The Real Last Day in London

Wednesday, 6 June

If yesterday was our last full day in London, today is the final day, the last opportunity to be in London, to experience the London ambience, and, of course, to pick up clotted cream before flying home to Seattle.

Which of those three is the most important? Depends on who you ask.

But with a little luck, I can accomplish all three things in one final outing. After my great disappointment at Waitrose, I only had one potential source for clotted cream, and that was the Sainsbury's at Holborn. Conveniently it opens at 7 a.m., so at 6:45 I set out.

The Sainsbury's at Holborn is right across from the Holborn underground station, one stop beyond Russell Square on the Piccadilly Line. I could hop on the tube and get there that way, or I could just walk above ground, only a mile literally down the road from Russell Square. I opted for the walk. I suspect that it would take just as long to go down to the tube, wait for a train, ride for a few minutes, then go up the long escalator to the street, and crossing the street to Sainsbury's. Why not have the added enjoyment of a nice morning walk?

So, walk down Marchmont Street to the Russell Square station, turn right to go towards Russell Square, then left on Woburn Place (across from Russell Square), and follow Woburn Place southward as it turns into Southhampton Row, until you get to the Sainsbury's (and Holborn tube) just before the road turns into Kingsway.

(By the way, it is just a short distance further down Kingsway to Aldwych and the Strand, where you will find Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge, and various West End theatres. A few years ago during a firefighters strike in which the tube workers struck in sympathy, my mother and I were going to see My Fair Lady at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, and since the tube wasn't running we got on a bus near Euston instead. Of course, since the Underground wasn't running, the above ground streets were packed with cars and taxis, and our bus was not moving.

After about half an hour of very little progress, I insisted that we get off and just walk. My mother reluctantly agreed, so we set out down Kingsway, which is a big, wide street with big sidewalks. The sidewalks were filled with people who had taken to the streets as a solution to the lack of trains, buses and taxis. There was something magical about this quiet tsunami of walkers, all moving in unison toward some unknown destination.

As if swept by a wave, we arrived at the Aldwych intersection where we turned toward our theatre. At almost the same moment we saw our bus pull up, having finally broken free of the glacial traffic. So, had we stuck it out on the bus, we would have arrived at the theatre at the same time—but without experiencing the communal journey down Kingsway with the other walkers.

That night became slightly less magical after the play was over, when we hesitated over grabbing a taxi immediately, then were unable to get a taxi at all when they all disappeared! We ended up wandering to Covent Garden, then Trafalgar Square, then Piccadilly Circus, and finally into Regent Street, in hope of finding an unoccupied taxi. This was, I might add, in the middle of a drenching rainstorm. I finally saw a taxi pulling up to a restaurant in Regent's Street to deliver a passenger. I ran toward it and suddenly slipped and fell on the wet sidewalk (in front of a crowd of bystanders waiting outside the restaurant)! Without pause, I hopped up and asked the driver, "Are you for hire?" He was indeed, and we climbed into the taxi and rode back to our hotel.)

On this morning, I had no need to go further than Sainsbury's, and I went immediately to the dairy shelf hoping to find clotted cream. I was in luck; they had a whole stack of small tubs of clotted cream, and I picked out the five with the latest expiration dates. Objective accomplished—now I just had to get them into my suitcase with the frozen ice packs.

As I retraced my steps back to Russell Square I felt a wave of sadness over my immiment departure from London. In so many ways my time in London felt unfinished. I hadn't even gone to Covent Garden—I usually go there for the Jubilee Antiques Market on Mondays, but since we went to Stoke-on-Trent on our only Monday in London, I hadn't had any other opportunity to go to Covent Garden. (Sometimes I walk through Covent Garden en route to other destinations as well.)

And the British Museum—I hadn't been by there at all. I usually pass by it several times on the way to Oxford Street or Charing Cross Road. (I never go in, but I always go by it!) By now it was about 7:15 or 7:30 a.m., and I had plenty of time before our designated breakfast meeting time of 8:00, so as I approached Russell Square (the actual square, not the station), instead of turning back toward the hotel I turned left toward the British Museum. Moments later I was in Great Russell Street looking through the gates toward the massive columns of the British Museum. The entry gate was open for employees to go through, and I asked the guard if I could step inside to take a picture. She agreed, so with a snapshot I remedied my British Museum deficiency.

Before leaving I turned down Museum Street, past the Museum Tavern (a picturesque landmark pub across from the British Museum) and walked along a back street looking for a street named in a (fictional) book I was reading. I never found the street, and couldn't see it on my map, so perhaps the author made it up for purposes of the book.

I returned to Russell Square, another destination that I usually walk through several times during a trip, and had barely passed until this morning. Russell Square, the British Museum, and in fact our hotel are all part of the area of London known as Bloomsbury, a region with a distinguished history and geography.

Bloomsbury was developed by the Russell family in the 17th and 18th centuries as a fashionable residential area. Geographically it is an area bounded by Tottenham Court Road to the west, Euston Road to the north, Gray's Inn Road to the east, and either High Holborn or the thoroughfare formed by New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury Way and Theobald's Road to the south. The Woburn Place/Southhampton Row thoroughfare runs through the center, linking Tavistock and Russell Squares. While there are still residential portions (including a lot of hotels), Bloomsbury is also known for academic establishments and colleges, hospitals, and a large number of parks and squares.

Bloomsbury's impressive parks and squares consist of:

·Russell Square, a large and orderly square; its gardens were originally designed by Humphry Repton. The Square is adjacent to the Russell Hotel and Russell Square Tube Station.
·Bedford Square, built between 1775 and 1783) is still surrounded by Georgian Town Houses.
·Bloomsbury Square, a small circular garden, but called a square, also surrounded by Georgian buildings including the former Victorian House and state home of the Lord Chancellor.
·Queen Square, is home to many hospitals including the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery.
·Gordon Square surrounded by the history and archaeology departments of University College London, as well as the former home of John Maynard Keynes, the famous economist.
·Woburn Square and Torrington Square, which are home to other parts of University College London.
·Tavistock Square, home to the British Medical Association, its eastern edge was the site of one of the 7 July 2005 London bombings.
·Coram's Fields - a large recreational space on the eastern edge of the area was formally home to the Foundling Hospital.

Bloomsbury is perhaps best known for its connections with the artistic and literary world. Virginia Woolf ((1882-1941), author, essayist, and diarist) and her sister Vanessa Bell ((1879-1961), painter) lived at 46 Gordon Square, and was part of a group of artists known as the Bloomsbury Group, who met in private homes in the early 20th century. Poet TS Eliot worked at the publishing group Faber & Faber when their offices were in Russell Square. Many years later Eliot's book of poems Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, Illustrated Edition was the inspiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber's famous musical Cats, which includes a reference to flying "up, up past the Russell Hotel" (apparently taken from some unpublished Eliot material).

Other notable Bloomsbury residents include:
Randolph Caldecott (1846–1886), illustrator, lived at No 46 Great Russell Street;
Charles Darwin (1809 - 1882) lived at 12 Upper Gower St in 1839;
George Dance (1741–1825), architect lived at 91 Gower Street;
Charles Dickens (1812–1870), novelist lived at 14 Great Russell Street, Tavistock Square and 48 Doughty Street;
Philip (1792–1870) and Philip Charles Hardwick (1822-1892), father and son architects lived at 60 Russell Square for over ten years;
John Maynard Keynes, lived for thirty years in Gordon Square;
Bob Marley lived in 34 Ridgmount Gardens for 6 months in 1972;
John Shaw Senior (1776–1832) and John Shaw Junior (1803-1870), father and son architects lived on Gower Street;
Thomas Henry Wyatt (1807–1880), architect lived at 77 Great Russell Street;
William Butler Yeats (1865–1939), poet, dramatist and prose writer lived at Woburn Walk (which is, by the way, the little road we walk through as a shortcut from the hotel to Euston Road); and
Kristin Timm, (plus thousands of other American college students from Pacific Lutheran University and other universities), went to school in the premises of the University of London, January through May 1986, and have returned to stay in the area numerous times thereafter.

(This information was obtained from Wikipedia, the free on-line encyclopedia, and other internet sources.)

After standing at the corner of Russell Square for a moment reflecting on all this history (imagine it running through my head like a compilation video—Virginia Woolf looking like Nicole Kidman in The Hours; T.S. Eliot and Jellicle Cats dancing around; Charles Dickens and Charles Darwin travelling from one square to the next; and W.B. Yeats picking through the cobblestones of Woburn Walk),

I turned into Russell Square and walked through it in the usual way, diagonally from the southwest to the northeast corner, emerging at the intersection with Bernard Street near Russell Square Station.

Finally, I felt as if my stay in London was complete.

This would be a great place to end; a satisfactory finish and a firm final punctuation mark to our trip. But, I don't know when to stop and our story is not yet done.

After a big final breakfast—or should I say a final big breakfast—we hauled our various pieces of luggages into the hall and out to the sidewalk to await our car to the airport.

It was due at 10:30 a.m. and from 10:25 or so we were out there waiting. And waiting. At 10:45 we had the desk clerk call to check, and they were on their way, delayed by traffic. Finally the car arrived (a big Mercedes estate wagon, very nice), and we loaded up and began our slow trip to the airport. Some 30 minutes later we passed Regent's Park (which takes me 15 minutes to run to in the morning). I stopped paying attention to the time, relying that the great amount of extra time we allowed before our flight would keep us on time. And in fact, we arrived at Heathrow Terminal 4 some time before 1:00, in plenty of time (though not excessively early, at this point!).

We had already checked in online, and for the first time I can recall, did not have to stand in a long line to check in. We dropped off our bags, got our boarding passes, and headed toward the gate. The clerk warned us that the gate was at least a 15 minute walk from security, which was a good thing to know, because it prevented us dilly-dallying in the shopping concourse too long. In fact, we went directly to the gate and within ten minutes of getting there, the flight began boarding.

Unlike most airports, the British Air flights from London to the U.S. seem to board in a cattle fashion, everyone just piling on at once, rather than by row number. I have experienced this bizarre method several times, even on flights that are quite full, as ours was today. But while it was chaotic in the terminal, by the time we got to the plane everyone seemed to sort themselves out adequately.

The flight was unremarkable, other than watching Hugh Grant's Music and Lyrics twice, with Stranger Than Fiction (Will Ferrell and Emma Thompson) in between. (It passed the time!) (My only Hugh Grant siting of the trip.) After leaving London at 3:05 p.m. London time, we arrived in Seattle at 4:00 p.m. Pacific Time. (Funny, the flight seemed a whole lot longer than an hour!)

And that really is the end.

Of the trip, that is.

I may still have a few things to say, every now and then, as my Anglophilia resurfaces.

And stay tuned; in a few days I am going to post a final wrap-up in pictures, for those who can't be bothered to read the long narrative posts!

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!

Taking the Train to China

Monday, 4 June

My first trip to England in college was before email and digital cameras, back in the day when we sent pretty picture postcards home to record our travels and adventures. Back then I took every spare moment to squeeze in writing postcards to my friends and family. I remember sitting on a train one day, on the way to Canterbury, with a postcard in front of me but my mind on shopping for English bone china. (Before I actually purchased any, I was obsessed with which pattern and manufacturer to buy. This was, by the way, the days when the exchange rate was great and English china was a great bargain. Everyone who came to England bought some. Plates and cups and saucers were being shipped overseas by the gross.) I started scribbling away on my postcard and then read what I had written—"I am on the train to China." My friend Jean and I got quite a kick out of that Freudian slip. (It didn't take much to amuse us—we laughed for years about Jean saying that she was going to "scald Andrew" for giving us bad directions.)

So I wasn't really on the train to China back then, but you can indeed take a train to china in England—that is to the place where china is made, a place called Stoke-on-Trent. Stoke-on-Trent in Staffordshire is a unique city made up of six separate towns: Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley (the City Centre), Stoke, Fenton and Longton—collectively known as "The Potteries." These towns have been for many years, and are still, the production center for English ceramics of all kinds, from stoneware to fine bone china.

I had traveled to Stoke-on-Trent a couple of times over the years, primarily with the intention of buying even cheaper china at the factory seconds shops. Before my pattern (Minton Consort) was discontinued about twelve years ago, I spent hours pouring through stacks of seconds, picking out plates and other pieces which, despite being seconds, had no visible flaws (to my very picky and discriminating eye).

Although I had no china to buy, I thought a train trip to Stoke-on-Trent would be an interesting change of pace (after weeks in the bucolic countryside). So this Monday we took an abrupt change of direction and jumped on the train northward to Stoke-on-Trent.

Our objective was two-fold: one, to visit the Wedgwood Visitor Centre and tour the Wedgwood factory; and two, to take a nice long train ride where we could take as much advantage of possible of the perks of traveling first class. This was because the train to Stoke (which is the train that goes on to Manchester), is part of Virgin Trains (the train line owned by Richard Branson), the most first-rate of the first-class trains.

Now, when I say we hopped on the train, that was only after we spent hours the night before studying the timetables and website to establish exactly what we were entitled to and make sure that we got on a train that maximized our perks! My father and I debated extensively before agreeing that we would be offered free breakfast on our outbound trip, although our return trip would only offer beverages and snacks (pretty substantial snacks, though).

This was a very important thing to resolve because it affected whether we needed or wanted to have breakfast at the hotel before going to the station. We agreed to have breakfast on the train, so we would leave the hotel at 8:30 to walk to Euston Station for the 9:05 train. Skipping the hotel breakfast would certainly eliminate some time pressure in the morning.

But funny thing, as I came back into the hotel at around 7:45 after my run in Regent's Park, I saw my dad in the hotel dining room, apparently having an early first breakfast! Later he told me he had gone in for just a "light breakfast," fruit and cereal and a banana, coffee and toast, and two fried eggs. I guess that would keep him going for a while, until we got on the train anyway.

Our train was the Manchester train, leaving from Euston station every half hour, which made it easy to get onto. Stoke-on-Trent was about half an hour before Manchester. When we got to the station at about ten minutes before nine, the platform number had not yet been posted, so we joined a throng of other passengers hovering under the departures board, waiting for our platform number to go up. It's pretty common on British trains leaving London stations for the boarding platform not to be announced until just a few minutes before departure, which can be very stressful if you are travelling with luggage that you have to drag to the platform and onto the train. But on a short day trip like this, where we were traveling light (carrying only light daypacks), there was no real pressure (although you are always a bit anxious until you are actually on the train!).

A few minutes later the platform number flashed onto the screen—Platform 7, not too far from where we were waiting. Moments later, we were boarding the waiting train. It took only moments to succumb to first class fever, as we snatched up the menu cards that described all we had to choose from. Since our train left at 9:05, we didn't qualify for the "Great British Breakfast" offered on trains leaving prior to 9:00, but instead could choose a full English breakfast (which is essentially the same thing anyway), or vegetarian or fruit plates, should we desire.

The Pendolino trains are sleek and modern, and the seats are roomy and comfortable. Train attendants, dressed in red uniforms to match the red seats and general color theme of the trains, appear promptly to take our breakfast orders, pour coffee, tea, or other drinks, and offer newspapers. (Our attendant brought me a copy of Marie Claire magazine, apparently determining that I was the only member of our party who would be interested in a young, trendy fashion magazine!) My mother and I ordered the English breakfast, but my father, having already had his "light" breakfast earlier, opted for the fruit plate.





The glamour and comfort of the train and the lure of free food led me and my mother into a flight of fantasy where we contemplated planning a trip in which you spent all your time traveling on the trains and eating the free food. If you planned it right, you would never have to buy a meal! However, I think you would need to have a place to stay at night, because even if you could arrange your travel around overnight train journeys, the comfy first class seats might become less so if you tried to do all your sleeping sitting up in them. Later on in the day, the idea of constant train travel seemed less appealing than it had in the morning, but still I think we left a lot of train travel benefits untapped. (There is a special breakfast menu if you are traveling from Manchester to Euston in the morning, and if you are traveling from Euston to Manchester during a certain part of the afternoon, or a certain time in the evening, you will be served afternoon tea or a full dinner! I am still intrigued with the idea of hopping on the train at Euston and riding north long enough to have tea, or dinner, then getting off and taking the next train back to London. This would only work, of course, if you already had a railpass so that you didn't have to pay for a ticket.)

We arrived at Stoke-on-Trent to discover yet another change in what I believed was true (recent years in England seem full of changes to things which have been constant for hundreds of years). The fun little train from Stoke to Wedgwood had been changed to a rail replacement bus! Transportation-wise, it didn't matter, of course, but the ambience of riding a bus is completely different from hopping on and off a train.

Oh well, it could not be helped, and we got on the bus for the 15 minute ride to Wedgwood. The bus lets you off about a quarter to half a mile from the Wedgwood factory, so we followed the road past the Wedgwood railroad platform (waiting for two intercity trains to pass before crossing the tracks), and across a park and parking lot (which I remember as a field some thirteen years ago) to the back entrance of the Wedgwood factory.

In addition to the potteries, a major attraction in the Stoke-on-Trent area is a theme park called Alton Towers. But as we walked toward the Wedgwood factory, I noticed another potential attraction to the area, the Waterways of Stoke-on-Trent, canals which are lined with towpaths for walking as well as canal boats for riding the water. Staffordshire has more miles of canals within its borders than any other part of England. In the past, these canals provided a system of transportation for the pottery industry. In the 18th century Josiah Wedgwood commissioned a local engineer to create the Trent and Mersey Canal which enabled kaolin (china clay) to be brought from Cornwall right to the door of his factory. Equally important, the finished products could be taken away smoothly, with the minimum of breakages. Nowadays the canals are thick with boats offering holiday cruises and tours.

We approached The Wedgwood Visitor Centre from the back, the "canal entrance" as well as the employee entrance. After walking through hallways lined with historical Wedgwood pictures, we entered the main section of the visitor center, where we could go on the tour or visit the shop. I was rather disappointed to learn that the factory part of the tour was closed that day, so we were limited to the exhibition section (a display of historical china pieces with an audio guide) as well as a demonstration area, where craftspeople demonstrated some of the techniques of china decoration. I particularly enjoyed an exhibition and film about Royal Doulton (now owned by Wedgwood), focusing particularly on the making of Royal Doulton figurines. (Royal Doulton also includes Minton and Royal Albert, so by acquiring Royal Doulton, Wedgwood seems to have taken over a large segment of the entire china industry!)

After browsing through the Wedgwood shop, I insisted on stopping at the restaurant for tea and a scone. I had been lured by the website to believe that there is a special Wedgwood Tea Room (which opened in 2007), but apparently the special teas are only served on Sundays, by reservation, and the manager of the restaurant indicated to me that this is especially popular with groups of Japanese visitors. Apparently not, however, something that you can just drop by for.

Finishing with Wedgwood, we made our way back to the road to catch the bus back to the railway station. This was a little bit stressful, as there is no marked bus stop, but we successfully waved down the bus as it approached and stopped. (My mother was convinced that we were on the wrong bus, even though it had the right number—X-1—and came at the right time. She was disturbed that it wasn't yellow, like the first bus had been, and was certain that she did not recognize the roads we were on! However, after about 15-20 minutes we pulled up in front of the Stoke-on-Trent station.)

Charmed by the Virgin Trains, we decided to maximize our trip a bit by riding the train on to Manchester, then turning around and taking the train from Manchester back to London. We were just a tiny bit embarrassed (at least I was) that our train back to London was the exact same train that we got off in Manchester, so the crew recognized us and commented on our quick turnaround!

On the afternoon and evening trains into London, there are no "meals" served, just "snacks." But what snacks! The menu offered sandwiches, a wrap, quiche, and salad. I had a piece of the very tasty salmon quiche with some salad and bread, and that certainly made a nice supper in my estimation. In addition to the snacks and other meals, they offer complimentary tea, coffee, soft drinks, and alcohol for those who so desire. First Class travel on Virgin Trains is definitely the way to go!

Our return to Euston Station was the end of our planned day. We now had only one full day ahead of us in England before heading home on Wednesday. I had a rather full schedule in mind of "last minute" things to see and do on Tuesday, and my father wanted to squeeze in one last train trip. My mother preferred to start worrying about packing and the flight home.

Back at the hotel I pulled out our flight information to check on our departure time (15:05 on Wednesday). In looking over our itinerary I saw something which, I admit, I should have noticed before—a change in the baggage restrictions from our flight over. Flying to the U.K. on British Air we were allowed two checked bags, plus one carry-on and an additional laptop/briefcase/purse. On the return flight leaving the U.K., our carry-on allowance was decreased to one carry-on only, without the additional laptop/briefcase/purse! This was incredibly annoying since the tendency is to increase baggage on the return home, not decrease it!

So this created an additional tension as we had to contemplate reorganizing our luggage so that each of us would carry only one item onto the plane. This mostly affected me, of course, since I had my laptop bag plus my regular carry-on which I had already packed full of breakable china mugs. In my past experience, British air has always been very lenient about carrying extra stuff on the plane (especially if it is a bag of purchases from duty-free), but I didn't think this was the time to test their patience. Especially with my mother along—I didn't want to send her into a nervous breakdown (if it could possibly be avoided). In the end, of course, we did manage to pack everything up and do it within acceptable guidelines, but not without some 24 hours of anxiety to come!

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.