Category: Duke of Wellington

 

 

 

Or Bath In The Time Of Cholera . . . . . .

 

 

Hubby and I began our last day in London in the usual way – at Café Nero.

 

“Are you depressed because we’re leaving London?” he asked me as we sipped our coffees at the outdoor table.

 

“Not exactly depressed,” I answered, thinking his question a bit odd. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You don’t look so good. I thought maybe you were depressed.”

 

“No, not depressed.” Sick, but not depressed. I had awoken that morning to the realization that I was well and truly coming down with something. You know that feeling you get where you just don’t feel like yourself? Like your head’s in a fog and you’re not really present? Like you already have a somewhat sore throat and you’re just waiting for the other symptoms to drop? Yeah, that’s the feeling. And I had it. In spades.

We went back to the room, where I finished packing and then got us downstairs and into a cab.

 

“Paddington Station,” I told the driver.

 

“You know where we’re going?” Hubby asked.

 

“Yeah. To Paddington Station.”

 

“But do you know how to get us to Bath?”

 

“Not really, but then I don’t have to know. The guy who drives the train knows. All we have to do is buy a ticket and get on.” I smiled at him. “It’s okay, Hon. I’ve done this before. You’ve done it before, too.”

“I’ve never been to Bath.”

 

“No, but we went to Oxford on the train last time we were over, remember? Same station.”

 

This seemed to reassure him and before long we pulled up in front of Paddington Station.

 

I paid off the cab and we got our luggage out of the boot and headed into the Station. I took a few steps and stopped.

 

“What’s wrong?” asked Hubby.

 

“Nothing. I’m just trying to get my bearings,” I said, leading us deeper into the crowd. Before long I spotted the coffee bar I’d sat at so many times before (often with Victoria) and knew that I was, indeed, heading in the right direction.

 

 

 

 

As I headed toward the ticket booths, I began to feel as though I were walking through thick, sucking mud, each step a monumental effort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, the ticket office was in sight. I left Hubby guarding the luggage and approached a window.

 

 

 

 

“Two first class tickets to Bath Spa, please,” I told the woman behind the glass partition, who was looking down at her monitor.

 

She punched a couple of buttons on her keyboard. “Two hundred and fifty four pounds,” she said.

 

I leaned in closer to the speaking hole in the glass. “I’m sorry. You must have misunderstood me. I said to firsts to Bath, not two first class tickets on the Concord to Dubai.” My good woman.

 

She looked up at me then and I swear she did a double-take. And gasped. Her entire demeanor suddenly changed. Did I look that bad?

 

“Look,” she said, “Being as it’s Sunday, I’ll give you two regular singles and you get in the first class coach. When the man comes round for your tickets, he’ll upgrade your tickets to first class for an extra fifteen pounds each. Sound good?”

 

“Sounds exactly right. How much are two regular singles?”

 

“S
ixty-one pounds all together.”

 

“Sold. Does that work everyday?”

 

She shook her head. “Just on Sundays and Bank Holidays.” She slid the tickets through the window. “Track three.”

 

I thanked her and made my way back to where Hubby was waiting.

 

“Let’s go. We’re on track three.”

 

“Where’s track three?”

 

I looked about as we neared the tracks. “Here it is.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

I pointed to the sign that read “Track Three – Bath Spa.”

 

“Where are you going? There’s an open door on this car here.”

 

“First Class. We’re going to the First Class carriage. Just follow me.”

We got to the First Class carriage, threw our selves and our luggage inside and set about choosing our seats.

 

“These are reserved,” Hubby pointed out. “Look, the signs on the seats say reserved.”

“They’re reserved for First Class customers. That’s us. Just pick a seat.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

I told Hubby all that had transpired at the ticket window. To which he said, “How do you know that will work? What happens if we have to pay full whack?”

 

Sigh. “I don’t think she’d lie to me about it. If worse comes to worse, we’ll move.”

 

 

At long last and somewhat grudgingly Hubby chose a seat on one side of the aisle, while I took the empty seat on the opposite side of the aisle. We both had two seats and a table to ourselves. The remainder of the carriage was empty.

 

Our train pulled out of the station and it was just a few moments later that I was attacked. Someone, I didn’t see what the blighter looked like, hit me with the sick stick. Full force. It began with the chills. Soon after the chills were replaced by the feeling that someone had filled my spine with a shaft of ice. I began to shiver in earnest and what little reserves of strength I’d previously had now completely deserted me.

 

“You okay?” asked Hubby.

 

I shook my head.

 

“You don’t look good. Are you sick?”

 

I nodded, finally admitting what I’d tried to keep at bay by not speaking of it. The jig was indeed up. I tightened the scarf round my neck and drew on my gloves. “I’m freezing,” I whispered.

 

“Here,” Hubby said, taking off his coat and covering me with it.

 

“Now you’ll be cold,” I told him.

 

“No, I won’t. It’s not cold in here at all. The heat’s on.”

 

Bundled up as I was now, in my coat and Hubby’s, I continued to shake with the cold.  My cough returned and my throat felt as though it was being slit by razor blades. The train soon entered a tunnel and I was able to see my reflection in the glass – I looked as though I’d died on Friday. Bear in mind that this was Sunday. . . . not a pretty sight.

 

Did I have the flu? The Norovirus? Some other virus? Bird Flu? Cholera? Did people still get cholera? What about malaria? Understand, I am by no means a hypochondriac. Really. But I hadn’t been this sick for yonks. It was the type of total incapacitation one usually only sees in small children and that I can only recall having as a child, when doctors used to actually make house calls and mothers would wrap handkerchief’s smothered in Vick’s Vapo Rub round small patients necks. It had come on fast and hit me like a freight train, no pun intended. I thought fleetingly of dying, which served to cheer me up somewhat, for not only would the misery end, but I would have accomplished my hearts desire – to die in England. To die, with any luck, more specifically in Bath would be a real coup. If I made it that far. And to die in England, in Bath, in Duke’s Hotel, whilst occupying the Wellington Suite would be the icing on the cake.

 

Typically, the highlight of a train trip in England for me was to look out the window at the surrounding countryside, to catch unexpected glimpses of quaint houses, sheep, cows, fields and hedgerows, not to mention snapshots of various towns along the way as glimpsed through the windows as one sped by. This time, I took little interest in the passing views. All I could think of was the irony  of my getting sick just as I was headed for Bath. And Duke’s Hotel. And the Wellington Suite.  When first planning this trip, I’d meticulously done my research into Bath hotels. This portion of the trip was especially important, as we’d be spending New Year’s Eve there. Imagine my joy when I found that there was a small hotel off Great Pulteney Street, not far from Laura Place, where they actually used a likeness of the Duke of Wellington as their logo. Where their suits were named after various dukes – including Wellington. I booked the suite on the spot and have been looking forward to it ever since.

 

Typhoid? Could I have typhoid? I seemed to recall something about one of the symptoms of thyphoid being a bloody nose. Or was I confusing the blood with consumption? I’d have to brush up on my 19th century illnesses. If I lived that long.

 

 

Finally . . . . Apsley House. The Holy of Holies. Honestly, every time I visit I expect the Heavens to part and the angels to sing. Sadly, that’s yet to happen.

“Look, Apsley House!”

“Again,” replied Hubby, barely containing his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, but this time it’s open and we’re going in.”

“Yipppeeee.”

“Wait, come this way. I want to show you something.”

“Oh, fer Pete’s sake. It’s raining. Can’t we just go in?”

“No! You have to see this sign first. Victoria and I love it. Come on.”

Above is a picture of the sign I wanted Hubby to see, taken by myself whilst with Victoria on a previous visit. I cannot tell you how crestfallen I was when I saw, in it’s place, a simple placard that read “Private.” I didn’t take a photo of it because Hubby was impatient and it was raining, but now I could just kick myself. Can  you believe they replaced this sign? Do you think they had to replace it because Victoria and I posted it all over the internet? Hhhhmmmm.

“Okay. Let’s go inside.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait! Wait!”

“Now what?”

“See those rings on the steps? That’s for when they roll out the red carpet. After the carpet is down, they put the rails through those rings to keep it in place.”

“Yeah, right. The red carpet,” scoffed Hubby. Then he looked me in the eye. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Nope.”

I opened the door and in we went (cue chorus of angels). Now, when you enter Apsley House, you find yourself in a large hall. To the left is the reception desk and till and behind it, on the wall, is a huge portrait of the Duke, at least ten feet tall.

Eyeing it now, Hubby said, “Oh, Jeez. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Hi, Honey, I’m home,” I replied. I approached the desk and paid for two entry tickets.

“Would you like audio guides?” the nice man asked us.

“No.”

“Yes, please. Two,” I answered, giving Hubby the stink eye. The nice man gave us a brief overview on how to use them and Hubby assured me that he could handle it.

 

“See that guy behind the counter?” I asked Hubby in a whisper as we walked away.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“He knows who the Duke of Wellington is. So does everyone else here. I’m not the only person in the world who knows who Artie is.”

 

Hubby rolled his eyes as I led him to the first room on the left. This was called the Museum Room in 1853, when the house first opened to the public and as far as I know, it’s still the Museum Room, although back then it was in the room that is now the entrance hall. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should let you know that I didn’t take any of the pictures in the rest of this blog post. I didn’t think photos were allowed, so I swiped these off the internet. There are links to the original posting where I could find them.

 

The Museum Room contains porcelain, gold and silver gifts given to Wellington by grateful monarchs and countries. In addition, you’ll find his swords and staffs of office and the Waterloo Shield, presented to Wellington by the Merchants and Bankers of the City of London.

Hubby and I chris-crossed the room as we punched in buttons on our audio guides that matched the numbers on various items.

When we had finished looking at all the swag, I directed Hubby to the staircase.

 

“What in the Hell is that?”

 I sighed. “Hideous, no? It’s Canova’s statue of Napoleon. Napoleon commissioned it, but by the time it was done, his tastes had changed and he consigned it to the Louvre. In 1816, after Waterloo, the British government bought it and King George IV presented it as a gift to Wellington.”

 

“He must have been thrilled.”

 

“Well, he could hardly refuse a gift from the King, so he had to stick it here, as it was the only place in the house big enough to hold it. They had to reinforce the floor.”

I started up the staircase. Whenever I go up or down these stairs, I always do so slowly, with my hand on the banister. I try to imagine Wellington and the Duchess using these same stairs, their hands where mine are now. And all the past visitors to this house – Mrs. Arbuthnot and Lady Shelley. George IV. Lady Burgeresh. The Marquess of Angelsey. Lady Jersey. The Waterloo officers and their . . . .

 

“Jeez, can you go any slower? What’s with you?”

 

Sigh. “I’m taking it all in.”

“Stairs? You’re taking in stairs?”

  

 

This full length portrait hangs on the landing at the top of the stairs.

I stopped to admire it. “I don’t have this one.”

 

If looks could kill . . . . . . I deviated from the prescribed tour at this point and dragged Hubby through a back hallway, called the Slip Passage, and into the State Dining Room.

 

“This is where Wellington held the Waterloo Banquet every year on the anniversary of the battle. Wellington would invite all the officers who’d fought with him, and George IV, who only thought he’d fought with him. And that silver centerpiece was given to Wellington by the Portuguese to commemorate Wellington’s victories in the Peninsular Wars. It’s the one I touched and set off the alarms.”

 

“What?”

“Yeah. I was here by myself and I was looking at the centerpiece and it appeared to be covered in a layer of dust. I couldn’t believe they’d allow it to get into that condition. I was a bit insulted, to tell you the truth.”

 

“Of course you were.”

 

“So all I did was swipe a fingertip across it to see if it really was dusty and the alarm went off.”

 

“A real alarm?”

 

“Yes. A real alarm. Whaaa! Whaaa! Whaaa! The whole bit.”

 

‘What did you do?”

 

“What could I do? I was pretty well trapped. I went around the table and stood in front of the portrait of Prinny in a kilt as though I were admiring it. Then a guy in a suit came in and gave me a stare and I turned around and gave him a stare back and then he left and pretty soon the alarm stopped.”

 

“He didn’t say anything to you?”

 

“Not a word. I found out that the centerpiece had soon after been removed for a thorough refurbishment, but still, they shouldn’t have left it covered in dust.”

 

“My good man.”

We moved on to the next room, the Striped Drawing Room.

 

 

“Wellington used this room as a place where his guests could relax either before or after dinner. There used to be card and game tables set up here from time to time. The portraits are all of people who served with him. Look, here’s Henry Paget.”

 

 

 

“Who?”

 

“Henry Paget, the Marquess of Angelsey, Lord Uxbridge. The guy who ran away with Artie’s sister-in-law. The one who’s artificial leg we saw at Horse Guards.”

 

“Ah, him again.”

 

We sat on the striped couch in the middle of the room and I began to key numbers into my audio guide.

 

“Hey, Hon.”

 

“Hhhhmmmm?”

 

“Hon!”

 

“What?”

 

“Artie,” Hubby said, pointing to the portrait hanging on the wall before us. “I know that guy.”

 

“You should. You walk by him ten times a day. The painting is by Sir Thomas Lawrence.”

 

“What number is it?” Hubby punched the numbers in and listened to his audio guide. He actually looked interested.

  

 

 

After a time, we moved on to the Waterloo Gallery, which houses the Spanish Royal Collection of artwork.

 

“Most of these paintings were found rolled up in Joseph Bonaparte’s baggage carriage after the Battle of Vitoria in 1813,” I told Hubby. “Wellington had them framed and hung them here. Then, one day a visitor to this room was looking at the pictures and realized that they were all from the Spanish Royal Collection, which Bonaparte had looted and taken as the spoils of war.”

 

“So it was stolen art?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did Artie do?”

 

“He wrote to King Ferdinand of Spain, told him how he’d come by the paintings and told the King that of course he’d return them post haste. He asked the King to give him directions on how he was to best return them. Did the King want to send someone over to get them? Should he, Wellington, arrange for their return as he thought fit? The King wrote back and told Artie to keep the paintings with his thanks for all he’d done for Spain and the free world. Or words to that effect.”

 

“Hhhmmm.”

 

“See these two torcheres?”

 

“The two what?”

 

“The pillars with the candelabras on the top.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Tsar Nicholas gave them to Wellington.”

 



“Originally, this room was hung in yellow damask. Wellington’s good friend, Mrs. Arbuthnot, helped him with Wyatt’s redesign of the house and she and Artie argued over these walls a good deal, but in the end Wellington won.”

 

“Well, yeah. It was his house. Why aren’t they yellow now?”

 

“Wellington’s son, the second Duke, had them changed.”

 

“Because of Mrs. Arbuthnot?”

 

“No. She’d died in 1834. He didn’t become the Duke until 1852. Times had changed, tastes had changed, that’s all. Wellington designed a heating system that’s hidden in the ceiling,” I said, prompting us both to look up.

 

“And see those windows? Wellington designed them so that mirrors hidden in recesses in the wall could be pulled over them at night. When he gave evening entertainments, the mirrors reflected the candlelight throughout the room.”

 

“Hunh.”

 

I walked over to one of the windows and peered out at Hyde Park. “I was here once with Brooke and we were looking out this window when we saw a whole regiment of soldiers out there doing drills in their dress uniforms. After we’d left the house, we went around into the Park and Brooke asked one of the soldiers what they were doing. Without missing a beat, he told her, ‘We’re male strippers and we’re practicing our routine.'”

 

“Come on.”

 

“I swear. You should have seen her face. Then he told her what they were really doing, which was practicing for some official do that was to take place in a few days time.”

 

“Only you could have such crazy stories about Apsley House.”

 

I waved a hand at him. “That’s nothing. The last time I was here with Victoria we watched as hundreds of naked bike riders rode past.”

 

“Get out.”

 

“Fact. It was the annual Naked Bike Run, or some such thing.”

 

“Naked?”

 

“As the day they were born.”

 

“Men or women?”

 

“Both.”

 

“Bicycles or motorcycles?”

 

“Bicycles.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“See? I told you that Apsley House was fun and you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

 

 

 We went out this door and into the Yellow Drawing Room.

 

“That’s an original Adam’s fireplace,” I said.

 

“Who’s Adams?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

We moved on to the Portico Drawing Room

“See this painting here? It’s Charles Arbuthnot.”

“Husband to the interfering Mrs. Arbuthnot?”

“Harriet, yes. After she died, he lived with Wellington, both here and at Walmer Castle. They were both widowers, as well as great friends, so the arrangement worked for both of them. Arbuthnot died in this house. So did Kitty, Wellington’s wife, come to think of it.”

We went through to the Piccadilly Drawing Room, probably so called because the windows look out over Constitution Hill and Piccadilly.

“This is my favorite room in the house. I love the proportions of it. The Adams ceiling and how it mirrors the curve of the end wall. The moulding detail. The picture rails. And the view. I always stand at this window to admire the view,” I said, looking out at Wellington’s statue and the Arch beyond. I stood this way for several minutes and then decided that I’d tried Hubby’s patience long enough.

 

“Come on. Let’s go down to the basement.”

 

“The basement? We’re not going to set of any alarms, are we?”

 

No, it’s part of the museum. The most personal part.”

 

Once we’d gotten downstairs, I showed Hubby the displays that include Copenhagen’s saddle blanket, Wellington’s medals, his traveling cases and, naturally, a pair of his boots.

 

Finally, we approached a display case dealing with Wellington’s death and State funeral.

 

“Look,” I said, pointing at a shelf in the case. 

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Wellington. It’s a death mask. It was taken soon after he died.”

 

“It doesn’t look like Wellington.”

 

“Sure it does. Wellington was in his eighties when he died. The Thomas Lawrence portrait was far in the past by that time.”

 

 

 

“You ready to go?” I asked at long last.

 

“Yeah. What’s next?”

&n
bsp;

“Our three hour rock and roll tour. Three whole hours without mention of the Duke of Wellington.”

 

“I gotta admit, Hon, Apsley House wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. It was pretty interesting.”

 

With Herculean effort, I refrained from saying told you so.

 

 You can take a short video tour of Apsley House here.

 

Part Three Coming Soon!

No doubt you’ll be shocked to learn that the Hubby and I began Day Four as we had every other day – at Caffe Nero. By this time, we’d gotten a frequent purchase card and were well on our way to getting our tenth cup free. Once again, we took our coffees to a table outside, where we drank up, lit up, woke up and discussed our day.

“Apsley House.”

“Mmmhhhmmm.”

“Oh, God. Here we go.”

“You can’t listen to everything Brooke says about Apsley House,” I advised him. “I promise you it won’t be that bad.” Before we’d left for England, my daughter, Brooke, had warned Hubby against Apsley House, using words like boring, torture and never again.. In her defence, I do tend to drag her along to Apsley House whenever we’re in London. “All I ask is that you go once. Just once. And then I promise I’ll never take you there again.” I smiled at him over the rim of my cardboard cup. “Look, I only ask for fourteen days in England out of every two years, on average. That’s not much to ask, huh? You can put up with England for my sake, surely? And today is Apsley House, or as Victoria and I refer to it, the Holy of Holies.”

“Okay, okay. What’s at Apsley House, anyway?”

“Oh, well, where to start? There’s great stuff to see at Apsley House, even before you get inside.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for a start, if there’s a Rolls Royce out front when we get there, then that will mean that the Duke of Wellington is in residence.”

“Yeah, right. Har har.”

“The present Duke. Not Artie.”

“There’s still a Duke of Wellington?”

Sigh. “The king is dead, long live the king. God willing, there will always be a Duke of Wellington. It’s an hereditary title. It gets passed down through the generations. I mean, it’s one of the family titles that’s passed down. Artie was also the Marquess of Douro and Viscount Wellington. Then there’s an Irish peerage, Mornington, which passed down from his brother to the Dukes of Wellington in 1863, so obviously Artie never held that title himself.”

“Oh, obviously. My good man.”

Sigh. I suppose I won’t go into the Duke’s foreign titles with Hubby. “The present Duke is the 8th Duke of Wellington. His son is the Marquess of Douro and his grandson is the Earl of Mornington. He’s married to Jemma Kidd, the make up artist.”

“The Duke is married to a make up artist?”

“Lord Mornington is married to her. The Duke is a widower. It must be awful being any Duke of Wellington other than the first,” I mused.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, there’s no way you can live up to the first Duke, is there? In fact, when Artie was old and frail, someone mentioned to his son, also named Arthur, that he should prepare himself for becoming the next Duke of Wellington. And he said something along the lines of `imagine what a disappointment it will be when they announce the Duke of Wellington and only I appear.'”

“Huh.”

“So, remember when we went to Buckingham Palace and I recognized that portrait of Richard Wellesley?”

“Yeah, that was great.”

“Well, after Waterloo, the nation wanted to honour Wellington by building him a grand estate, along the lines of Blenheim Palace, which was built for the Duke of Marlborough after his military victory. Artie saw no harm in this plan and even went out to Blenheim to see it for himself. Well! He took one look at it and put his foot down. He didn’t want anything remotely that size. Artie was nothing if not practical and he could visualize the enormous financial burden something that size would place on future generations.”

“Besides, Artie was very down to earth. He didn’t want to live in a palace, he wouldn’t have been comfortable. You know, in a way, you could say that Wellington was the first British rock star.”

“Played the electric guitar, did he?”

“After his victory at Waterloo, he was swarmed by crowds wherever he went,” I said, ignoring Hubby’s remark. “Wellington had to be surrounded by a contingent of guards who tried to keep the public at bay. Women would weep when they saw him and try to grab at him and kiss him, or tear off pieces off his clothing as souveniers.”

“What?”

“No joke. Even years later, he was revered. One day he went to some public function and there was an old soldier on the door. The old guy went on and on to the Duke, saying as how he’d never imagined he’d ever get to lay eyes upon the great Duke of Wellington, much less have the honour of opening the door for him. Wellington looked him square in the eye and told him not to be such an idiot. He could never understand the idolatry he received.”

“Back to Apsley House. The guy in the portrait at Buckingham Palace was Artie’s elder brother, Richard. Unlike Wellington himself, Richard was a bit of a spend thrift, always finding himself in debt. He had bought Apsley House for himself, but then found himself in straightened times. He needed to sell it, it was far too expensive for him to run, and Wellington needed a London base. To
his mind, Apsley House was as good a place as any, so he gave Richard a very fair price for the house and thus helped his brother out of debt and got himself a London residence. Two birds with one stone. That was Wellington to a T.”

“Huh.”

“What’s ironic is that Stratfield Saye, the house that the Country did eventually build for Wellington, is still pretty much self-sustaining and it’s Apsley House that became cost prohibitive in the end. The Duke of Wellington gave it over to English Heritage, with the provision that the family still has quarters there and uses it as a residence. You ready to see it?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Hubby with a sigh.

Part Two Coming Soon!

 

“What do I have to change for?” Hubby asked when we were up in our room.

“Because Winter Wonderland is outdoors. It’s in Hyde Park, behind Apsley House. We have to bundle up.”

“Oh, Jeez, it’s freezing out! And more crowds,” Hubby said as he looked longingly at the darts match (still) playing on the telly.

“At least it’s not raining.”

“Yeah. We’re getting a five minute break on the rain.”

So once again we bundled up – coats, scarves and gloves – and made our way to Piccadilly. Walking briskly towards Apsley House, we soon encountered a crowd on the sidewalk.

“What’s this now?” Hubby asked. “What are they all lining up for?”

“The Hard Rock Cafe. There’s always a line. Do you want to go in?” I asked, knowing how big Hubby is into rock and roll. “They have a Vault, with all kinds of rock memorabilia inside.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t wait on that line, in the cold, to get inside if you told me Pink Floyd was in there. And that would be something, since half of them are dead.”

So we continued on our way until we reached Apsley House, which always looks magnificent when lit at night. And on past it to Hyde Park gate . . . . . .

And the entrance to Winter Wonderland.

“What are we stopping for?” Hubby asked. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was the one who’d explained to Hubby that the entrance to Winter Wonderland was right behind Apsely House. I knew it was right behind Apsley House, but I hadn’t realized that it was right behind Apsley House. As in within spitting distance. A child could have thrown a baseball from Apsley House to the entrance. Hell, even I could have thrown a baseball from Apsley House to the entrance. Surely the first Duke must be turning in his grave. And I daresay the present Duke can’t have been too happy, either.

We were soon forced to move forward towards the entrance by the sheer numbers of the crowd pressing ahead. Before us lay a wall of people, a cacophony of noise and the glare of thousands of neon lights.

“Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.”

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Hold my hand,” I yelled. “I don’t want us to be separated.” Egad, I’d never find Hubby again in this crowd, and even if I did, he’d be spitting mad.

Although we had just come through the entrance, everyone already inside seemed to be coming at us. Like lemmings, we had to jostle our way in the opposite direction through a wall of humanity. Peripherally, I could make out booths on either side of the crowd, but dashed if I could make out what any of them were selling. If we went on at this pace, we’d never make it to the Big Wheel by 7 p.m., for which time we had tickets. Right, time to take matters into my own two feet. I gripped Hubby’s hand tighter still and forged ahead . . . twelve steps to the left, nine ahead. Eight steps to the right, 17 ahead. Thus, we twisted, turned and wended our way towrads the Big Wheel, which we could see in the distance.

Finally, we made our way, still together, to the Wheel and joined the queue. There were many gondolas on the wheel and so it was soon our turn to ride. Seated inside, we found buttons one could push in order to listen to either a narrative of the upcoming view or Christmas carols. We chose the narrative and soon we were off. Up and up, higher and higher we climbed. Then we stopped so that the next people in line could board. There we hung, in mid air, as it were.

“What’s the matter?” Hubby asked.

“I didn’t realize we’d be this high up.”

“We’re hardly off the ground yet.”

Apsley House looked like a Leggo toy below us. Staring at it, I thought of Wellington and tried to summon up some courage.

“Maybe we should change seats and sit on the other side so we can get a better view of the fair.”

“No!”

“Alright, alright. I just asked.”

Oddly enough, the higher we climbed, and the less I could see the ground way down below us, the more I began to r
elax. In the distance, one could see the twinkling lights of Mayfair and Knightsbridge. It was a glorious view, a smooth ride and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. Before long, it was time to disboard.

“That was great!”

“I’m glad you liked it. It was something different.”

“Did you enjoy it?”Hubby asked.

“Yes, I did. Though I could use a cigarette.”

We found an out of the way, miraculously empty area and lit up.

“Now what?”

“Zippo’s Circus. I saw it on our way over here. It’s over in that direction,” I said, pointing.

First, we found our way blocked by the Alpen Hotel, a sort of haunted house ride by all appearances.

Then by a German Christmas village, where the crowds continued to thwart our every step forward. Finally, I found a ticket booth and asked the attendant how in the world one was actually supposed reach Zippo’s Circus.

“Oh, well, the best way to go is right up this lane here till you get to your first right turning. Then you’ll take that straight until you see the Bavarian Village. You have to go right through it and out the back. When you get out into the gardens behind, make a right and follow that lane right around to the right and then you’ll see it.”

“Well?” Hubby asked when I returned to his side.

“It’s right down here!” I said brightly. It was the first right turn she’d said, wasn’t it?

 

.

 

 

Here’s a publicity still from Zippos, which will you give you some idea the flavour of the night.

 

 

 

 

Zippo’s is made up of a small, but amazingly talented, troupe of performers. All of the acts were tied together by a sort of Tim Burton/Grimm’s Fairy Tale-esque narrative. The forces of evil, nightmares and I don’t know what else all played a part. The woman who did the narrative had a heavy eastern European accent, so most of what she said was lost, but no matter, the show itself more than made up for it.

 

 

There was an awe inspiring aerialist, a couple who walked and rode bicycles on a tight rope and a group of tumblers and acrobats called the Zulu Warrior Troupe. You can watch a previous performance of theirs here, which will give you a sample of their talents.

 

“Good?”

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nbsp;

“Great! I had no idea it would be this great. It’s all fabulous.”

 

The highlight of the show was the  Motorcycle Globe of Death, which stars Brazil’s Lucius Troupe. First, a single motorcyclist enters the globe and rides around the interior at breakneck speeds. Then another cyclist enters and the two of them drive like demons inside the globe. Then, a woman entered the globe and they sped around her dancing form. Then, she left and a third cyclist entered the globe . . . . .

 

“No freaking way,” said Hubby, who actually rides motorcycles. “That’s nuts.”

 

Way. Round and round they went and I have to say that it stopped being fun for me. No kidding. My heart was in my throat, my rounded eyes were glued to the globe and I really just wanted them to stop before they killed themselves. I couldn’t see this ending well. The air became thick with exhaust fumes, their engines raced and revved as they continued to accelerate, but otherwise the entire tent was silent, all of us watching with jaws hanging open.  

 

 

 

Words really cannot do justice to the performance, so I’ve included a YouTube clip of the act –  you can watch it here. And here’s a longer version. I will tell you that everyone survived the performance, even the audience members.

 

After the show, Hubby and I found a nearby, and blessedly empty, sausage stall with a beer stand not five feet away from it. There is a God! We chowed down, drank beer and had a really good time.

 

“So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” Hubby eventually asked.

 

“Apsley House!” I waited for a joyous response from Hubby. It never came. “Followed by your three hour rock and roll tour.”

 

“It’s not my rock and roll tour.”

 

“Well, it certainly isn’t mine. I booked it for you. Then we have the theatre tomorrow night.”

 

Eventually, we began to make our way out of the fair.

 

“Which way do we go?”

 

“Dashed if I know. I’m all turned around. I have no idea where in the Park we are any longer.” We walked aimlessly for a bit and then I saw a security guard up ahead.

 

“Can you tell me where the nearest exit is?” I asked. He raised his right arm to shoulder height and pointed in response. I followed his finger and there was a deserted lane leading down to what appeared to be a well travelled thoroughfare.

 

“Thanks.” We exited the Park and stood on the sidewalk.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“Give me a minute.”

 

“Are we lost?”

 

No! You can’t get lost coming out of Hyde Park. I just don’t know which gate this is.” I looked to my right . . . . Knightsbridge. I think. I looked across the road. Hhhhmmmm . . . . I do believe that if we were to cross right here and continue on we’d soon be at the Grenadier Pub. Just to make sure, I looked to the left and confirmed that I’d gotten my bearings right.

 

“This way.” I said to Hubby as I began to walk.

“Do you know where we are now?”

 

“Yes. And you know where we are, too.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Yup. St. George’s Hospital is just up here on the right.”

 

“Should we get a cab? Look, there’s a free cab!”

 

“We don’t need a cab! Come on, a few more steps and you’ll see where we are.”

 

And there, like a beacon in the night, glowed Apsley House.