Wednesday, February 25, 2009
London-Oslo
Never having been to Scandinavia, I was excited about my visit to Norway. And not having read too much about it until I was on the coach driving to Stanstead airport, I really did not know what to expect. I mean, there are a few aspects about it we all know: Land of the Midnight Sun, open face sandwiches, and those gorgeous Scandinavian blondes... As for the rest of it, I was blank. Which turned out to be a good thing because Norway was a revelation.
Departure:
I was glad my flight left from Stanstead at 10.30 am. Of course, this did mean waking up at 6.00 am, leaving my flat at 6. 45 am, and catching the Easybus coach at 7.30 am to arrive at Stanstead at 9.00. I gave myself an hour and a half for airport formalities—which left me ample time in the airport before the half-empty flight took off.I lucked out once again on this flight (as I had done on the one to Berlin), in that I found myself besides a companion who knew how to get from Torp airport to Oslo City Center. He, Simon Rees, made a very interesting travel companion as he works for the Mayor’s Office at City Hall, London, and since I have been a fan of Boris Johnson for a while now, I was pleased to chat with him about his special portfolio—advising the Mayor on the upcoming Olympics.
Just before we landed at Torp airport, after we had cleared the thick layer of clouds that had obscured the scene outside the window all across the North Sea, the sights of the fjords had me spell bound. For though there was no sun, there was enough light to be able to discern the outlines of scattered islands that lay under a thick frosting of ice. This famed coast line viewed from the air but best seen on summer boat cruises, was my first glimpse of the country, Norway—a country that revealed itself to me in new and exciting ways from day to day and left me enchanted.
It was Simon who led me to the bus stand at Torp airport and who chatted with me on the two-hour ride into Oslo. The first thing I realized as I stepped outside was that it was cold—much colder than the London I had left behind—and I was grateful for the warm cashmere clothing I had packed. We had a bit of a wait until the bus arrived, and by the time we boarded it, it was almost 2 pm local Oslo time (which is an hour ahead of London) and by the time we drew into the Oslo Central Station, it was almost 4 pm. IT would be another two hours before I arrived at my lodgings—so a whole day had been consumed by travel.
Nordic Country Landscapes:
It was plainly obvious that southern Norway had gone through a major recent snowstorm. Tall mounds of snow almost blinded me in their dazzling white garb. However, unlike London, it was also plain that the authorities were fully equipped to handle it for snow ploughs were everywhere and the sanding and salting of motorways leading out of the airport was superbly done. Once we arrived at the highway that led to Oslo, the landscape was so enchanting that each little vignette could make a Christmas card. Within seconds, I was reminded sharply of my own home in New England for there were so many similarities. For one thing, because both Norway and New England have an abundance of trees, all structures are made of wood (unlike the brick and stone that I so love in the United Kingdom). The siding of all homes were exactly the same was those in parts of New England in which the Pilgrims settled—indeed similar to my own Holly Berry House in Southport, Connecticut.
The three preferred colored of all dwellings are white, ochre and maroon, or as some would more fashionably say, burgundy. These little cottages were draped in white shrouds, their roofs thickly covered with snow. Most trees stood bare of foliage, their branches still wearing traces of freshly fallen snow while conifers stood in clumps draping the hillsides. Occasionally, we past vast spreads of snow white land masses which we soon realized were snow-covered lakes as the boat slips at the edges gave them away. I was taken back sharply to my coastal Connecticut winters as I watched the beauty of the Norwegian countryside slip by the window.
Arrival at my Hostel:
If there is one thing that did not work too well for me, it was the location of the Youth Hostel in Oslo on Haraldsheim. Though well served by bus, tram and metro lines, it is a good ten-minute walk from all these stops and, what is more, the trek involves a climb up a steep hillside, which is challenging at the best of times but was a trial in the snow. The path was not adequately sanded or de-iced and with the light fading fast, I was not exactly sure how to get there and had to ask for directions frequently.
That’s when I made the astonishing discovery that almost everyone in Oslo speaks very good English and is happy to help. When I finally arrived at the Youth Hostel, it was most 5. 30 pm and I was grateful to sink into a four-bedded female dorm. Now I have used youth hostels for enough years of my life to know that the biggest downside is the kind of companions with which one might be saddled. To my enormous good luck, I was all alone in my room for all four days which meant that my youth hostel fees were the best kroner I spent on the entire trip. For Norway is not a part of the EU and does not use Euros. I had changed 20 Euro at Stanstead airport before boarding the flight and with the hundred odd kroner in my bag, I felt confident as I disembarked from the aircraft—only to discover that the country is frightfully expensive (yes, far more expensive than the UK) and I was grateful I was able to use my credit card. I spent a quiet evening in my lovely room reading The Goblet of Fire and fell asleep at 9. 30 pm because the traveling had taken its toll on me and I was exhausted.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
British Library, Accommodation Hunting and Another Interview
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
London
Through the miracle of modern technology and flawless logistics, my Frank Anthony book was awaiting my arrival at the British Library when I reached there this morning at 10. 30. In the lovely Asia and Africa Reading Room, while being gazed upon by the oil-painted portraits of India' s erstwhile rajas and maharajas, I devoured the contents of several chapters trying to find clues to justify the Anglo-Indian exodus from India and the reasons why so many of my Anglo-Indians subjects are so staunchly anti-Anthony. I came away with some rather interesting conclusions as I tried to read between the lines. I become conscious of a rumble in my tummy and when I glanced at my watch, you could have struck me down with a feather. It was 1 .30 pm already! No wonder I was starving!
Since I wasn't too far away from Euston, I decided to go and pay a visit to the Physiotherapy ward at UCL to find out why my referral to the Podiatrist had not yet reached them. At least that was what I discovered before I set out this morning when, in accordance, with the directive of my physiotherapist, Claire Curtin, I had called to ascertain my appointment date for my Orthotics. Well, surprise! UCL hadn't sent Podiatry a referral at all!!! And here I was waiting patiently, day after day, for the mailman to deliver a letter giving me an appointment. And, another surprise! Claire Curtin was off-duty, so I could not speak with her to find out where the impasse lay. Luckily, the receptionist suggested I talk to a manager, a lovely lady named Nuss Devon, who took me into her office and tried to help me by emailing Claire. I left feeling very disappointed indeed at the way things had turned out.
On the bus, as I made my way to Kilburn, I couldn't help feeling that I haven't had the best week. I was headed to Kilburn to meet a man who runs a budget accommodation service as I need to find a place to stay for the months of June and July. The proprietor who runs the hostel was doubtful that it would be the most suitable place for me as his lodgings are used mainly, he said, short term, by backpackers. He offered to show me the place and suggested I book for a week. If I am happy through that week, I can decide to prolong my stay for the rest of the summer, he said. It seemed like a reasonable enough suggestion...so off I went to check it out with, I must admit, a great deal of trepidation. This lovely flat I currently occupy at High Holborn has so spoiled me for anything else that I am actually loath to go and inspect other prospective digs as I know that nothing else will quite measure up.
I was pleased about the location--it is on a quiet residential street about a five minute walk from the Tube station, has free internet facilities, spotless toilets and showers, fully-stocked community kitchens and a separate female dorm that just might work for me. Of course, I would much rather have my own studio or an ensuite room in a house; but given London's exorbitant rents, I might have to settle for something much less luxurious. Still, having a look at the hostel and knowing that, at a pinch, I can opt for this space means that I will not be homeless come June. This is a big comfort to me and I am determined now not to worry too much though I shall continue to keep looking for something better.
On the bus back, I found out that it takes about 25 minutes to get to Baker Street (not too bad at all). I did not try to make a bus connection, however, preferring to take the the Tube as I had a 4.oo pm appointment at Charing Cross station with another Anglo-Indian, Claire Jansen, who, bless her heart, had agreed to meet me despite the fact that she was feeling decidedly under the weather today.
We decided to find a quiet corner in the National Gallery where Claire generously treated me to a hot chocolate as we seated ourselves down for our chat. Unlike most of the respondents in my survey, Claire is close to my own age. She arrived as an immigrant to the UK rather recently but because she has also lived in Australia and the United States, she was able to make very intelligent comparative statements about the Anglo-Indian lifestyle in these different countries. I found her a pleasure to talk to as she combined humor with her acute insights and candid perceptions. The two of us were amazed to discover that a whole two hours had passed in the course of our conversation. If it weren't for the fact that the security staff at the museum was ready to shoo us off at closing time, we'd have sat there for another two hours! I told Claire that I would love to stay in touch with her and she warmly invited me over to her place for a meal--an invitation I'd be grateful to accept as her reputation as a fine chef has preceded her.
I had so many little chores to do when I got back home. My laundry (that I did last night) had to be folded and put away. I had to pack my backpack as I leave early tomorrow morning for my four day stay in Oslo, Norway. I was excited (as I have never been to Scandinavia) but my excitement disappeared when I checked the weather forecast for the next few days and discovered that it is freezing out there and that snow is expected every single day! I crammed my backpack with my warmest cashmere sweaters and threw in extra woolen socks, etc. I guess I will have no option but to live in the museums for the next few days!
With my packing done, I tidied and straightened my rooms--I hate to come home from a trip to a disorderly house. Then, I downloaded my pictures from my camera, charged it and my cell phone and sat down to have a long chat with Llew. When I had told him all about my search for a place for the summer, I rang off and heated my dinner (Sainsbury's Fisherman's Pie) and sat to eat it while watching In Bruges. I had no idea what to expect and basically ordered the film on Love Film.com because I thought it would be shot in Bruges and I would enjoy the locations. Well, it turned out to be a thriller but with the most hilarious dialogue and the craziest twists. Starring Colin Farrel and Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes makes an appearance at the very end. Yes, there was all the cinematography that I had expected (which makes me anticipate my forthcoming April trip to Belgium all the more) but there was this gruesome end that seemed so incongruous with the plot's setting.
I am all set now to switch on my alarm as I need to leave my flat at 6. 45 am for my 7. 30 Easybus to Stanstead. I can only hope that the weather in Oslo will not make my trip a complete disaster. I will return to this blog on Sunday though I will continue to keep a travel journal--in long hand!
London
Through the miracle of modern technology and flawless logistics, my Frank Anthony book was awaiting my arrival at the British Library when I reached there this morning at 10. 30. In the lovely Asia and Africa Reading Room, while being gazed upon by the oil-painted portraits of India' s erstwhile rajas and maharajas, I devoured the contents of several chapters trying to find clues to justify the Anglo-Indian exodus from India and the reasons why so many of my Anglo-Indians subjects are so staunchly anti-Anthony. I came away with some rather interesting conclusions as I tried to read between the lines. I become conscious of a rumble in my tummy and when I glanced at my watch, you could have struck me down with a feather. It was 1 .30 pm already! No wonder I was starving!
Since I wasn't too far away from Euston, I decided to go and pay a visit to the Physiotherapy ward at UCL to find out why my referral to the Podiatrist had not yet reached them. At least that was what I discovered before I set out this morning when, in accordance, with the directive of my physiotherapist, Claire Curtin, I had called to ascertain my appointment date for my Orthotics. Well, surprise! UCL hadn't sent Podiatry a referral at all!!! And here I was waiting patiently, day after day, for the mailman to deliver a letter giving me an appointment. And, another surprise! Claire Curtin was off-duty, so I could not speak with her to find out where the impasse lay. Luckily, the receptionist suggested I talk to a manager, a lovely lady named Nuss Devon, who took me into her office and tried to help me by emailing Claire. I left feeling very disappointed indeed at the way things had turned out.
On the bus, as I made my way to Kilburn, I couldn't help feeling that I haven't had the best week. I was headed to Kilburn to meet a man who runs a budget accommodation service as I need to find a place to stay for the months of June and July. The proprietor who runs the hostel was doubtful that it would be the most suitable place for me as his lodgings are used mainly, he said, short term, by backpackers. He offered to show me the place and suggested I book for a week. If I am happy through that week, I can decide to prolong my stay for the rest of the summer, he said. It seemed like a reasonable enough suggestion...so off I went to check it out with, I must admit, a great deal of trepidation. This lovely flat I currently occupy at High Holborn has so spoiled me for anything else that I am actually loath to go and inspect other prospective digs as I know that nothing else will quite measure up.
I was pleased about the location--it is on a quiet residential street about a five minute walk from the Tube station, has free internet facilities, spotless toilets and showers, fully-stocked community kitchens and a separate female dorm that just might work for me. Of course, I would much rather have my own studio or an ensuite room in a house; but given London's exorbitant rents, I might have to settle for something much less luxurious. Still, having a look at the hostel and knowing that, at a pinch, I can opt for this space means that I will not be homeless come June. This is a big comfort to me and I am determined now not to worry too much though I shall continue to keep looking for something better.
On the bus back, I found out that it takes about 25 minutes to get to Baker Street (not too bad at all). I did not try to make a bus connection, however, preferring to take the the Tube as I had a 4.oo pm appointment at Charing Cross station with another Anglo-Indian, Claire Jansen, who, bless her heart, had agreed to meet me despite the fact that she was feeling decidedly under the weather today.
We decided to find a quiet corner in the National Gallery where Claire generously treated me to a hot chocolate as we seated ourselves down for our chat. Unlike most of the respondents in my survey, Claire is close to my own age. She arrived as an immigrant to the UK rather recently but because she has also lived in Australia and the United States, she was able to make very intelligent comparative statements about the Anglo-Indian lifestyle in these different countries. I found her a pleasure to talk to as she combined humor with her acute insights and candid perceptions. The two of us were amazed to discover that a whole two hours had passed in the course of our conversation. If it weren't for the fact that the security staff at the museum was ready to shoo us off at closing time, we'd have sat there for another two hours! I told Claire that I would love to stay in touch with her and she warmly invited me over to her place for a meal--an invitation I'd be grateful to accept as her reputation as a fine chef has preceded her.
I had so many little chores to do when I got back home. My laundry (that I did last night) had to be folded and put away. I had to pack my backpack as I leave early tomorrow morning for my four day stay in Oslo, Norway. I was excited (as I have never been to Scandinavia) but my excitement disappeared when I checked the weather forecast for the next few days and discovered that it is freezing out there and that snow is expected every single day! I crammed my backpack with my warmest cashmere sweaters and threw in extra woolen socks, etc. I guess I will have no option but to live in the museums for the next few days!
With my packing done, I tidied and straightened my rooms--I hate to come home from a trip to a disorderly house. Then, I downloaded my pictures from my camera, charged it and my cell phone and sat down to have a long chat with Llew. When I had told him all about my search for a place for the summer, I rang off and heated my dinner (Sainsbury's Fisherman's Pie) and sat to eat it while watching In Bruges. I had no idea what to expect and basically ordered the film on Love Film.com because I thought it would be shot in Bruges and I would enjoy the locations. Well, it turned out to be a thriller but with the most hilarious dialogue and the craziest twists. Starring Colin Farrel and Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes makes an appearance at the very end. Yes, there was all the cinematography that I had expected (which makes me anticipate my forthcoming April trip to Belgium all the more) but there was this gruesome end that seemed so incongruous with the plot's setting.
I am all set now to switch on my alarm as I need to leave my flat at 6. 45 am for my 7. 30 Easybus to Stanstead. I can only hope that the weather in Oslo will not make my trip a complete disaster. I will return to this blog on Sunday though I will continue to keep a travel journal--in long hand!
Monday Classes, Peter Taschel Lecture and Dinner with Rosemary
Monday, February 23, 2009
London
My week began on a lovely note with two really good classes. It's always great when you come out of class feeling as if the class went well. My students really did enjoy the field trip to Winchester and Portsmouth and have found useful material for their research papers which we began to plan and prepare today. I met with Yvonne during lunch break to ascertain my accommodation position and left with a phone number of an agent to call. It promises to be a stressful couple of weeks as I try to sort out my housing issue for the summer.
Even Office hours passed in a whirr as I printed out so many of the interviews I have done in the past week and itineraries for all my forthcoming travel. At 6.25pm, I left my office and walked the three minutes to the SOAS Brunei auditorium to listen to Peter Taschel on 'The Acquisition of Gay Rights in Great Britain'. He is an engaging speaker, clearly passionate about the issue and his historical perspective was enlightening. In the last 7-8 years, the Gay Rights Movements in this country has had achievements that they can be very proud of indeed and Britain has gone from being the most homophobic country in Europe to being the most liberal and tolerant. In fact, Taschel ended his lecture stating that he cannot conceive how an educated, free and democratic country like the USA can still be so opposed to Gay Rights and so determined to prevent homosexuals from enjoying equal rights with other citizens. Well, I guess he has no idea how powerful the Christian Right is in the USA.
I then walked the five minutes that it took to get to Pizza Paradiso, a very popular hangout with Bloomsbury's academics, for my dinner appointment with Rosemary. This place has bitter-sweet memories for me as it was in Paradiso, a few months ago, that I had run into my friend Sally Ledger who had just left her position at Birkbeck College to join Royal Holloway College. She had given me a great big warm bear hug and a kiss when she ran into me so unexpectedly at lunch time. We had left with the promise that we would get together for coffee at the British Library--a promise we never kept last semester. And when I emailed Sally a few weeks ago suggesting we do it this semester, I was kept waiting for a response--only to receive the awful news two days later that she had died that very evening! I am still mystified at the strange turns life can take. My friend Anna Vadillo has taken Sally's place at Birkbeck College and we have now made plans to meet for coffee--so, in a way, I suppose, life goes on...
Rosemary and I had the loveliest evening. As always, we chatted about a number of things--Slumdog Millionaire that has swept the Oscars (Rosemary, her friend Lizzie and I had seen it together at the Curzon a few weeks ago); my need for summer housing; my lack of sleep (Rosemary had some interesting explanations!), etc. etc. I ordered a pizza Napoleana but have to admit that it was much too heavy on the anchovies. Rosemary's ravioli asparagi was good, she said, but the bruschetta we ordered with pesto as a starter was really good. For dessert, I could not resist the Profiteroles Siciliana but again they were stuffed with just too much fresh cream and were a bit too rich at the end of a very heavy meal.
As always, for me, the pleasure of getting home within half an hour of an evening out is still a wonder.
London
My week began on a lovely note with two really good classes. It's always great when you come out of class feeling as if the class went well. My students really did enjoy the field trip to Winchester and Portsmouth and have found useful material for their research papers which we began to plan and prepare today. I met with Yvonne during lunch break to ascertain my accommodation position and left with a phone number of an agent to call. It promises to be a stressful couple of weeks as I try to sort out my housing issue for the summer.
Even Office hours passed in a whirr as I printed out so many of the interviews I have done in the past week and itineraries for all my forthcoming travel. At 6.25pm, I left my office and walked the three minutes to the SOAS Brunei auditorium to listen to Peter Taschel on 'The Acquisition of Gay Rights in Great Britain'. He is an engaging speaker, clearly passionate about the issue and his historical perspective was enlightening. In the last 7-8 years, the Gay Rights Movements in this country has had achievements that they can be very proud of indeed and Britain has gone from being the most homophobic country in Europe to being the most liberal and tolerant. In fact, Taschel ended his lecture stating that he cannot conceive how an educated, free and democratic country like the USA can still be so opposed to Gay Rights and so determined to prevent homosexuals from enjoying equal rights with other citizens. Well, I guess he has no idea how powerful the Christian Right is in the USA.
I then walked the five minutes that it took to get to Pizza Paradiso, a very popular hangout with Bloomsbury's academics, for my dinner appointment with Rosemary. This place has bitter-sweet memories for me as it was in Paradiso, a few months ago, that I had run into my friend Sally Ledger who had just left her position at Birkbeck College to join Royal Holloway College. She had given me a great big warm bear hug and a kiss when she ran into me so unexpectedly at lunch time. We had left with the promise that we would get together for coffee at the British Library--a promise we never kept last semester. And when I emailed Sally a few weeks ago suggesting we do it this semester, I was kept waiting for a response--only to receive the awful news two days later that she had died that very evening! I am still mystified at the strange turns life can take. My friend Anna Vadillo has taken Sally's place at Birkbeck College and we have now made plans to meet for coffee--so, in a way, I suppose, life goes on...
Rosemary and I had the loveliest evening. As always, we chatted about a number of things--Slumdog Millionaire that has swept the Oscars (Rosemary, her friend Lizzie and I had seen it together at the Curzon a few weeks ago); my need for summer housing; my lack of sleep (Rosemary had some interesting explanations!), etc. etc. I ordered a pizza Napoleana but have to admit that it was much too heavy on the anchovies. Rosemary's ravioli asparagi was good, she said, but the bruschetta we ordered with pesto as a starter was really good. For dessert, I could not resist the Profiteroles Siciliana but again they were stuffed with just too much fresh cream and were a bit too rich at the end of a very heavy meal.
As always, for me, the pleasure of getting home within half an hour of an evening out is still a wonder.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sight-Seeing in Sussex: Chichester, Arundel and Petworth
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Chichester
Up again at 5. 50 am, I found the time to check and respond to email, make an Easybus booking to get to Stanstead airport and back for my trip this week to Oslo, Norway, and began drafting a new research grant application--all this while the rest of the world had a long Sunday late lie-in! As time galloped forth, I realized that it was almost 7. 30 and without further ado, I jumped into the shower, gulped down my toast and tea while Alternate Soaking and was out of the house at 8. 10 am in time to arrive in Wimbledon for my appointment with Stephanie at 9 .00 am. En route, in the Tube, I began reading Harry Potter #4 (The Goblet of Fire) and was making good progress on it when the train drew into Wimbledon.
Neither Steph nor I knew what the weather gurus had predicted but we hoped it wouldn't be rain. We had decided to drive to Chichester in West Sussex, close to the Coast and not too far from Portsmouth which I had visited on Friday. As always, we chatted nineteen to the dozen in the car as we caught up with the goings-on of the past week--mainly Steph's joy at finding a rental flat in Richmond.
Chichester:
By 10. 30 am, Steph was parking her ink-blue Lexus in Chichester's quiet Priory Lane, so-called because it ran parallel to an ancient stone Priory that is now abandoned--or so it seemed. We found free parking (always a thrill!) and began walking down one of the town's old lanes towards the medieval Market Cross that formed Chichester's crossroad in the old days. Spring was decidedly in the air though the sun was playing peek-a-boo for most of the day. When it did make an appearance, it gilded the glorious Sussex Downs in the warmest shades and lifted our spirits no end.
Steph picked up a muffin and orange juice and munched as we walked towards the round monument that denotes the town center. At this point, we received our first glimpse of Chichester's medieval Cathedral. We skirted its periphery and arrived at the gates where a modern sculpture of Saint Richard greeted us. At the main doors of the Cathedral that loomed above us (its spire creating an impressive landmark on the skyline, visible for miles out at sea), we discovered that service had just begun and visitors were unable to enter for a whioe hour. Since neither Steph nor I had heard Mass, we decided to join the service and spent the next one inside one of England's oldest cathedrals.
Construction on Chichester Cathedral was begun in 1075 and it was largely rebuilt in the 13th century. It is a vision in clean-cut sophistication, its three storeys rising on rather stark plain walls. The highlight of the service for us was the excellence of the choir whom we passed in their wooden choir stalls en route to Communion--they gave the two of us goosebumps! Right after the service, we encircled the interior to take in the Marc Chagall stained glass window that is a burst of vivid color and contains his signature flourishes--his goat's heads, for instance. At the back of the Shrine to Saint Richard, there was a beautiful woven carpet, also modern in design. We joined the congregation for coffee at the end of the service in a chapel at the side, then walked out into the town, glad to have attended Sunday service in so revered a place.
Lunch was on our minds by this point and since I have never eaten at Pizza Express but had been interested to try out the "Pizzas by Theo Randall" that Pizza Express has been advertizing for weeks, I jumped at Steph's suggestion that we get a pizza. I ordered 'Theo's Tonnera' which contained tuna and capers and black olives while Steph got a Guardina with artichokes, asparagus, red peppers and tomatoes. We split our pizzas and had a diet Coke each and then we were making our way back to our car as we had decided to move on to the other interesting venue right outside the town of Chichester, the Fishbourne Roman Palace.
Fishbourne Roman Palace:
This incredible space, right in the midst of nowhere, is one of the most important Roman remains in the United Kingdom. It was while a trench was being dug in the mid-1960s, that a perfect black and white mosaic was discovered embedded in the soil. Archeological excavations then extensively carried out in the area with the help of hundreds of amateur diggers, revealed the remains of a grand Roman Palace built around AD 74. A huge fire in AD 250 destroyed most of the building and the stone was used to build the Roman walls of the city that still stand.
The highlight of the exhibit is an almost intact mosaic floor whose center roundel depicts Cupid riding a dolphin while surrounded by more rondels of sea panthers, wine decanters, etc. This was the floor of what was almost certainly the dining room of the grand home that once housed dozens of people of various generations and a multitude of slaves. A 12 minute film recreated the era for us with the the kind of documentary vividness that these films always do so superbly and when we walked through the remains, we were completely in awe of the elegance with which these people lived and their expertise as gardeners--for the Palace was built around extensive formal gardens that were filled with box borders, espaliered trees and a variety of herbs. For me, it was like revisiting a tiny piece of Pompeii for it was in AD 69 that Pompeii had been destroyed. This Palace was, therefore, contemporaneous with all the marvels I had seen there with my friend Amy Tobin last March.
When we had spent more than an hour in this location, we decided to move on. Stephanie, who works for Twinnings Tea, had told me that her colleague Stephen Twinning, had mentioned to her very casually yesterday that if she intended to go to Chichester, then she ought to go to Arundel for a meal. Having taken a look at our map, I realized that it was not too far from Chichester and, on an impulse, we decided to take a detour there. And, boy, were we glad we did!
Arundel:
Arundel came upon us like a shock! Since neither one of us had read up anything on it, we did not know what to expect. Imagine our reaction, then, when we rounded a corner and came upon the turrets of a fairy-tale castle perched high up on a hill, staring down at us as we drove along a curving street through the center of a medieval town whose beamed shop fronts hid antiques stores, charming eateries and warm tea rooms. Llew had chosen just that time to call me and with Stephanie exclaiming besides me in undisguised delight, I told Llew I would call him later. Indeed, the castle reminded me so very much of the grandeur of the structure known as the Palais des Papes (Papal Palace) in Avignon in the South of France. It certainly had the same dimensions and color and some architectural features such as the crosses cut deep into the steep sides. We parked our car and hurried to see what we could of the castle before we lost all light for it was almost 4.00 pm by this time.
Wondering how to get inside, we asked a little old lady seated on a bench where we could find the entrance when we received the bad news that the castle is open only after April. As we climbed the steep hillside lined with antiques shops, I disappeared into one of them leaving Steph to find her way to the top. I poked around a bit and left with a lovely Hammersley porcelain cup and saucer for my collection which cost me almost nothing. It is steals like these that make my browsing in antiques shops so worthwhile.
Climbing further up the hillside, we arrived at the ancient stone Church of St. Nicholas that dates from the 13th century. I almost had an accident here as the glass and wooden doors of the church were difficult to open. "Turn the knob and push hard" instructed a little sticker on the door. Well I did and I almost tumbled over four steps that lay just beyond the door! Relieved that I had done myself no harm, we roamed about the interior of the church.
Next, we tackled the imposing interior of yet another Cathedral--this one belonging to the Roman Catholic Diocese of Arundel. Of course,we had to go inside and inspect it and how thrilling it was to read the history of Saint Philip Howard, once Earl of Arundel, a courtier in the time of Elizabeth I. He was persecuted for converting to Catholicsm and sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered after being convicted over cooked-up charges of treason (he is reported to have prayed for a Spanish victory over the Armada!). He died of malnutrition (some might say mercifully) when imprisoned in the Tower of London and was canonized a few years later. It is always these little nuggets of history--whether ecclesisastical or secular--that catch my fancy and keep me rivetted to the spot as I circle the monuments that signify their occurence.
On our way downhill, we browsed in another antiques store--this one carrying pricey country furniture as Steph looked for a mirror and a dresser for her flat. Everything was atrociously overpriced, however, and so we beat a hasty retreat. Arundel came upon us like an unexpected gift and we were so thrilled we took the advise of an Englishman to explore a part of the country of which neither of us had heard.
Petworth:
Then, realizing that another picturesque town--this time, one I had heard of before--was on our return route to London, I suggested we drive through Petworth. Petworth House, run by the National Trust, is another great country estate but like all National Trust properties, it remains closed until Easter (I do wish I had been warned about this because an English Heritage membership seems to offer much better value for money. Not only do their properties remain open all year round but they have tie up agreements with several sites that allow their members discounted entry as Stephanie is finding out, much to her joy, while National Trust members get no discounts at all).
Our drive through Petworth did reveal a tiny town that time forgot, complete with narrow winding lanes (also full of antiques stores, enticing shops and cute restaurants--all, unfortunately, closed by the time we arrived there).
We did get a good flavor, however, of the quaint charm of these Sussex coastal towns that come suddenly upon the motorist along country lanes that are sprinkled with villages, dotted with stone-clad churches and fields full of cud-chewing black cows. This kind of rural English landscape that I sometimes believe to be its most spectacular element, followed us all the way into Surrey by which time we had lost light completely as the sun set over the third salmon and aquamarine evening sky I have seen over the past three days.
On the way back on the Tube from Wimbledon, I couldn't help thinking how progressively better the weather had gotten since we first began these Sunday excurisons together. In Rochester, we had rain. In Battle, we had snow. In Canterbury, we had clouds. And in Chichester, we finally had little spurts of sunshine that had lit up the entire country with a burnished glow.
With a little bit of luck, we will see the rest of the United Kingdom at its best.
And so on we go... towards yet another week--as Lent begins, Shrove Tuesday brings its customary pancakes, Ash Wednesday brings its, well, ashes and we slowly inch towards the spring-time joys of Easter!
Chichester
Up again at 5. 50 am, I found the time to check and respond to email, make an Easybus booking to get to Stanstead airport and back for my trip this week to Oslo, Norway, and began drafting a new research grant application--all this while the rest of the world had a long Sunday late lie-in! As time galloped forth, I realized that it was almost 7. 30 and without further ado, I jumped into the shower, gulped down my toast and tea while Alternate Soaking and was out of the house at 8. 10 am in time to arrive in Wimbledon for my appointment with Stephanie at 9 .00 am. En route, in the Tube, I began reading Harry Potter #4 (The Goblet of Fire) and was making good progress on it when the train drew into Wimbledon.
Neither Steph nor I knew what the weather gurus had predicted but we hoped it wouldn't be rain. We had decided to drive to Chichester in West Sussex, close to the Coast and not too far from Portsmouth which I had visited on Friday. As always, we chatted nineteen to the dozen in the car as we caught up with the goings-on of the past week--mainly Steph's joy at finding a rental flat in Richmond.
Chichester:
By 10. 30 am, Steph was parking her ink-blue Lexus in Chichester's quiet Priory Lane, so-called because it ran parallel to an ancient stone Priory that is now abandoned--or so it seemed. We found free parking (always a thrill!) and began walking down one of the town's old lanes towards the medieval Market Cross that formed Chichester's crossroad in the old days. Spring was decidedly in the air though the sun was playing peek-a-boo for most of the day. When it did make an appearance, it gilded the glorious Sussex Downs in the warmest shades and lifted our spirits no end.
Steph picked up a muffin and orange juice and munched as we walked towards the round monument that denotes the town center. At this point, we received our first glimpse of Chichester's medieval Cathedral. We skirted its periphery and arrived at the gates where a modern sculpture of Saint Richard greeted us. At the main doors of the Cathedral that loomed above us (its spire creating an impressive landmark on the skyline, visible for miles out at sea), we discovered that service had just begun and visitors were unable to enter for a whioe hour. Since neither Steph nor I had heard Mass, we decided to join the service and spent the next one inside one of England's oldest cathedrals.
Construction on Chichester Cathedral was begun in 1075 and it was largely rebuilt in the 13th century. It is a vision in clean-cut sophistication, its three storeys rising on rather stark plain walls. The highlight of the service for us was the excellence of the choir whom we passed in their wooden choir stalls en route to Communion--they gave the two of us goosebumps! Right after the service, we encircled the interior to take in the Marc Chagall stained glass window that is a burst of vivid color and contains his signature flourishes--his goat's heads, for instance. At the back of the Shrine to Saint Richard, there was a beautiful woven carpet, also modern in design. We joined the congregation for coffee at the end of the service in a chapel at the side, then walked out into the town, glad to have attended Sunday service in so revered a place.
Lunch was on our minds by this point and since I have never eaten at Pizza Express but had been interested to try out the "Pizzas by Theo Randall" that Pizza Express has been advertizing for weeks, I jumped at Steph's suggestion that we get a pizza. I ordered 'Theo's Tonnera' which contained tuna and capers and black olives while Steph got a Guardina with artichokes, asparagus, red peppers and tomatoes. We split our pizzas and had a diet Coke each and then we were making our way back to our car as we had decided to move on to the other interesting venue right outside the town of Chichester, the Fishbourne Roman Palace.
Fishbourne Roman Palace:
This incredible space, right in the midst of nowhere, is one of the most important Roman remains in the United Kingdom. It was while a trench was being dug in the mid-1960s, that a perfect black and white mosaic was discovered embedded in the soil. Archeological excavations then extensively carried out in the area with the help of hundreds of amateur diggers, revealed the remains of a grand Roman Palace built around AD 74. A huge fire in AD 250 destroyed most of the building and the stone was used to build the Roman walls of the city that still stand.
The highlight of the exhibit is an almost intact mosaic floor whose center roundel depicts Cupid riding a dolphin while surrounded by more rondels of sea panthers, wine decanters, etc. This was the floor of what was almost certainly the dining room of the grand home that once housed dozens of people of various generations and a multitude of slaves. A 12 minute film recreated the era for us with the the kind of documentary vividness that these films always do so superbly and when we walked through the remains, we were completely in awe of the elegance with which these people lived and their expertise as gardeners--for the Palace was built around extensive formal gardens that were filled with box borders, espaliered trees and a variety of herbs. For me, it was like revisiting a tiny piece of Pompeii for it was in AD 69 that Pompeii had been destroyed. This Palace was, therefore, contemporaneous with all the marvels I had seen there with my friend Amy Tobin last March.
When we had spent more than an hour in this location, we decided to move on. Stephanie, who works for Twinnings Tea, had told me that her colleague Stephen Twinning, had mentioned to her very casually yesterday that if she intended to go to Chichester, then she ought to go to Arundel for a meal. Having taken a look at our map, I realized that it was not too far from Chichester and, on an impulse, we decided to take a detour there. And, boy, were we glad we did!
Arundel:
Arundel came upon us like a shock! Since neither one of us had read up anything on it, we did not know what to expect. Imagine our reaction, then, when we rounded a corner and came upon the turrets of a fairy-tale castle perched high up on a hill, staring down at us as we drove along a curving street through the center of a medieval town whose beamed shop fronts hid antiques stores, charming eateries and warm tea rooms. Llew had chosen just that time to call me and with Stephanie exclaiming besides me in undisguised delight, I told Llew I would call him later. Indeed, the castle reminded me so very much of the grandeur of the structure known as the Palais des Papes (Papal Palace) in Avignon in the South of France. It certainly had the same dimensions and color and some architectural features such as the crosses cut deep into the steep sides. We parked our car and hurried to see what we could of the castle before we lost all light for it was almost 4.00 pm by this time.
Wondering how to get inside, we asked a little old lady seated on a bench where we could find the entrance when we received the bad news that the castle is open only after April. As we climbed the steep hillside lined with antiques shops, I disappeared into one of them leaving Steph to find her way to the top. I poked around a bit and left with a lovely Hammersley porcelain cup and saucer for my collection which cost me almost nothing. It is steals like these that make my browsing in antiques shops so worthwhile.
Climbing further up the hillside, we arrived at the ancient stone Church of St. Nicholas that dates from the 13th century. I almost had an accident here as the glass and wooden doors of the church were difficult to open. "Turn the knob and push hard" instructed a little sticker on the door. Well I did and I almost tumbled over four steps that lay just beyond the door! Relieved that I had done myself no harm, we roamed about the interior of the church.
Next, we tackled the imposing interior of yet another Cathedral--this one belonging to the Roman Catholic Diocese of Arundel. Of course,we had to go inside and inspect it and how thrilling it was to read the history of Saint Philip Howard, once Earl of Arundel, a courtier in the time of Elizabeth I. He was persecuted for converting to Catholicsm and sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered after being convicted over cooked-up charges of treason (he is reported to have prayed for a Spanish victory over the Armada!). He died of malnutrition (some might say mercifully) when imprisoned in the Tower of London and was canonized a few years later. It is always these little nuggets of history--whether ecclesisastical or secular--that catch my fancy and keep me rivetted to the spot as I circle the monuments that signify their occurence.
On our way downhill, we browsed in another antiques store--this one carrying pricey country furniture as Steph looked for a mirror and a dresser for her flat. Everything was atrociously overpriced, however, and so we beat a hasty retreat. Arundel came upon us like an unexpected gift and we were so thrilled we took the advise of an Englishman to explore a part of the country of which neither of us had heard.
Petworth:
Then, realizing that another picturesque town--this time, one I had heard of before--was on our return route to London, I suggested we drive through Petworth. Petworth House, run by the National Trust, is another great country estate but like all National Trust properties, it remains closed until Easter (I do wish I had been warned about this because an English Heritage membership seems to offer much better value for money. Not only do their properties remain open all year round but they have tie up agreements with several sites that allow their members discounted entry as Stephanie is finding out, much to her joy, while National Trust members get no discounts at all).
Our drive through Petworth did reveal a tiny town that time forgot, complete with narrow winding lanes (also full of antiques stores, enticing shops and cute restaurants--all, unfortunately, closed by the time we arrived there).
We did get a good flavor, however, of the quaint charm of these Sussex coastal towns that come suddenly upon the motorist along country lanes that are sprinkled with villages, dotted with stone-clad churches and fields full of cud-chewing black cows. This kind of rural English landscape that I sometimes believe to be its most spectacular element, followed us all the way into Surrey by which time we had lost light completely as the sun set over the third salmon and aquamarine evening sky I have seen over the past three days.
On the way back on the Tube from Wimbledon, I couldn't help thinking how progressively better the weather had gotten since we first began these Sunday excurisons together. In Rochester, we had rain. In Battle, we had snow. In Canterbury, we had clouds. And in Chichester, we finally had little spurts of sunshine that had lit up the entire country with a burnished glow.
With a little bit of luck, we will see the rest of the United Kingdom at its best.
And so on we go... towards yet another week--as Lent begins, Shrove Tuesday brings its customary pancakes, Ash Wednesday brings its, well, ashes and we slowly inch towards the spring-time joys of Easter!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
British Library, Discovering Clerkenwell and Exploring the Tate Modern
Saturday, Fenruary 21, 2009
London
Despite going to bed at 11. 30 pm last night, I awoke at 5 am, then forced myself to get back to sleep again as I am afraid that this lack of sleep might not be too good for my health! Luckily, I did doze off and woke up again at 6.45 am at which point my day's work began.
I started off by drafting a longish response to the collaborative preparation online workshop in which all overseas NYU faculty are currently involved. Responses have been trickling in from Paris and Florence and with Karen having sent in her contribution from London, I thought it was about time I put in my ha'penny's worth. It took longer than I expected, but it was finally done and I emailed it to my colleagues scattered around our satellite sites in Europe. A call to my parents in Bombay (to whom, for various reasons, I haven't spoken for a few days) followed, after which I made a Eurostar booking for my trip to Belgium (I shall be visiting Brussels and Bruges) and a Youth Hostel booking for accommodation there. I followed this by another accommodation booking at St. Chrisgtopher's Inn in Newquay, Cornwall, and finally got down to eating my breakfast while doing my Alternate Soaking--by which point it was a little after 9 am.
A shower followed soon after and then I was leaving my flat to catch the bus to the British Library where the Frank Anthony book that I am seeking is stocked. Only problem is that when I reached the Asian and African section where I have been carrying out the bulk of my reading, I discovered that the book is "off site" in Boston Spa, Yorkshire. Of course, I requested that it be sent to me here in London and since I expect it to arrive on Tuesday, I have earmarked that entire day for research and reading at the library itself--as I might only refer to the book for three days at the library itself.
When I walked out of the Library, the sun was shining gloriously and the world suddenly seemed spring-like. There was still a decided nip in the air but it did nothing to chill the spirits of the vast numbers of people that had taken to the streets to bask in its cheer. What a perfect morning for a walk, I thought, as I rode the bus back home (during which time Llew called me and we had a chat), dropped off my bag and other non-essentials, pulled on a baseball cap and my sunglasses, grabbed my book (24 Great Walks in London) and set off to discover nearby Clerkenwell.
And what a lovely morning I had! The walk is entitled "Monks, Murder and Masons" and it took me into what the book calls "London's secret village". Indeed, I would never have ventured into this part of the city were it not for the book and yet the area is in my own backyard! Starting right outside Farringdon Tube Station, it brought me to The Castle, a pub that has the unique distinction of owning two licenses--as a public house and as a pawnbroker! There are three gold balls outside the pub to proclaim this fact. The pawnbroking license was granted to The Castle by the Prince Regent (later George IV) who ran up a huge debt at a near-by cockfighting ring. In despair, he turned to the pub next door and asked the owner if he would accept his gold watch for a loan. Not recognizing his royal patron, the pub owner agreed and money changed hands. The next day, an envoy appeared at the pub with enough money to retrieve the watch and a pawnbroking license which the pub has proudly displayed ever since. I entered the pub to see a painting on the wall that depicts this fascinating story.
Going through a really narrow alleyway that was reminiscent of the novels of Dickens, I arrived at St. John's Square under a stone gateway that Shakespeare would have known. This lovely gateway that dates from 1504 was once the main entrance to the Priory of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John. Following their dissolution, it became the Office of the Revels. Contemporary dramatists like Shakespeare and Marlowe would have brought their plays here to be licensed for public performance. By 1877, the space was acquired by the organization that evolved into the St. John's Ambulance Brigade which has branches world-wide. I was able to take a quick look at the small but very interesting museum inside on the ground level though I could not mount the stairs leading to the opulent rooms upstairs, Those could only be visited through a guided tour that began at 2 .15 pm.
The walk continued towards St. James' Church, Clerkenwell, but since it was closed, I could not visit it. It has been on this site since the Middle Ages but was rebuilt in the 18th century. Just past Clerkenwell Close, I arrived at the Middlesex Sessions Court, a beautiful and very impressive building that, by the middle of the 19th century, had become the busiest courthouse in England. When the courts moved elsewhere, the premises were occupied by the London Masonic Center. As if on cue, just as I arrived there, a stream of suited, booted and tied Freemasons poured out of the building, crossed the street and made their way to a pub at the corner for a noon day tipple.
I, on the other hand, crossed into Farringdon Lane and arrived at the most fascinating part of the walk--the Clerk's Well--from where the entire area derived its name in the Middle Ages. You can actually see the well or spring which became known as Fons Clericorum. It once gushed forth abundantly and was popular among the locals clerks. Lost for centuries, the well was rediscovered in 1924. It lies below ground level and can be glimpsed through glass windows.
Once in the street called Hatton Garden, the center of London's diamond district, I found myself gazing at the Police Court that provided the inspiration for a scene in Dickens' Oliver Twist--though the modern offices on the ground floor belie any of its Victorian antecedents. From there, it was on to The Bleeding Heart Tavern where we once had dinner with Karen and Douglas when Llew was visiting London. The gruesome story that gives the pub its name is probably more a result of legend than reality.
In another five minutes, I was back home for lunch (soup and noodles from Wagamama) and taking a much-needed nap. I wasn't so much drowsy as tired and decided that a few mintues shut-eye would do me a world of good. I woke up about a half hour later, got dressed and set out again--this time to see the Tate's Modern collection on the South Bank as the museum stays open until 10 pm on Fridays and Saturdays.
I caught the bus to St. Pau's, then crossed the Millennium Bridge on foot, astonished at the huge crowds that appeared like black ants ahead of me on the bridge. Clearly, the excellent weather had contributed to the presence of spring fever for people were prancing around light-heartedly and taking pictures galore of the urban scenes on both banks. Within a couple of minutes, by 5.00pm, I was in the gallery gazing upon the gigantic spider in the Main Turbine Hall. This recreation based on the original by Louise Bourgeois made every visitor who entered the gallery stop dead in his tracks and gaze upon the humongous creation.
I decided to spend my time taking in the museum's permanent collection most of which is on the 3rd and 5th floors. But before I began, I took the lift up to the seventh floors for some of the most gorgeous city views. In fact, on the seventh floor, the viewer is at a height that is almost parallel to the dome of St. Paul's whose impact is just stunning. I got some really lovely pictures from this angle of the glistening Thames and the large number of sailing craft that plied its waters.
Really pleased with my pictures (because every other time I have been to the Tate the weather has been gloomy and my pictures have appeared suitably grey), I started my exploration of the collection. Among the many famous works that dot the galleries, the one that most struck me was entitled 'Thirty Pieces of Silver" by Cornelia Parker to whose work I became introduced just a couple of weeks ago at the V&A Museum when I saw her suspended work entitled 'Breathless'. That one was composed of a collection of trombones, clarinets, trumpets and other wind instruments that she had flattened and then strung from the ceiling where they swung gently like one of Alexander Calder's mobiles. This one, composed of thousands of pieces of silver that she acquired from junk shops was flattened out by a steam roller. She then composed thirty vignettes comprising trophy cups, cutlery, platters, etc. and has strung them from the ceiling where they simply mesmerized me as they seemed to do some many other visitors. Indeed, a whole large gallery has been devoted to this breathtaking piece of Modern Art with which I found myself connecting instantly. I was also pleased to find Roy Lichtenstein's "Wham" on display--this is one of Marina Versey's 100 Masterpieces of Art. I have been trying to see every single one of them in the various musuems around the world where they are on display.
It was 8 pm when I finally finished seeing the permanent collection. I was tired but not exhausted as I had the good sense to use one of the compact folding stools available for the museum's aged visitors. It proved to be very helpful to me and as I crossed the Millennium Bridge and took the bus back home, I could not help but think how wonderful a day I had spent.
If the weather holds out like this, Stephanie and I will have a lovely time tomorrow--but given the lousy weather we've been having for the past three Sundays, I am not holding my breath, and I am sure, neither is she.
London
Despite going to bed at 11. 30 pm last night, I awoke at 5 am, then forced myself to get back to sleep again as I am afraid that this lack of sleep might not be too good for my health! Luckily, I did doze off and woke up again at 6.45 am at which point my day's work began.
I started off by drafting a longish response to the collaborative preparation online workshop in which all overseas NYU faculty are currently involved. Responses have been trickling in from Paris and Florence and with Karen having sent in her contribution from London, I thought it was about time I put in my ha'penny's worth. It took longer than I expected, but it was finally done and I emailed it to my colleagues scattered around our satellite sites in Europe. A call to my parents in Bombay (to whom, for various reasons, I haven't spoken for a few days) followed, after which I made a Eurostar booking for my trip to Belgium (I shall be visiting Brussels and Bruges) and a Youth Hostel booking for accommodation there. I followed this by another accommodation booking at St. Chrisgtopher's Inn in Newquay, Cornwall, and finally got down to eating my breakfast while doing my Alternate Soaking--by which point it was a little after 9 am.
A shower followed soon after and then I was leaving my flat to catch the bus to the British Library where the Frank Anthony book that I am seeking is stocked. Only problem is that when I reached the Asian and African section where I have been carrying out the bulk of my reading, I discovered that the book is "off site" in Boston Spa, Yorkshire. Of course, I requested that it be sent to me here in London and since I expect it to arrive on Tuesday, I have earmarked that entire day for research and reading at the library itself--as I might only refer to the book for three days at the library itself.
When I walked out of the Library, the sun was shining gloriously and the world suddenly seemed spring-like. There was still a decided nip in the air but it did nothing to chill the spirits of the vast numbers of people that had taken to the streets to bask in its cheer. What a perfect morning for a walk, I thought, as I rode the bus back home (during which time Llew called me and we had a chat), dropped off my bag and other non-essentials, pulled on a baseball cap and my sunglasses, grabbed my book (24 Great Walks in London) and set off to discover nearby Clerkenwell.
And what a lovely morning I had! The walk is entitled "Monks, Murder and Masons" and it took me into what the book calls "London's secret village". Indeed, I would never have ventured into this part of the city were it not for the book and yet the area is in my own backyard! Starting right outside Farringdon Tube Station, it brought me to The Castle, a pub that has the unique distinction of owning two licenses--as a public house and as a pawnbroker! There are three gold balls outside the pub to proclaim this fact. The pawnbroking license was granted to The Castle by the Prince Regent (later George IV) who ran up a huge debt at a near-by cockfighting ring. In despair, he turned to the pub next door and asked the owner if he would accept his gold watch for a loan. Not recognizing his royal patron, the pub owner agreed and money changed hands. The next day, an envoy appeared at the pub with enough money to retrieve the watch and a pawnbroking license which the pub has proudly displayed ever since. I entered the pub to see a painting on the wall that depicts this fascinating story.
Going through a really narrow alleyway that was reminiscent of the novels of Dickens, I arrived at St. John's Square under a stone gateway that Shakespeare would have known. This lovely gateway that dates from 1504 was once the main entrance to the Priory of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John. Following their dissolution, it became the Office of the Revels. Contemporary dramatists like Shakespeare and Marlowe would have brought their plays here to be licensed for public performance. By 1877, the space was acquired by the organization that evolved into the St. John's Ambulance Brigade which has branches world-wide. I was able to take a quick look at the small but very interesting museum inside on the ground level though I could not mount the stairs leading to the opulent rooms upstairs, Those could only be visited through a guided tour that began at 2 .15 pm.
The walk continued towards St. James' Church, Clerkenwell, but since it was closed, I could not visit it. It has been on this site since the Middle Ages but was rebuilt in the 18th century. Just past Clerkenwell Close, I arrived at the Middlesex Sessions Court, a beautiful and very impressive building that, by the middle of the 19th century, had become the busiest courthouse in England. When the courts moved elsewhere, the premises were occupied by the London Masonic Center. As if on cue, just as I arrived there, a stream of suited, booted and tied Freemasons poured out of the building, crossed the street and made their way to a pub at the corner for a noon day tipple.
I, on the other hand, crossed into Farringdon Lane and arrived at the most fascinating part of the walk--the Clerk's Well--from where the entire area derived its name in the Middle Ages. You can actually see the well or spring which became known as Fons Clericorum. It once gushed forth abundantly and was popular among the locals clerks. Lost for centuries, the well was rediscovered in 1924. It lies below ground level and can be glimpsed through glass windows.
Once in the street called Hatton Garden, the center of London's diamond district, I found myself gazing at the Police Court that provided the inspiration for a scene in Dickens' Oliver Twist--though the modern offices on the ground floor belie any of its Victorian antecedents. From there, it was on to The Bleeding Heart Tavern where we once had dinner with Karen and Douglas when Llew was visiting London. The gruesome story that gives the pub its name is probably more a result of legend than reality.
In another five minutes, I was back home for lunch (soup and noodles from Wagamama) and taking a much-needed nap. I wasn't so much drowsy as tired and decided that a few mintues shut-eye would do me a world of good. I woke up about a half hour later, got dressed and set out again--this time to see the Tate's Modern collection on the South Bank as the museum stays open until 10 pm on Fridays and Saturdays.
I caught the bus to St. Pau's, then crossed the Millennium Bridge on foot, astonished at the huge crowds that appeared like black ants ahead of me on the bridge. Clearly, the excellent weather had contributed to the presence of spring fever for people were prancing around light-heartedly and taking pictures galore of the urban scenes on both banks. Within a couple of minutes, by 5.00pm, I was in the gallery gazing upon the gigantic spider in the Main Turbine Hall. This recreation based on the original by Louise Bourgeois made every visitor who entered the gallery stop dead in his tracks and gaze upon the humongous creation.
I decided to spend my time taking in the museum's permanent collection most of which is on the 3rd and 5th floors. But before I began, I took the lift up to the seventh floors for some of the most gorgeous city views. In fact, on the seventh floor, the viewer is at a height that is almost parallel to the dome of St. Paul's whose impact is just stunning. I got some really lovely pictures from this angle of the glistening Thames and the large number of sailing craft that plied its waters.
Really pleased with my pictures (because every other time I have been to the Tate the weather has been gloomy and my pictures have appeared suitably grey), I started my exploration of the collection. Among the many famous works that dot the galleries, the one that most struck me was entitled 'Thirty Pieces of Silver" by Cornelia Parker to whose work I became introduced just a couple of weeks ago at the V&A Museum when I saw her suspended work entitled 'Breathless'. That one was composed of a collection of trombones, clarinets, trumpets and other wind instruments that she had flattened and then strung from the ceiling where they swung gently like one of Alexander Calder's mobiles. This one, composed of thousands of pieces of silver that she acquired from junk shops was flattened out by a steam roller. She then composed thirty vignettes comprising trophy cups, cutlery, platters, etc. and has strung them from the ceiling where they simply mesmerized me as they seemed to do some many other visitors. Indeed, a whole large gallery has been devoted to this breathtaking piece of Modern Art with which I found myself connecting instantly. I was also pleased to find Roy Lichtenstein's "Wham" on display--this is one of Marina Versey's 100 Masterpieces of Art. I have been trying to see every single one of them in the various musuems around the world where they are on display.
It was 8 pm when I finally finished seeing the permanent collection. I was tired but not exhausted as I had the good sense to use one of the compact folding stools available for the museum's aged visitors. It proved to be very helpful to me and as I crossed the Millennium Bridge and took the bus back home, I could not help but think how wonderful a day I had spent.
If the weather holds out like this, Stephanie and I will have a lovely time tomorrow--but given the lousy weather we've been having for the past three Sundays, I am not holding my breath, and I am sure, neither is she.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Pausing in Portsmouth
Friday, February 21, 2009
Winchester and Portsmouth
The Hampshire landscape still looked rather autumnal--a blanket woven of beige and sandy hues--as we made the half hour drive from Winchester to Portsmouth. I was a little surprised at how large Portsmouth is--I guess I expected another little dinky town like Winchester! But, of course, I was aware that Portsmouth has been the head quarters of the Royal British Navy for a long while. In fact, Llew and I had visited Portsmouth many years ago though we did not really get as far as the historic dockyard. This probably had to do with the fact that neither one of us is a seafarer and navy history has not been our cup of tea.
So it wasn't with huge excitement that I alighted from the coach with my students and received the tickets (priced at 18.50 pounds for all attractions) that gave us free run of the area. Unlike Winchester, where there weren't many kids to be seen, this place had attracted a large number of families out at Half-Term Week to see a bit of their historic landmarks. And possibly because my expectations were so low, I was completely bowled over by everything I saw and the guided tours we took. Robert Pinkerton had handed me tickets that allowed us to board the H.M.S. Victory at 3. 30 pm for a guided tour--this allowed us an hour to see the rest of the complex which includes a number of museums and special exhibits and the hull of the Mary Rose, a Tudor ship that was Henry VIII's favorite war ship.
The harbor is dominated by a modernist structure that, for a moment, made me believe I was in Dubai for it resembles the facade of the Al-Burj Hotel. This one at Portsmouth is the Spinnacre Tower, its newest attraction. I saw people on the two highest floors and I can imagine how stunning a view they must receive, on a clear day, of the sea, the Isle of Wight and the southern English countryside. Alas, I had no time to find out for myself, as I did want to see the Mary Rose.
Again, I have to say that I wasn't sure what to expect. The ship had been built in 1534 and by 1550, it had sunk on one of its skirmishes with the French. It was only a few years ago that sonar technology made the location of the wreck definite and elaborate arrangements were made to bring it to the surface. The ship had broken in two along its cross section and a portion was rescued from the sea bed with everything it contained (including the skeleton of a dog who had been trapped in a door as the ship went down). These items are displayed in the Mary Rose Museum (which I found fascinating and in which I would have loved to have spent more time).
However, just gazing at the wreck itself (now in dry dock and undergoing conservation) was enough to raise the hairs on my neck. I recalled all the lines from the sea faring novels and comic books I have read ("Shiver my timbers, boy...who told you to come out of the crow's nest?") and I was enthralled. The audio guides that were provided upon arrival gave great detail about Tudor life at sea, about sea warfare and about the raising of the ship. It was indeed quite brilliant and time flew so quickly that before I knew it, I had to join my class for the tour of the H.M.S. Victory.
This ship, quite splendidly refurbished and impeccably maintained in rust and black paint, was the vessel upon which Lord Nelson breathed his last during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805--one of England's most decisive sea victories. I joined a group of about thirty students and was placed in the charge of a guide who was poker faced and had the most dead pan expressions as he mouthed his monologues. But then, later, I realized, that he was probably trained to remain detached as the information he disclosed was so astonishing as to make me feel squeamish on more than one occasion.
A tour of the ship taught us a great deal about naval life in the 18th and 19th centuries and most of it was shocking. Examples: the sailors caught rats in the galleys below deck, sold them among themselves and used them to supplement their frugal shipboard diets; the ship's doctor (known very appropriately as the surgeon-barber) had a range of instruments that looked as if they belonged in a carpenter's chest--and this surgery was performed without any anaesthesia at all and while the patient was stone sober; after being flogged repeatedly, even for minor misdemeanors, with a cat 'o nine tails (I finally discovered after I saw one why this whip is so-called), the miscreant was sent down to a doctor who, in an attempt to keep infection off his torn and skinned back, rubbed salt and vinegar into his wounds--you can see why I was squeamish and thought my knees would buckle. The sado-masochism of the captains and bosons of the time was touched on and I felt truly glad that I did not live in those often inhuman times!
A large part of the tour involved Nelson. We saw the spot on the deck at which he was hit by a bullet that went through his shoulder, punctured a lung, shattered a couple of his ribs and tore through his spine. His blood-stained clothing was striped off (and is now the chief exhibit of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich where I had seen it last Setpember). He was then taken below deck and attended by the ship's surgeon and its captain, the famous Hardy, all of whom knew, of course, that there was nothing that could be done for him. As he lay dying, he received the news of victory and said, "Thank God, I have done my duty". Earlier he had motivated his crew by declaring, "England expects that each man will do his duty". About three hours later, he died requesting Hardy to kiss him, a line into which much more than was intended has been read. There is a very good painting that depicts his final moments (but without much historic accuracy as most of these romanticized versions of such occasions are) and which made a fine backdrop for the telling of the tale. I have to say that from the first word the guide uttered to the last, I was completely engaged.
The tour also included a visit to the very bottom of the ship were gunpowder was stored in huge barrels in a copper lined chamber and to the ballast area where the ship's stores were maintained. I learned more about naval warfare and the seafaring life on this single hour-long tour than I think I have ever learned anywhere else and I was hugely grateful that I took it.
On my way out, I rushed through the Mary Rose Museum once more to see the original canons and guns that had been brought ashore and to hold in my hands an original cannon ball from the wreck--which gave me a massive kick! I can see why the venue is so popular with kids (especially boys) whose excitement was palpable and infectious and made me think of my young days in the company of my own parents as a little girl visiting places of educational interest in Bombay.
On my way back in the bus, I read the final chapters of The Prisoner of Azkaban which became extraordinarily complicated as the story reached its denouement. The miles flew past as outside my window a salmon and acquamarine sky indicated sundown and the end of another active, fascinating and hugely educational day of my life in the United Kingdom.
I arrived home at 7. 30 after seeing my students safely in their dorms, then spent about four hours on my PC catching up with email and planning some future trips to Paris and Belgium.
I then went to bed at 11. 30 pm. on a very happy note having received news by email that Chriselle was granted leave from work, has booked her tickets on American Airlines and will be here in London with me during the first week of May! The weather will be so much nicer at that time and I would like to make some plans for what will probably be our very last mother-daughter trip before she gets married. I am almost besides myself with joy at the prospect.
Winchester and Portsmouth
The Hampshire landscape still looked rather autumnal--a blanket woven of beige and sandy hues--as we made the half hour drive from Winchester to Portsmouth. I was a little surprised at how large Portsmouth is--I guess I expected another little dinky town like Winchester! But, of course, I was aware that Portsmouth has been the head quarters of the Royal British Navy for a long while. In fact, Llew and I had visited Portsmouth many years ago though we did not really get as far as the historic dockyard. This probably had to do with the fact that neither one of us is a seafarer and navy history has not been our cup of tea.
So it wasn't with huge excitement that I alighted from the coach with my students and received the tickets (priced at 18.50 pounds for all attractions) that gave us free run of the area. Unlike Winchester, where there weren't many kids to be seen, this place had attracted a large number of families out at Half-Term Week to see a bit of their historic landmarks. And possibly because my expectations were so low, I was completely bowled over by everything I saw and the guided tours we took. Robert Pinkerton had handed me tickets that allowed us to board the H.M.S. Victory at 3. 30 pm for a guided tour--this allowed us an hour to see the rest of the complex which includes a number of museums and special exhibits and the hull of the Mary Rose, a Tudor ship that was Henry VIII's favorite war ship.
The harbor is dominated by a modernist structure that, for a moment, made me believe I was in Dubai for it resembles the facade of the Al-Burj Hotel. This one at Portsmouth is the Spinnacre Tower, its newest attraction. I saw people on the two highest floors and I can imagine how stunning a view they must receive, on a clear day, of the sea, the Isle of Wight and the southern English countryside. Alas, I had no time to find out for myself, as I did want to see the Mary Rose.
Again, I have to say that I wasn't sure what to expect. The ship had been built in 1534 and by 1550, it had sunk on one of its skirmishes with the French. It was only a few years ago that sonar technology made the location of the wreck definite and elaborate arrangements were made to bring it to the surface. The ship had broken in two along its cross section and a portion was rescued from the sea bed with everything it contained (including the skeleton of a dog who had been trapped in a door as the ship went down). These items are displayed in the Mary Rose Museum (which I found fascinating and in which I would have loved to have spent more time).
However, just gazing at the wreck itself (now in dry dock and undergoing conservation) was enough to raise the hairs on my neck. I recalled all the lines from the sea faring novels and comic books I have read ("Shiver my timbers, boy...who told you to come out of the crow's nest?") and I was enthralled. The audio guides that were provided upon arrival gave great detail about Tudor life at sea, about sea warfare and about the raising of the ship. It was indeed quite brilliant and time flew so quickly that before I knew it, I had to join my class for the tour of the H.M.S. Victory.
This ship, quite splendidly refurbished and impeccably maintained in rust and black paint, was the vessel upon which Lord Nelson breathed his last during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805--one of England's most decisive sea victories. I joined a group of about thirty students and was placed in the charge of a guide who was poker faced and had the most dead pan expressions as he mouthed his monologues. But then, later, I realized, that he was probably trained to remain detached as the information he disclosed was so astonishing as to make me feel squeamish on more than one occasion.
A tour of the ship taught us a great deal about naval life in the 18th and 19th centuries and most of it was shocking. Examples: the sailors caught rats in the galleys below deck, sold them among themselves and used them to supplement their frugal shipboard diets; the ship's doctor (known very appropriately as the surgeon-barber) had a range of instruments that looked as if they belonged in a carpenter's chest--and this surgery was performed without any anaesthesia at all and while the patient was stone sober; after being flogged repeatedly, even for minor misdemeanors, with a cat 'o nine tails (I finally discovered after I saw one why this whip is so-called), the miscreant was sent down to a doctor who, in an attempt to keep infection off his torn and skinned back, rubbed salt and vinegar into his wounds--you can see why I was squeamish and thought my knees would buckle. The sado-masochism of the captains and bosons of the time was touched on and I felt truly glad that I did not live in those often inhuman times!
A large part of the tour involved Nelson. We saw the spot on the deck at which he was hit by a bullet that went through his shoulder, punctured a lung, shattered a couple of his ribs and tore through his spine. His blood-stained clothing was striped off (and is now the chief exhibit of the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich where I had seen it last Setpember). He was then taken below deck and attended by the ship's surgeon and its captain, the famous Hardy, all of whom knew, of course, that there was nothing that could be done for him. As he lay dying, he received the news of victory and said, "Thank God, I have done my duty". Earlier he had motivated his crew by declaring, "England expects that each man will do his duty". About three hours later, he died requesting Hardy to kiss him, a line into which much more than was intended has been read. There is a very good painting that depicts his final moments (but without much historic accuracy as most of these romanticized versions of such occasions are) and which made a fine backdrop for the telling of the tale. I have to say that from the first word the guide uttered to the last, I was completely engaged.
The tour also included a visit to the very bottom of the ship were gunpowder was stored in huge barrels in a copper lined chamber and to the ballast area where the ship's stores were maintained. I learned more about naval warfare and the seafaring life on this single hour-long tour than I think I have ever learned anywhere else and I was hugely grateful that I took it.
On my way out, I rushed through the Mary Rose Museum once more to see the original canons and guns that had been brought ashore and to hold in my hands an original cannon ball from the wreck--which gave me a massive kick! I can see why the venue is so popular with kids (especially boys) whose excitement was palpable and infectious and made me think of my young days in the company of my own parents as a little girl visiting places of educational interest in Bombay.
On my way back in the bus, I read the final chapters of The Prisoner of Azkaban which became extraordinarily complicated as the story reached its denouement. The miles flew past as outside my window a salmon and acquamarine sky indicated sundown and the end of another active, fascinating and hugely educational day of my life in the United Kingdom.
I arrived home at 7. 30 after seeing my students safely in their dorms, then spent about four hours on my PC catching up with email and planning some future trips to Paris and Belgium.
I then went to bed at 11. 30 pm. on a very happy note having received news by email that Chriselle was granted leave from work, has booked her tickets on American Airlines and will be here in London with me during the first week of May! The weather will be so much nicer at that time and I would like to make some plans for what will probably be our very last mother-daughter trip before she gets married. I am almost besides myself with joy at the prospect.
Wessex and Winchester Cathedral
Friday, February 20, 2009
Winchester and Portsmouth
Holborn was stirring slowly when I took the bus along Gray's Inn Road to King's Cross and found my way to NIDO, our student dorms on Pennington Road. Despite being told several times that our departure was scheduled for 7. 45, six of my students thought it was 8. 15 am and did not show up. The coach left at 8 am sharp with six students missing. They took the train from Waterloo and arrived at Winchester where they joined us later in the day.
Moira Ferguson and Alice Coltenfeanu were in the coach with me as we swung out of London (past the suburbs of Chiswick and Putney) and drove through Hampshire. I realized that this was the route Stephanie takes to work each day as the signs for Andover/Salisbury began to show up on the motorway. We made one pit stop about ten minutes before we arrived in the charming but very tiny town of Winchester where we parked by the towering bronze sculpture of Alfred the Great, King of the ancient Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Wessex. He was he who united the warring factions of the neighboring counties. Though the Romans had made Wessex their base long before Alfred's reign (having been in Wessex between 40 and 400 AD), it is he who is credited with making the town that eventually became Winchester a seat of power by creating mints all over so that the people would have monetary security as well as encouraging commercial activity on what is now the High Street. As I walked along the High Street, noticing its older (mainly Tudor) structures, I realized how many millions of feet had trodden these streets over the centuries and I felt awed.
There has been a Mayor of Winchester for almost as long as there has been one in London and it
was at his 'house'--called the Mayor's Abbey--that our walking tour of the town began with a trained guide. It was the Romans who redirected the flow of the River Itchen towards the outskirts of the town and the result is a number of fast flowing canals that wind around pretty gardens that were just starting to bloom. I saw more clumps of snowdrops and loads of primroses. The sun was out and a more welcome sight I haven't seen for days as it poured its golden rays upon the cathedral walls.
It wasn't long before we were entering the precincts of the grand Cathedral for which the town is famous (remember the song "Winchester Cathedral" of the 1950s?). No matter how many cathedrals I visit in the UK, they always come upon me with a mixture of surprise and awe--surprise that in the so-called Dark Ages (what an insult to the achievements of that era!) such a level of architectural expertise existed that could allow the construction of crypts that went way down into the soil bed and upon which the weight of so many thousands of tons could be supported; and awe at the craftsmanship of the carvers who then went on to embellish these structures with their talent. No doubt, it was these structures, speaking so eloquently of the religious ardor of the time, that kept so many of them employed for a lifetime.
The guide explained so many aspects of the exterior of the Cathedral and pointed out the importance of the Bishops of Winchester in their role as ecclesiastical prelates. We passed by the Bishops Quarters, lovely Tudor structures with their exposed beams and stucco walls, then went beneath the walls of the town above which is one of the smallest churches in the UK and the only one left in the country that is actually built upon city walls--the Church of St. Swithun-at-Kingsgate. Just past it is the home where Jane Austen spent the last six weeks of her life with her sister Cassandra. She came to Winchester as her doctor was based in the town to seek treatment for her illness that could have been Hodgkins Lymphoma or Addisons Disease (no one is sure). Her brother was Archdeacon at Winchester Cathedral--a fact that granted permission for her to be buried in the nave, one of the last burials to be conducted in the precincts of the Cathedral. There is a brass memorial to the author on the wall nearby. In the Fisherman's Chapel, where 17th century Issac Walton has been buried, there is beautiful stained glass window referred to as the Compleat Angler window. Later, we went down to the crypt that was actually flooded (as water still seeps into the crypt from the water bed below) and saw the sculpture by Anthony Gormley of a solitary man brooding--these sculptures, of course, are cast from his own body after he wraps himself in cling film! My students and I had seen a bunch of his sculptures at Crosby Beach in Liverpool, a few months ago, when we had made a trip to that lively city.
Unfortunately, we did not have a chance to see the famous Winchester Bible as the library that contains it was closed, but we did marvel at two things: the choir stalls carved of oak which are the oldest in the country and were just exquisite in their details and the main stained glass windows which seem like a modernist design but are a result of the piecing together of the original stained glass windows that were blown out during the Civil War. The long nave of the Cathedral is equally imposing and since all the chairs were removed, the interior did not seem as much like a church as it did a museum! The best part about doing these class visits at this time of year is that the crowds are nowhere to be seen and you very often have the place to yourself for quiet contemplation.
Then, when we had said goodbye to the guide, I took directions from her and climbed the steep incline along the High Street to arrive at what are the only surviving remains of Winchester Castle built during Norman times--the Winchester Great Hall. The exterior is lovely (exposed black stone set within creamy mortar) as is the main portal and when we entered it, it was even lovelier. The mood was sombre and quiet which befit, I believe, its most famous exhibit--the Round Table of King Arthur. This is set high on the wall and must be quite immense in size for it looks huge though placed so far above us. It resembles a giant dart board and looks as if it were made yesterday. Recent studies have proved that it is not the actual Round Table though this one is at least 700 years old. A portrait of King Arthur adorns one part of it while the names of all the other knights are imprinted in a lovely Gothic script all around the circumference. The rest of the Hall is notable for the names of the knights who served the church through the centuries and for a magnificent bronze sculpture of Queen Victoria seated under a gilded canopy that was placed there to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee.
It wasn't long before I grabbed a few post cards as souvenirs and a sandwich, a cheese scone and a chocolate covered flapjack and with this lunch, I joined my students on a bench overlooking the statue of Alfred and awaited the return of our coach.
A half hour later, we were on our way to Portsmouth. See my next blog entry entitled "Pausing in Portsmouth' for an account of our amazing visit there.
Winchester was truly a lovely town that encompasses a great deal for the history buff and the architecture enthusiast to mull over. The fact that the sun was out on a spring morning made our excursion memorable and I left the place, astonished as its tiny size, but struck by how many elements of interest can be contained within so small a space.
Winchester and Portsmouth
Holborn was stirring slowly when I took the bus along Gray's Inn Road to King's Cross and found my way to NIDO, our student dorms on Pennington Road. Despite being told several times that our departure was scheduled for 7. 45, six of my students thought it was 8. 15 am and did not show up. The coach left at 8 am sharp with six students missing. They took the train from Waterloo and arrived at Winchester where they joined us later in the day.
Moira Ferguson and Alice Coltenfeanu were in the coach with me as we swung out of London (past the suburbs of Chiswick and Putney) and drove through Hampshire. I realized that this was the route Stephanie takes to work each day as the signs for Andover/Salisbury began to show up on the motorway. We made one pit stop about ten minutes before we arrived in the charming but very tiny town of Winchester where we parked by the towering bronze sculpture of Alfred the Great, King of the ancient Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Wessex. He was he who united the warring factions of the neighboring counties. Though the Romans had made Wessex their base long before Alfred's reign (having been in Wessex between 40 and 400 AD), it is he who is credited with making the town that eventually became Winchester a seat of power by creating mints all over so that the people would have monetary security as well as encouraging commercial activity on what is now the High Street. As I walked along the High Street, noticing its older (mainly Tudor) structures, I realized how many millions of feet had trodden these streets over the centuries and I felt awed.
There has been a Mayor of Winchester for almost as long as there has been one in London and it
was at his 'house'--called the Mayor's Abbey--that our walking tour of the town began with a trained guide. It was the Romans who redirected the flow of the River Itchen towards the outskirts of the town and the result is a number of fast flowing canals that wind around pretty gardens that were just starting to bloom. I saw more clumps of snowdrops and loads of primroses. The sun was out and a more welcome sight I haven't seen for days as it poured its golden rays upon the cathedral walls.
It wasn't long before we were entering the precincts of the grand Cathedral for which the town is famous (remember the song "Winchester Cathedral" of the 1950s?). No matter how many cathedrals I visit in the UK, they always come upon me with a mixture of surprise and awe--surprise that in the so-called Dark Ages (what an insult to the achievements of that era!) such a level of architectural expertise existed that could allow the construction of crypts that went way down into the soil bed and upon which the weight of so many thousands of tons could be supported; and awe at the craftsmanship of the carvers who then went on to embellish these structures with their talent. No doubt, it was these structures, speaking so eloquently of the religious ardor of the time, that kept so many of them employed for a lifetime.
The guide explained so many aspects of the exterior of the Cathedral and pointed out the importance of the Bishops of Winchester in their role as ecclesiastical prelates. We passed by the Bishops Quarters, lovely Tudor structures with their exposed beams and stucco walls, then went beneath the walls of the town above which is one of the smallest churches in the UK and the only one left in the country that is actually built upon city walls--the Church of St. Swithun-at-Kingsgate. Just past it is the home where Jane Austen spent the last six weeks of her life with her sister Cassandra. She came to Winchester as her doctor was based in the town to seek treatment for her illness that could have been Hodgkins Lymphoma or Addisons Disease (no one is sure). Her brother was Archdeacon at Winchester Cathedral--a fact that granted permission for her to be buried in the nave, one of the last burials to be conducted in the precincts of the Cathedral. There is a brass memorial to the author on the wall nearby. In the Fisherman's Chapel, where 17th century Issac Walton has been buried, there is beautiful stained glass window referred to as the Compleat Angler window. Later, we went down to the crypt that was actually flooded (as water still seeps into the crypt from the water bed below) and saw the sculpture by Anthony Gormley of a solitary man brooding--these sculptures, of course, are cast from his own body after he wraps himself in cling film! My students and I had seen a bunch of his sculptures at Crosby Beach in Liverpool, a few months ago, when we had made a trip to that lively city.
Unfortunately, we did not have a chance to see the famous Winchester Bible as the library that contains it was closed, but we did marvel at two things: the choir stalls carved of oak which are the oldest in the country and were just exquisite in their details and the main stained glass windows which seem like a modernist design but are a result of the piecing together of the original stained glass windows that were blown out during the Civil War. The long nave of the Cathedral is equally imposing and since all the chairs were removed, the interior did not seem as much like a church as it did a museum! The best part about doing these class visits at this time of year is that the crowds are nowhere to be seen and you very often have the place to yourself for quiet contemplation.
Then, when we had said goodbye to the guide, I took directions from her and climbed the steep incline along the High Street to arrive at what are the only surviving remains of Winchester Castle built during Norman times--the Winchester Great Hall. The exterior is lovely (exposed black stone set within creamy mortar) as is the main portal and when we entered it, it was even lovelier. The mood was sombre and quiet which befit, I believe, its most famous exhibit--the Round Table of King Arthur. This is set high on the wall and must be quite immense in size for it looks huge though placed so far above us. It resembles a giant dart board and looks as if it were made yesterday. Recent studies have proved that it is not the actual Round Table though this one is at least 700 years old. A portrait of King Arthur adorns one part of it while the names of all the other knights are imprinted in a lovely Gothic script all around the circumference. The rest of the Hall is notable for the names of the knights who served the church through the centuries and for a magnificent bronze sculpture of Queen Victoria seated under a gilded canopy that was placed there to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee.
It wasn't long before I grabbed a few post cards as souvenirs and a sandwich, a cheese scone and a chocolate covered flapjack and with this lunch, I joined my students on a bench overlooking the statue of Alfred and awaited the return of our coach.
A half hour later, we were on our way to Portsmouth. See my next blog entry entitled "Pausing in Portsmouth' for an account of our amazing visit there.
Winchester was truly a lovely town that encompasses a great deal for the history buff and the architecture enthusiast to mull over. The fact that the sun was out on a spring morning made our excursion memorable and I left the place, astonished as its tiny size, but struck by how many elements of interest can be contained within so small a space.
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