"--the instruction that the King left on his death-bed to ensure that she would be well looked after following his passing).

Just a few yards ahead, I saw the tempting entrance to a garden--a green oasis that beckoned. Unable to resist entry, I asked a strolling passer-by if the path through the garden (called Waterlow Park) would lead me to Highgate Cemetery. "Yes", I was told. "Just follow this path and you will see a gate leading to the cemetery". A few people walked in the park with their dogs, and toddlers skipped around in their little wellies--despite the bad weather--so I did not feel uneasy about being all alone in a wide open space.

Discovering Highgate Cemetery:
Before long, I was at the gate of the cemetery which is divided into two parts. The Western side (the older part) was closed and can only be visited on a guided tour that is given once a day at noon costing five pounds. The Eastern side (the newer part) can be visited for a 3 pound fee. I paid up at the entrance, received directions from the clerk there, though when I asked if there were any graves that I absolutely ought to see, she replied, rather airily, "Well, we don't do fame". She then went on to say, "It was only rich people in the 19th century that could afford to be buried in this cemetery..." She left her thought hanging in the air, but I guess her implication was that all human beings are equal in death and she couldn't fathom why anyone would want to see the grave of one person and not another.

Well, I was hardly in the mood to be philosophical on a rainy morning and, leaving her to her sense of proprieties, I decided to try to find my own way to the graves of three people:
--Karl Marx
--George Eliot (Mary Ann Cross Evans)
--Ralph Richardson (husband of Vanessa Redgrave and father of the late Natasha Richardson)

There were a few interesting bits of sculpture featuring angels and Celtic crosses right at the entrance which were rather worthy of a photograph. Some of the graves were beautifully landscaped, new roses bringing vivid dashes of color to the cemetery. Then, the lanes curved this way and that and it really was a matter of the lottery whether or not you would actually hit the grave you were seeking.

A leisurely ramble through the rather silent space brought me to the grave of Marx which is unmissable. There is a gigantic bust of the activist-philosopher atop a large pedestal which alone makes it the most prominent grave in the entire cemetery. Not too far away, a simple pink stone obelisk denotes the grave of Mary Ann Evans who had married a Mr. Cross and was known for a while as Mary Ann Cross. Of course, she is better known to us, her literary fan following, as George Eliot (the pseudonym under which she wrote). Her Middlemarch is one of my favorite novels in English Literature and it was more a matter of tribute to the writer rather than just tourist curiosity that took me to her final resting place.

I did not, however have the same luck trying to find the grave of Ralph Richardson and after wandering for a while past many Victorian graves but very few really noteworthy monuments, I returned to the main gate and then departed. I have since learned from my friends, Paul and Loulou, that the western side of the cemetery is certainly worth a visit on the guided tour as the mortuary sculpture is striking and far better than anything to be found in any other London cemetery. So, I shall, time permitting, try to make another trip there to catch the 12 noon tour one afternoon.

Following instructions from the clerk at the cemetery, I climbed another steep hill again that took me to Highgate Village where I caught a bus (the 210) that took me a few steps deeper into Hampstead to Kenwood House which was my next port of call.

The Glory of Kenwood House:
Another Robert Adam masterpiece (I have already seen Syon House and Osterley House, both on the Thames), Kenwood House came into the possession of Lord Guinness, the Earl of Iveagh (pronounced Ivor), in Ireland, who in 1927 bequeathed it to the nation with the clear stipulation that no money should be charged to any one wishing to view the fabulous art collection that he and his ancestors had amassed. Therefore, though it is managed today by the English Heritage, entry to Kenwood House is free of charge to the public. Because it is so close to the city of London and so easily accessible, I was surprised that I did not see more people on the afternoon that I was there.

My exploration of the extensive property that surrounds this marvelous 18th century mansion started at the Brew House Cafe where I ordered a cafe au lait and sat myself in the garden under one of the wide canvas umbrellas and ate my homemade parma ham and blue cheese sandwich and sipped my coffee which was wonderfully warming on the rather chilly day. Though the rain had stopped and blue skies had become evident by this point, it was still rather damp and I was glad I was exploring an indoor space.

And so began my exploration of Kenwood. It is a grand mansion to be sure, its imposing entrance beckoning the visitor with its Neo-Classical columns and a portico. Once inside, the Robert Adam entrance is enchanting and so easy to view as the ceiling is lower than most grand manors. This brought the plaster work almost within reach as also the medallion paintings by Italian Antonio Zucci who worked closely with Adam on these classical interiors.

A tour of the rest of Kenwood involves a leisurely walk through its magnificent rooms that are filled with Adam designed furniture pieces, a plethora of quality paintings featuring the English artistic giants of the era such as Sir Joshua Reynolds (there are loads of portraits by him) and several large canvasses by Thomas Gainsborough.

The Dining Room has the best collection of works centering around a totally charming canvas by Vermeer, one of only five Vermeers in Great Britain, entitled The Guitarist and supposedly a portrait of his 15 year old daughter. His wife had sold the painting to pay household bills and Vermeer was determined to gain it back--confirming scholarly opinion that it was quite possibly a portrait of his daughter that he wished to retain within the family. There is also a superb self-portrait of Rembrandt in middle age which I have seen reproduced a gazillion times in several different places. To see the real thing was for me so moving and the beautiful manner in which it has been lit truly did it justice.

The Robert Adam Library is really the high point of the house as is the Music Room, both of which have a clutch of high quality paintings and some really fabulous furniture. Everywhere, the collaboration between Robert Adam and Josiah Wedgwood was clearly evident as Wedgwood was so completely inspired by Adamesque interiors that he made his famous Jasperware in imitation of Adam's look and for those of us who cannot have Robert Adam decorate a room, well, there is always Wedgwood pottery that can be purchased to replicate the feel of it!

Kenwood House also has a large collection of 17th and 18th century paintings of aristocrats close to the monarchy during what was its most turbulent time--The Puritan Overthrow of the Monarchy and its subsequent Restoration. This collection, known as the Suffolk Collection, is beautifully exhibited in a series of rooms and each of them has also been brilliantly curated. This allows the viewer to make a study of each one and receive a composite idea of the history of the period and the doings of its key players.

There is also a fascinating collection of 18th century shoe buckles--an accessory that played a very functional role, as well as a decorative one, at a time before laces came into vogue. Indeed, there are a series of paintings of the period that depict ladies and gentlemen wearing them on their high heeled, velvet-lined shoes, just as the presence of genuine old Turkish carpets are placed right beneath paintings in which they have been depicted. Called Lotto Carpets, they are named after the Italian Renaissance artist Lorenzo Lotto who usually portrayed his subjects standing on such Turkish gems and was able to replicate their intricacy so perfectly in his many works.

A word about the gardens: They are widespread and natural in the Capability Brown style--vast manicured lawns punctuated by occasional clumps of trees and the requisite lake not too far away. There were flower-beds filled with briar roses as well as the hot house varieties and large tall hedges formed out of rhododendron bushes that were blooming mauve the afternoon I visited. However, I was tired and unable to roam through the gardens though it was blissful enough to admire the property from the porch of the house.

So do go to Kenwood House if you can. I am surprised that I waited so long to get there. Though I have been meaning to visit this stately home for years, somehow I kept putting it off and how delighted I was that I finally did get to traipse through those marvelous rooms and see for myself how the other half lived in a bygone era.

A Get-Together at Sushil's:
It was a long way home on the bus but I had enough time for a shower. I tried to get partied up as I had to attend a get-together at the home of my friend Sushil at Holborn on Theobald's Road. Stepping into my new Prada shoes, I realized what a long time it has been since I have worn any kind of heels--my plantar fasciitis having forced me to live in flats! I was a little wobbly on my feet and rather nervous but the shoes were very comfortable indeed and despite the fact that I had to walk to the bus stop, jump into a bus on a day when the Tube strike was going strong and the crowds at the bus stops were chaotic, I did manage to get to Sushil's which was just three stops away.

I had a great evening as the gathering featured folks I had met before and folks I was meeting for the first time. I had a long chat with two lovely girls named Isabella and Helen who have been friends of Sushil for a long time and share a flat in Greenwich. They were friendly and very interesting and we did hit it off quickly. My other new friends Mike Anderson and his wife Nirmala were there too as was Cecil and we had a good time as we remembered Sushil's brother Romesh (whom I did not know) who passed away exactly a year ago. The get-together was a way of remembering his life and celebrating it and I felt privileged to be invited.

Sushil had been slaving for days to cook and clean and get his flat ready for the gathering. The red and white wine that Sushil had picked up on his "booze trip" to Calais, to which I had accompanied him several days ago, flowed copiously. There was rice and his signature beef curry, a dry fish fry, some fried chicken, a lovely delicious raita and a salad. And I realized how very long it has been since I have eaten Indian food on a regular basis. Funnily enough, I do not miss it at all. Indeed, my palate has become so cosmopolitan that unlike most Indians who simply cannot adjust to eating Continental food on a regular basis, I have taken to it almost without a thought. I realize that the only reason I eat Indian food at home in Connecticut is because Llew cannot do without his rice and curry. I, on the other hand, am more than happy with good Italian pasta, toasted sandwiches, hearty soups and salads and indeed that has become very much a part of my regular meals in London.

It was my friend Owen's brother Matt who was driving back to Kent who gave Isabelle, Helen and myself a ride back home--they to Greenwich, me not even a mile away in Farringdon. When I got back home about 11. 30 pm, I discovered that Loulou and Paul had arrived sometime during the evening. We said a quick hullo and though they had a very early start, we made plans to meet over supper.