Last Day in London

Tuesday, 5 June

Twenty days on, and suddenly it is our last full day in London. “Suddenly” is a relative term, of course, because it seems like a very, very long time since we left home. Each day has been long and full (in a good way), and yet so many things have been left undone. Some by choice, of course—there is no way you can see and do everything in one trip, and I consciously omitted any number of potential sites and activities, like St. Paul’s Cathedral (was there last year), the Tower of London (too long lines and too many tourists), and countless museums and galleries (someday I will go back to the Victoria and Albert Museum, really—maybe even the Tate Gallery).

Other destinations were ruled out by lack of time or opportunity, like Kensington Gardens and the Orangery (where we went, but the Orangery closed early that day and I decided to spare my parents the exertion of spending too much time walking in Kensington Gardens). I didn’t go to the theatre at all, and didn’t really make an effort to, other than a couple of occasions where I thought about trying to get theatre tickets, but ultimately discarded the idea. I saw in the newspaper’s theatre listings that Equus with Daniel Radcliffe still had “a few good seats available” and definitely contemplated trying to get a ticket!

(I also read a newspaper review of King Lear at Stratford, which stated that actor Ian McKellen brings “depth, openness and emotional, spiritual and, at times, literal nakedness to the title role”—apparently nudity is a frequent element in serious British theatre. I think, however, I’d rather see Daniel Radcliffe.) (Though, of course, he’s no Hugh Grant. Just thought I’d add that.) (And he's not even going to be 18 until July. Okay, that's creepy. Moving on.)

I still had a moderately long list of things I wanted to accomplish on this final day in London, ending with a final trip to Harrods to pick up a VAT refund form. (Harrods was at the end of the day since they are open until 8 p.m.) I plotted out my itinerary by location, so I could move from one stop to the next.

I began the day with a final run in Regent’s Park. I wanted to make this last trip the ultimate Regent’s Park run—one loop around the Outer Circle, one loop around the Inner Circle, and finally a loop through the interior of Queen Mary’s Gardens and rose garden. The Outer Circle is the road (with sidewalk) that circles the outside of Regent’s Park. I have tried again and again to ascertain its distance but can’t find any firm information on the internet—strangely enough, because you’d think that was the kind of thing someone would be quick to determine. I estimate that it’s about 2½ miles, based on how long it takes me to run around. (After writing this I found something that says it is 4.3 km, which converts to 2.67 miles, so I was pretty close in my estimate! I am good!) This was the first time I’ve run all the way around the Outer Circle on the outside of Regent’s Park; usually I prefer to run on the inside of the park on the paths that follow the outside edge of the park. Once I completed the rotation and returned to St. Andrew’s Gate, I ran up the Broad Walk to the Inside Circle and took my loop around the inner road. Finally, I made my final visit to the Rose Garden and Queen Mary’s Gardens, passing through the rose gardens and other lavishly planted beds and borders. Just before I turned back into Chester Road, I came across a part of the Rose Garden that I had not seen before—an English Rose border, planted entirely with David Austin English Roses! I regretted not having my camera there to take a picture.

I have said before, the Rose Garden at Regent’s Park is probably the most beautiful rose garden I have ever seen, and I was happy to run through it day after day. Regent’s Park itself has become one of my favorite places, certainly my favorite place to run, offering many more paths and possible courses than I have yet to explore, despite my daily visits (when I tend to run the same routes every day anyway). I am sure I could run there every day for a year and never get bored. (Regent’s Park also has public restrooms that are open early in the morning, which makes it even more desirable as a running course.) Other people in the park are scarce early in the morning—I usually see a few runners and walkers, several persons with cameras taking pictures, and my favorites, a group of older Asian ladies practicing tai chi. I am not alone in loving Regent's Park, of course, in fact, Regent's Park and the adjacent Primrose Hill are even mentioned in numerous musical pieces and songs—something for me to explore for my ipod in future, perhaps.

Saying a sad farewell to the glorious roses, I reluctantly left Regent’s Park to return to the hotel for breakfast and the remainder of my day. After eating breakfast, I set forth on my day’s agenda.

First stop, the the National Gallery which I reached by way of Piccadilly Circus tube, walking down Haymarket and then turning left into Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. It took me a moment to notice the change in the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square; the busy road which has always run between the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square has been closed and turned into part of the pedestrian plaza. I don’t remember whether that road was open or closed last year, but I suspect I would remember if it had been closed! I approve of this change. It adds a lot to both the appearance and ambience of the National Gallery.

I arrived at the National Gallery at 9:45, fifteen minutes before it opens. I took this time to perch on a ledge, taking pictures and watching passersby.

My objective at the National Gallery was to pick up a Van Gogh print and miniature chairs by request for Pam. The National Gallery is an amazing building with a breathtaking interior, and I didn’t need to visit the exhibits to enjoy the ambience of the National Gallery. While waiting for the print to be ready, I contemplated going into a few of the exhibit rooms, but rather than make that overwhelming choice, I walked down to the Waterstone’s bookstore on the opposite side of Trafalgar Square to look for some books I had been asked to find. About half an hour later I went back and collected the finished print in the shop of the Sainsbury Wing. The National Gallery has a scheme where you can purchase digital prints of many of their paintings. These prints are meant to be much better quality than a traditional poster, as they are digital reproductions of the original artwork.

After my final departure from the National Gallery, I circled around Trafalgar Square to head down Whitehall toward Westminster. Walking down Whitehall, you can see Big Ben ahead; you also pass the Horse Guards Parade, numerous government offices, and Downing Street on your right. I was going to Westminster to find the National Trust shop that the clerk in the Bath shop said was located in Westminster in London. I had some idea that it would just pop up and be easy to find, probably in Whitehall or in Bridge Street across from the Houses of Parliament, where there are a number of other shops.

But it did not appear so easily. I went into the Parliament Bookshop and asked the clerk if he knew where the National Trust shop was; despite trying to find it on the National Trust website on the internet, he could not help me. I walked past the Houses of Parliament and toward Westminster Abbey, going into the Westminster Abbey shop to try for assistance there as well. They sent me toward the small English Heritage shop located in the Jewel Tower adjacent to the Houses of Parliament. I spent a little bit of time walking about the grounds of Westminster Abbey, crossing Victoria Street to get a picture; this was the most time I had spent around Westminster Abbey since I was in college!

After the English Heritage shop provided no information (although they did encourage me to join English Heritage, to gain free admission to a whole slew of historic houses and properties different from those owned by National Trust—including Stonehenge, although I believe National Trust members get free admission to Stonehenge also), I finally conceded that I was not going to find this shop just by walking around. In fact, I seriously questioned whether it existed at all!

Despite my frustration, I did take this opportunity to admire the views of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

My next planned destinations were Somerset House and the Courtauld Institute of Art, followed by a walk down Fleet Street to the Temple Church. Geographically, my plan was sound; I could walk to Somerset House either by walking down Victoria Embankment, or by returning to Trafalgar Square and then into the Strand. Temple Church would then be only a short distance further.

But I had spent more time than I had planned looking for the National Trust shop, and I reluctantly decided to eliminate Somerset House and the Temple Church in favor of returning to the hotel to look for further information in my National Trust book. Yes, it might have been helpful to look up the exact address in the book before I left in the morning! But it really did not even occur to me at the time. While I regretted eliminating cultural destinations in favor of shopping, I also realized that I would not appreciate those places if I forced myself to go to them when I really wanted to be somewhere else. I was obsessed with finding that National Trust shop!

(So, Pam, yet another effort to go to Temple Church thwarted by time and fate!)

I retraced my steps back to Trafalgar Square and then to Piccadilly to hop on the tube back to Russell Square. I also suspected that a short break at the hotel would give me more energy for the rest of the afternoon. I stopped at a bakery in Marchmont Street to bring back a bacon and cheese panini to share with my mother. This was about as close as I could get to a traditional bacon butty—and let me say, it was tasty. (It wasn’t just bacon and cheese, there was also “salad”—lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber—on it.)

Sure enough, my National Trust Handbook listed the locations of the town shops, including the London shop, located in Caxton Street in Victoria. Now, granted, Victoria is just adjacent to Westminster, but still, there was no chance I could have found this shop just by walking around. In fact, the shop is located in a historical site called the Blewcoat School, a school that was built in 1709 as a school for poor children. It was used as a school until 1926. It was used as a school until 1926. In 1954, it was purchased by the National Trust who use it as a gift shop and information centre.

After our lunch and a bit of a rest (not too much), I persuaded my mother to come with me to the National Trust shop and my next round of final errands. (She is a sucker for National Trust shops.) This time we took the tube from Euston Station on the Victoria line to Victoria Station. From there we walked up (or down) Victoria Street what I felt was a short distance but my mother possibly considered a moderately long walk.

A left turn into Buckingham Gate brought us to Caxton Street and the back of the Blewcoat School and the National Trust Shop.

We left with bag in hand. Despite my mother’s packing concerns, she could not resist the lure of the National Trust Shop! When I gave her the option of walking back to Victoria Station, or getting on the tube at St. James Park, only a couple of blocks away from us but necessitating a change of trains, she chose the St. James Park tube. Rather excitingly, our walk to the tube took us right past New Scotland Yard! Outside New Scotland Yard, we saw a man being interviewed by TV reporters, and although we did not know who it was or what he was saying, we assumed it was something important and newsworthy!




Not unlike Mark Darcy/Colin Firth being interviewed at the Royal Courts of Justice following his victory in a big civil rights trial. (Since we pay no attention to the news, we never did find out what it was all about.)

After one stop on the Circle Line, we changed trains at Victoria Station to go to Oxford Circus. Luckily it was only two stops on the Victoria Line, because at 4:30 or so the trains were starting to get rush hour crowded. We emerged from underground into Oxford Circus and turned directly into Regent’s Street, destination Liberty. Liberty of London is a large department store, historically famous for its prints and fabrics, which were also sold in PVC tote bags and gorgeous silk scarves. When the store remade its image in the last few years, they discontinued the bags and other Liberty print items, and the scarves they sell are other designer scarves rather than the classic Liberty scarves. Last year I bought a very expensive “one-off” (meaning one-of-a-kind) silk skirt made from the last of the stock of old scarves. It is hanging in my closet like a treasured piece of artwork, waiting for the right occasion to be worn.

My main reason for coming to Liberty was to try out its new tea room, conveniently located on the main floor. It is a curious amalgam of very contemporary molded plastic furniture and classic dishes and silver. The dishes are black and white transferware and the silver is slightly battered hotel silver. We unfortunately arrived at the same time as a number of other people, and though we didn’t have any problem finding a table, we did have to wait a very long time for our order to be served—and it wasn’t even right. I had ordered one high tea (full afternoon tea) and one cream tea (scones and cream). When it finally arrived all we got was the cream tea and tea for one—the other half of the order had been forgotten, or never ordered, or something. No longer interested in prolonging our stay, I just asked for one more pot of tea and forget the high tea. Later, when we got the bill, I had to have words with the waiter because they overcharged us for “splitting” the cream tea! To their credit, after I explained two or three times what the problem was, they re-rang it as the cream tea plus extra pot of tea that we actually got. Of course, we paid at least twice as much for the cream tea as we would have paid for the same thing outside of London! London is an expensive place.

My final destination in Oxford Street was John Lewis, a big department store. I had some idea of finding the “Big Tomato Company” dishes that I had so liked in Bath (I saw on the internet that they are carried by John Lewis). I did find a pretty big collection (though not all the pieces I had wanted—why oh why didn’t I try to get them in Bath?), but when I learned I would have to go to the 5th floor to get a form to have anything shipped to the U.S. (the chinaware was in the basement), my interest waned and I decided to skip it. Maybe I could find it on the internet some other time.

Dragging my mother back to Oxford Circus, we squeezed onto the now impossibly crowded tube (we had to wait for a second train, and that was still packed) for the two-stop trip to Euston Station. After dropping my mother at the hotel, I set out on my final last-day journey—to Harrods. Lucky for me, this train was not so crowded, so I was able to get a seat for the ride to Knightsbridge.

While I was paying for one last purchase, I commiserated a little about the exchange rate, and the friendly but outspoken clerk opined that we had had it good for a long time (1993 to 2004 or 2005, in my calculation), and now it’s payback! I told her she should take advantage of it and take a trip to the U.S., and she said she was going later in the year. I then headed to the export bureau to collect the paperwork for my pathetic VAT refund.

Back at Russell Square and Marchmont Street, I popped into Waitrose to check on the clotted cream I planned to buy in the morning. I grabbed a shopping basket for a few other purchases—several packets of chocolate covered digestive biscuits and some flapjack. In the cream aisle, I was disturbed to see that the clotted cream was all gone. The clerk who went to check on it for me then told me that they would not get any more until the next afternoon (by which time we would be on the plane). I was quite distraught as I left the store. I was so distraught, in fact, that I didn’t notice I was carrying a metal shopping basket filled with digestive biscuits and flapjack until I was half way to the street! After a stunned moment, I turned around and slipped back into the store, hoping that I would not be accused of shoplifting. (No one even seemed to notice.)

Purchases now paid for, I returned to the hotel, somewhat resigned to the idea that I would have to go home without clotted cream. Of course I had personally eaten enough clotted cream to satisfy several months of teas, but there were others at home hoping for cream deliveries, and I hated to disappoint!

But for the moment, I turned my mind from clotted cream to fish and chips (from one full-fat item to the next), and headed out with my mother to pick up an order for our dinner. We learned from our last experience, and this time ordered only one order of chips to share, although we did order three pieces of fish. The fish and chips were quite delicious, hot, crispy, and just greasy enough. We ate every crumb!

That left just the packing to finish. Fortified with yet another strong latte, I faced up to my bags (of shopping) and bags (to be packed). I definitely had not done that much shopping, but with the decreased carry-on allowance, I had to get more stuff into packed luggage. (I had brought along an extra duffel bag, and this would leave us with six bags to check amongst us, and then the three to carry on.)

I won’t dwell on the packing experience, though it wasn’t pretty. But being a practiced packer, I managed to wedge almost everything into the three bags I was packing (without busting any seams this year), leaving only a very few small items—including the clothes I was wearing on Tuesday—to squeeze into my parents’ bags. The bulk of my excess packing was books I had bought and travel maps and guides, plus an electronic Monopoly game only available in England, and a large number of PVC shopping/tote bags.

I had emailed to Jennifer that I didn’t think I could get clotted cream (or have any room to pack it), and she responded threatening the welfare of my cats if I did not bring back clotted cream! Feeling bad (though not particularly concerned about the cats), I managed to rearrange my suitcase to allow space for the clotted cream, if I could manage to track some down at Sainsbury’s in the morning. We had bought ice packs at a kitchen store in Bath, which the Harlingford kitchen staff had put in the freezer for me. I hated the idea of not using the ice packs (which we had a hard time finding, believe me), so that was another incentive to try to find the clotted cream!

Done packing by midnight or so, I read my book for a while then turned out the light on my last full day in London. Even without Somerset House and Temple Church, it had been a full day. When I looked at my pedometer that night it read 39,269 steps! (A mile is 2,000 to 2,500 steps.) About 13,000 of those steps came from my run that morning, and the rest had been my various excursions around London. And this was a day when I had taken the tube a lot! My mother would not be surprised to hear that her part of the afternoon probably amounted to at least 6,000 to 8,000 of those steps, and that was just in going to and from the tube and our various destinations. At least it helps a bit with the clotted cream!

A Royal Rose Garden

Sunday 3 June

At 6:32 on Sunday morning I appeared at my parents’ door to escort them to The Regent's Park. I had puzzled over the best way to get them there without making them walk too far. I decided that they should take the Circle line tube from King’s Cross to Great Portland Street station, which is almost right across the street from Regent’s Park. (They could have gotten the tube from Euston Square instead, but both King’s Cross and Euston Square are about the same distance from the hotel, so it seemed best to go to a station that they were more familiar with.) I let my father use my Oyster card and I would just run there instead.

I walked them to King’s Cross then took off up Euston Road toward Great Portland Street. I had told them to meet me outside the station, but I wasn’t sure whether they or I would get there first. When I arrived there was no sign of them. I peered inside the station in case they were coming through the gates, but the station was empty. I decided to run around the outside of the station to pass the time while I waited (it’s a very small station). Each time as I passed the entrance I looked inside, until after three or four times I decided that I wouldn’t look in again until I did ten loops. (I cheated and looked after a few more circles, but they still weren’t there.) So , after ten times I started on another ten—and after number twelve I rounded the front of the station to see them sitting on a bench. They said that there had been a long delay waiting for the train—not surprising before 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.

As usual in London, taking the tube (or bus) to the stop nearest your destination doesn’t mean you don’t have a walk ahead of you. To get to the rose garden in Regent’s Park we still had to cross Euston Road (or actually Marylebone Road, as Euston turns into Marylebone at Great Portland Street), enter the park by way of Park Square East and St. Andrew’s Gate (my usual entry point), follow a path west to the Broad Walk, then walk north on the Broad Walk until you take a left on Chester Road, which will lead you directly to the entrance of Queen Mary’s Gardens (and the rose garden is, luckily, right inside). Just a hop, skip, and a jump, really.

Since I was foregoing my usual run around the park, I ran back and forth on the Broad Walk and Chester Road until my parents caught up to me at the gates to the gardens. We walked in, and the roses were every bit as magnificent as the day before. Rosy pink swags of rambling roses, massed beds of white, pink, red, yellow, and amazing sunrise and sunset shades from appricot to orange. The rose gardens contain more than 30,000 rose bushes of 400 varieties.

A few of the lovely roses....

Norwich Castle

Cherry Brandy & Pensioner's Voice

Singing in the Rain & Heart of Gold

Tatton

A cool blue delphinium border, edged with catmint or something similar (I can’t quite make it out for sure), provides a contrasting backdrop to the beds of roses.

Queen Mary’s Gardens extend beyond the roses to other mixed borders, trees, and shrubs, but our time that morning was limited, so as we came to the end of the roses we turned around and circled back to the entry. It would be so easy, and wonderful, to spend hours at Regent’s Park walking in the gardens and sitting on benches, but breakfast awaited at the hotel. Not to mention that my father had a train to catch.

Later that morning Regent’s Park was to be the site of a green fair and bike rally, so our peaceful, solitary park would be swarming with people. We were happy to have the roses almost to ourselves, joined by only the occasional walker, runner, or early morning photographer. All my visits to Regent’s Park have been early in the morning, so I consider it my personal park, and am not too eager to share it with the mobs! Even without the fair, all the parks are are magnets to visitors on sunny summer days, city dwellers seeking a bit of countryside and green.

Regent’s Park is one of London’s largest parks, covering 410 acres. On the south side it is only about a mile from central London, close to Paddington, Baker Street, and my own Euston and Bloomsbury areas. On the north side it borders the residential area of Primrose Hill (where Mark Darcy lived in the book version of Bridget Jones’s Diary). In addition to Queen Mary’s Gardens in the center and other landscaped areas, the Park is home to the London Zoo at the north end, London’s Central Mosque at the west, a college, an open air theatre, and several cafés and restaurants (plus a sausage cart). On one side of the park there is a boating lake, as well as a smaller pond in the rose garden (site of the “dead duck” incident in the movie About a Boy.)

I returned my parents to the Great Portland Street station around 8:20. Breakfast finished at 9:00, and if the trains took as long as they had on the way, they might not get back in time. I knew I would get back in plenty of time, so we agreed that I would order their breakfast if they didn’t return before 9:00. But as I was finishing an extra loop around the block by the hotel, there they were walking down the street (at only 8:45 a.m.)—in plenty of time for breakfast.

My dad took off right after breakfast to catch a train to Newcastle. I had promised my mother already that today would be a "light" day (despite the 6:30 a.m. trip to Regent's Park). So I freed her from any obligations until we went to tea in the late afternoon. I had originally planned to go out myself and then come back to get her for tea, but as I sat down to write I realized that maybe I too should have a somewhat unencumbered afternoon, with time to write and just hang out. Despite my rather full schedule over the past couple weeks, I haven't felt unusually tired—although I have upped the strength of my lattes to triple talls and quadruple grandes (and I don't know if I can go back!).

Like the day before, the weather was bright and sunny on Sunday. As I ventured out to Starbucks around 10:30 or 11, the streets were Sunday morning quiet, only a handful of people out and even fewer cars, offering a sense of peacefulness that was rare for London. I settled myself in the hotel lounge with my latte and computer, and let the afternoon while itself away.

Around 2:00 or so I suggested to my mother that we walk down the street to the Brunswick shopping centre and get a little bit of lunch to hold us over till tea later on. The Brunswick Centre is a newly renovated shopping area and residential block close to Russell Square tube, a concrete and glass behemoth which has apparently been a London landmark since it was built in the sixties. (Who knew? I just thought it was an apartment building and shopping center which has been spruced up in recent years. I used to shop at the somewhat dingy Safeway store in college; it was closed a few years ago and is now replaced by a shiny new Waitrose and other retail shops.) There are a number of moderately priced, trendy casual restaurants there, and we went into one called Nando's, an English chain specializing in grilled chicken, and ordered grilled chicken Caesar salads. (The meal-size salad, virtually unheard of in England even a few years ago, has now become almost as ubiquitous here as in the U.S.)

I wanted to stop at Fortnum & Mason before going to Brown's Hotel for tea, so we decided to leave at 3:30 to allow plenty of time to get there. After spending the day in a t-shirt (my Wells Fun Run shirt) and baggy pants, I wanted to dress up for tea, so I changed into the cotton wrap dress that I had brought along especially to wear to Brown's. Unlike most wrap dresses, this one had very little overlap in the skirt, so there was a rather unnerving tendency for the skirt to flip open unexpectedly. I spent quite a bit of time holding it together, especially in gusts of wind!

Fortnum & Mason is about halfway down Piccadilly between Piccadilly Circus and Green Park. We took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and it only took a few minutes to walk to Fortnum & Mason. The visit to Fortnum & Mason did not take long, partly because F & M is undergoing renovations and thus offered a lot less to explore than usual. After a stop at Hatchard's, the venerable bookstore next door to Fortnum and Mason, we continued on down Piccadilly and crossed at Albemarle Street to head to Brown's Hotel.

After a few minutes wait (we were early), they showed us to our table and our Brown's tea experience began. Afternoon tea at a fancy hotel is a pricy proposition at the best of times, and a poor exchange rate makes it so expensive as to begin to wonder whether it is even justifiable at all! But if any expensive tearoom offers an opportunity to get your money's worth, it is Brown's Hotel. Brown's generously provides unlimited seconds (thirds, etc.) on all aspects of the tea—sandwiches, scones, and sweets—so depending on how hungry and/or piggish you feel, you can make afternoon tea into quite a meal.

A few years ago Brown's redecorated the tearoom, so the lovely old classic library decor has now been replaced with a more contemporary style. I feel rather sad about the change, because I liked the old furniture, even if it is quite nice now. At least we were seated at a table whose chairs have arms, and not on the leather cubes that constitute some of the chairs!

I was thankful for the large linen napkin the waiter draped over my lap, so I didn't have to monitor my skirt during tea. Between the top half of my dress dipping low, and the skirt trying to pull open, I was a couple of deep breaths away from sitting there in my underwear! By the time I finished my share of two plates of sandwiches (we did take the seconds), scones, and a few little cakes (we didn't have the stomach for seconds on the scones or cakes), I was convinced that I was threatening the stability of the wrap even more. After we left Brown's, I was completely unable to control the skirt, and my slip was exposed most of the time—at least it is white and doesn't clash with the dress or anything.

Before heading back to the hotel, we walked over to Berkeley Square, just a few blocks behind Brown's Hotel. I've always loved the mention of Berkeley Square in the song—"There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square"—and I love the line-up of benches with dedication plaques on them. Berkeley Square is very austere, landscaped only with trees, and a few clumps of daffodils in the early spring. On this particular day one end of the park was covered with large tents, apparently meant for some kind of upcoming event.

It is a short walk from Berkeley Square back to Green Park, where we hopped on the tube back to Russell Square and the hotel. As we rounded the corner to Cartwright Gardens, we could see and hear into the hotel lounge, where my father was sitting with the Norwegian cousins, who had stopped by to say Farvel before flying back to Norway early the next day. We learned that Annbjorg had led them on another long walk today, five hours walking from their hotel to Oxford Street and around and about in Oxford Street—after which they hopped on a bus back to their hotel. Luckily they still had enough energy left to walk over to our hotel, so we didn't have to find our way to them (being still overly full of sandwiches and scones).

So goodbyes were exchanged, with promises of visits to Norway soon.

If you’re tired of London…maybe you need a nap

I am not tired of London (yet), though I probably do need a nap. But as we returned to London from our sojourn in the country and I felt a little stunned by the crowds and noise, I did think of Dr. Johnson’s famous quote: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." I love London; I say it frequently, and I’ll say it again, and mean it wholeheartedly. I can’t imagine a trip to England without at least a few days in London. But more and more I have come to value the time outside of London, in the country and villages and smaller cities like Wells and Bath, which do not have all that life can afford, but have just about enough to make me happy.

Rather unintentionally, we planned our trip so that we began in the smallest village, Chipping Campden; then went to a small city, Wells; then to a bigger city, Bath; before ending up in the very big city of London. The crowds and intensity did increase accordingly as well. In London everyone seems to be moving very fast somewhere. I am a fast walker, but many Londoners walk faster than me. (However, as the weather warmed up over the weekend, the pace of London seemed to slow—there was much more strolling, and sitting around outside cafes and pubs, and lounging on the grass and folding chairs in the parks.)

We left Bath and returned to London as we had arrived thirteen days early—by train. We were just a little more loaded down with bags than on our arrival! (Not much, really.) We first dropped off my father at the train station with all our luggage, driving up to Platform 2 and leaving him on a bench surrounded by suitcases and bags. Then mother and I took the car back to Hertz to drop it off, getting a taxi back to the station. By the time we were on the train, it was approaching noon.

Even though this train is not as fancy as some of the newer lines, it is always nice to collapse into a seat and watch the world go by. As always, we arrived in London too quickly. After hauling ourselves into a taxi, we returned to the Harlingford Hotel in the early afternoon.

I was the first to go into the hotel, and the desk clerk who had helped us before greeted me in a friendly but understated way. Then, a few minutes later, as my father came in the door, I heard her shout, “Bob’s back!” I couldn’t believe it—Mr. Popularity. (I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t even remember my name, unless she looked at the reservations.)

London was noticeably warmer and sunnier than when we had left, and the hotel was warmer as well. When I went up to my room, I was a little dismayed that the window did not open. I asked my father to check when he went down to see whether the window could be opened. (I could see why they might not want it to, as it was a full length window with a little balcony that I’m sure they wouldn’t want people to go out onto.) I made some kind of dramatic statement about how I can’t sleep in a room where the window won’t open (although after he left I noticed the fan, which would probably cool the room off adequately). But (luckily) before I could concede, the desk clerk called the room and said she could move me to a different room where the window would open, and it was a bigger room. So I left my tiny little single room to move up one floor higher (which didn’t matter to me), to Room 28, which is one of the nicest double rooms, with a 4-poster bed, a fireplace (nonworking), plenty of floor space and a big bathroom. Very nice.

The only plan I had for the remainder of Friday afternoon was a trip to Kensington Gardens and tea at the Orangery. At my father’s request, I added a visit to Harrods to follow tea; easy to do as Harrods is now open 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. Monday through Saturday, and noon to 6 p.m. on Sundays.

The best way to get from Bloomsbury to Kensington Gardens is the #10 bus from Euston Road. That route goes through Knightsbridge and on to Kensington Gardens, so it would be a good bus back to Harrods later on as well (both the #9 and #10 go from Kensington to Knightsbridge). The bus ride was somewhat slow and I noticed, when we got into the park, that my parents were as well. I became concerned that the weeks of travel were taking a toll, and felt reluctant to make them walk too much just so that I could see some of the gardens. Besides, it was after 4:00 and I felt we needed to get to the Orangery before it was too late (cue ominous music).

So we headed toward the Orangery without further ado. Had I realized what would happen when we got there, I would have perhaps urged everyone to try to walk fast! As we approached the Orangery, I went ahead to the entrance—where I saw a sign posted. “Due to a private function, the Orangery will be closing at 4 p.m. today.” We were too late (though it was not our fault; normally it is open until 5:00).

No tea for me—but at least the roses are in bloom!

So it was back to Kensington Road to catch the 9 or 10 bus to Harrods. Harrods was, of course, packed—what else would you expect on a Friday afternoon in June? I had tea on the brain, especially after the rejection at the Orangery. I insisted we all go to the Terrace Bar on the fourth floor for tea. The Terrace Bar is the outskirts of one of Harrods fancier restaurants. We were seated in the enclosed balcony, which must be air-conditioned because it was cool and breezy despite the conservatory-style glass roof. It was very pleasant sitting outside Harrods, looking down at the roofs of Knightsbridge. We ordered one full tea plus extra sandwiches, which was just right for us.

Then we sent my father off to go see Harrods, arranging to meet in the Egyptian Escalator an hour and a half or so later. My mother and I sat a while longer, finishing the tea, then went off on our own browsing tour. We ended up buying a few of the Harrods PVC bags, both for gifts and because we (I) couldn’t resist the new designs! After a stroll through the Food Halls (always an impressive sight), we met up with my father as planned and headed for the tube back to Russell Square.

We weren’t tired of London, but we were tired and ready to call it a night.

Ah, London!

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that before London becomes wonderful, it is often horrible.

I remember my first trip to London in 1986, with a PLU group led by the wonderful English professors Dennis and Gloria Martin (affectionately known as Den and Glo). They were true Anglophiles who had managed to wangle frequent trips to England by guiding groups of students abroad. The lucky students benefited from Den and Glo's travel experience and affection for all things English. Dennis and Gloria benefited, it must be assumed, by scoring subsidized travel in the guise of employment and education.

Our first morning at the Harlingford Hotel (where I have stayed a dozen or more times since), Gloria came down to breakfast telling how in her excitement at being in London, she had flung open the window in her room, sighing "Ah, London!" The old window promptly slammed down on her hand, causing injury painful enough to necessitate her taking one of the painkillers she had brought along in case of emergency.

That's London—before the pleasure, there is pain.

I warn everyone who is going to London that the first day they arrive, after flying for nine hours (often under uncomfortable conditions) and enduring a time change which keeps them up for more than 24 hours, they will probably hate London. It will seem dirty, dark, and pretty much unpleasant. (Unless it is August. Then it will seem dirty and extremely hot.) This is true, to some extent, even for people like me who have been to London many times and love it wholeheartedly.

Now, the degree to which you hate it on the first day will depend in part on how miserable your flight is, and how you get from the airport to the hotel. If you take for example my first trip in 1986, with a typically dreadful economy flight (though on British Air, so at least there were no layovers), and couple that with a long tube ride (more than an hour, much of it standing up) on the Piccadilly line to Russell Square, and top that off by walking several blocks from the tube station to the hotel, towing a large, heavy, old-style hardsided Samsonite suitcase with wobbly wheels—well then, you will hate it a lot. If you are able to fly luxuriously in business class, and travel by taxi or at least Heathrow Express, then you will probably hate it just a little.

If you can make it through that first unpleasant afternoon, and manage to stay awake long enough in the evening so you can sleep through most of the night without waking up for good at 2 or 3 a.m., then the next day the sun will rise on an entirely different London. Even if it is not a sunny day.

Our trip this time was somewhere in the middle of the "hating London" spectrum. The flight was moderately uncomfortable, though we all did manage to sleep some, and we took a taxi from the airport to the hotel (I took my last trip from Heathrow to Russell Square by tube in approximately 1997). (Heathrow Express started in 1998, but I prefer a taxi unless my destination is Paddington Station anyway.) Taking a taxi through central London has to be considered a scenic tour as well as transportation, as you pass by many famous sights, including Hyde Park and Harrods. But the ticking meter in the crawling traffic is a source of tension—a taxi cannot be called a cheap form of transportation!

Our first view of the Harlingford (Welcome to the Harlingford) was marred by the torn up streets in the crescent in front of the hotel (Cartwright Gardens). We learned later that the Victorian water mains—some pipes untouched for 100 years) were being replaced. The cosmetic disruption was nothing, however, to the shock of finding our reservations messed up. Although I had a room for the two nights we had intended, my parents' room was only booked for one night. My confirmation email proved that we were entitled to a room, and luckily the helpful desk clerk was able to sort things out, although it would require moving them from their second floor room after the first day to a basement room.

The next rather disturbing moment was running into Andrew, the owner of the hotel who had taken over from his parents years ago. (Andrew's full name is Andrew Davies, although he is not the same Andrew Davies who wrote the screenplay for Bridget Jones's Diary (Collector's Edition) and numerous other English films and miniseries.) Andrew is about four years older than me. I remember this because Andrew was 24 when I first stayed here with the PLU group. (At that time he was the desk clerk.) I remember him telling me and my friend Jean how he was a bit wrecked after staying out late partying. Some ten years later, Andrew was running the hotel and was tired in the mornings from being kept up by a new baby. Another ten years or so later, we noticed with dismay that Andrew did not look so good—he was thinner, his teeth were stained (perhaps from smoking or that famous lack of English dental hygiene), and I thought (with horror) that he looked old. What's more, we jumped to some conclusion that perhaps his marriage had broken up, which seemed disturbing although we had never even seen his wife.

Despite the distressing circumstances, we managed to rally and make a trip out to validate our Britrail passes in preparation for a day trip on Friday. King's Cross Station is only a short walk from the hotel.

Although St. Pancras is the more beautiful and impressive looking station, King's Cross is truly the hub of London travel, both as a massive railway depot, and a linking point for several Underground (tube) lines.

I perked up my late afternoon a bit more by a visit to one of London's many Starbucks, several of which are happily in the vicinity of my hotel. (After the first I stopped at was closed early from renovation, I hiked down past Euston Square to find another I remembered. I later learned there are now additional Starbucks kiosks at Euston Station and, even closer, in Brunswick Shopping Center just down the street from the Harlingford.

We finished the evening with a massive order of fish and chips from a nearby chippery. I thought I was placing a modest order, but ended up with two piles of chips so big that we threw away half, even after gorging ourselves beyond all reason. (We ate the gigantic pieces of fish, though. At least I ate all of mine.)

After that I managed to keep myself awake till 9:00, when I could not keep conscious any longer. I slept like a log until 11:30 p.m., when I woke up. I woke up again around 2:30 a.m., to the sounds of an extremely loud and profane dispute in the street below. Eventually the brawlers went on their way, and I eventually slept again until 5:30 a.m., when I got up to go running in Regent's Park.

So this story of a dark and gloomy arrival in London is meant to end with a sunny turnabout the next day. And in fact it does, though it has nothing to do with the weather. Our hotel room mixup was further ameliorated by the helpful desk clerk telling us that because of the problem, she would not charge us for the second night in the changed room (plus she herself would move the luggage down four flights of stairs). And we heard from staff (who remembered us from visits past), that Andrew was leaving on holiday with his family, so all our fears about him going to seed were misplaced. (Although he did look older than before. Funny how that happens.)

And just like every second day in London, after the travel exhaustion has been slept off and a new day has begun, we started the day with a traditional Harlingford breakfast, choosing from a buffet of fruits and yoghurt and cereals, plus a selection of cooked breakfast items, including eggs, bacon and/or sausage, and a new item on the menu, "Andrew's favorite," scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. All washed down with racks of toast and pots of tea and coffee.

And we were off.