Category: A Couple in England

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Three

After my Mayfair Stroll, I returned to the hotel in order to get properly dressed. The Hubby, but this time, was awake, but still in bed.
“You look comfy.”
“I am comfy,” he agreed, using the remote control in order flip through the UK television channels.
“Do you want to do something? Go out for a bit? I want to do a few things on Piccadilly.”
“Hon,” he began, looking at me properly, “Go and do whatever it is your heart desires. Really. I’ll be just fine here.”
“You’re going to stay in the room? In London?”
“I’m perfectly happy here. I’m not at work, so this is a vacation for me. Look, your idea of a vacation is different than mine. We both enjoy laying on the beach. We both enjoy a cruise. We don’t both enjoy walking around London from morning till night. Go. I’ll be just fine.”
“You won’t mind if I don’t come back for a few hours?”
“Just be back in time for dinner.”
By this time, I’d not only gotten properly dressed (an actual outfit in which all pieces were meant to be worn together, at the same time) and put my make up on. Finished, I put my coat on and I grabbed my purse.
Walking to the door, I hesitated. “Caffe Nero is just at the corner, as you know, and two doors down from that is Tesco Express. Oh, and there’s a Marks and Spencer Just Food a block down on Piccadilly. And Shepard’s Market behind us, where they have pubs and restaurants.”
“Go. Have fun. I promise not to have starved by the time you get back.”

Needing no further prompting, I scurried out the door and was soon at the corner of Half Moon Street and Piccadilly, where Fanny Burney/Madame D’Arblay lived.

I headed down (up?) Piccadilly towards the Green Park tube station . . . .

. . . . . . and headed for St. James’s Church as I wanted to take some time to contemplate Mrs. Delaney’s grave, located inside. Unfortunately, the church was locked up tight.

So, I walked back the way I had come until I reached Hatchard’s bookshop.
Since I had no timepiece on me, I didn’t check what time I entered the shop and so I can’t tell you with any accuracy how much time I spent inside, but I can safely say that it was two hours, at the very least. My favorite bookstores, hands down, are the antiquarian variety. Oh, to be able to browse the stacks and the piles of dusty tomes, arranged higgedly piggedly, never knowing what treasures are awaiting discovery. I have brought home suitcases full of used and antiquarian books after every one of my visits to England but, alas, it’s now becoming more difficult for me to find titles I don’t already own. Of course, there are thousands of titles I don’t yet own . . . . . but for the sake of sanity and space I’ve imposed restrictions on additions to my research library – the Duke of Wellington, Queen Victoria, George IV, Georgian, Regency and Victorian diaries and letters and a few more obscure areas of London interest.
 

Next to an antiquarian bookstore, give me Hatchard’s – three floors of bibliophilic bliss conveniently located on Piccadilly, where it has stood since 1797. The contents of the shop, however, are decidedly 21st century. Here are just a few of the books I bought:

Being now both older and wiser, I had the clerk ship the books to my home, instead of having Hubby lug them around England over the next few day. Besides, this way he’d have no idea that I’d just spent several hundred pounds on reading material.

My very next stop was Fortnum and Mason, only a few doors down the street from Hatchard’s. Whenever I’m in London around Christmas, I like to stop in and buy my Christmas cards for the following year. Upstairs I went, only to find the entire holiday section already decimated! There was not a single box of cards remaining – and this was just the day after Boxing Day. Crushed, I headed over to browse the hats and purses, before making my way back downstairs to the food court, where I poked about for a bit before realizing that I was, in fact, famished.
 
 
 
 
Fortnum’s has at least three restaurants in which one may eat anything from an omlette to foie gras, including the Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon, but being a creature of habit when in London, I headed outside and a few doors down the street to Richoux Tea Rooms.
 
Typically, Richoux is an island of calm where one can order a civilized dish of tea and rest up between stops at the varied emporiums of Mayfair.
 

Alas, this was not to be . . . . after ordering my cream tea and pulling out a book to read, I could not help but overhear the conversation of the two gentlemen sitting next to me. A pair of Cockneys who were, obviously, brothers, it seems they chose Richoux in which to meet in order to catch up and regale one another with their opinions on various subjects, including inflation – “Old dad’s overcoat would cost you six thousand pounds to have made up today.” One of these men took himself to be a world traveler, who unfortunately made easy with his opinions on various places and people – “Switzerland’s not bad, especially Zurich, but the Jews are such dodgy geezers.” Now, I typically don’t go in for butting into other people’s conversations, and I refrained this time, but I did treat the pair to a raised eyebrow. Not that it mattered a wit to either of them, for the same brother went on, “Of course the Germans aren’t like us, but they’re awright.” I asked for the check and left before he could continue on to the Japanese, the Belgians, the French or the Armenians. Gas bag . . . . . .
 
I decided to head back to the hotel, making a pit stop in the Burlington Arcade in order window shop and appreciate the architecture.
 
My next stop was Boots Pharmacy, where I stocked up on all the essentials one can’t handily get in the States – their No. 7 skincare line and industrial strength hairspray, amongst other trifles. Then I headed up Clarges Street towards the Tesco Express, but I was brought up short when I passed a place called Burger and Lobster. Looking in the window, I saw tables filled with people chowing down on platters of lobster. Delicious looking lobster. There was a bit of a line at the door, but I finally got inside and asked the gentleman at the podium if I might see a menu. What ho! This was just the sort of place the Hubby would appreciate. I was told that there was no menu – they only served three things, to wit burgers, lobsters and lobster rolls. Genius! When I asked if I could make a reservation, I learned that not only are they a restaurant with no menues, they’re also a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations. First come, first served, I was told. I began to wonder whether or not they had waiters or if one had to bring their own apron and tray . . . . . . On I trudged to Tesco Express, where I purchased essentials for the hotel room in the form of a good sized bottle of rum and a six pack of Coke.
 
I’ll leave you here and will pick up Part Four soon. I must say, I can’t believe that I managed to cram enough into a single day in London to warrant four parts to this post, but looking back on the itineraries that Victoria and I typically set for ourselves, this agenda was a cake walk. And time does fly when one is having fun . . . . . . . .
 

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Two

And so let us tear ourselves away from Beau Brummell’s doorstep in Chesterfield Street and return to the top of the pavement and Charles Street and my preoccupation with doorways.

You have to allow that the doorway at No. 26 is a real pip, complete with a plaster bust above the entranceway. Neither Hibbert nor Google have enlightened me thus far, so if anyone knows more about this house, please let me know. Let us proceed . . . . .

And wander aimlessly through the deserted streets until we find ourselves at this interesting building at the entrance to Hays Mews.
Look . . . . another bust. . . . . I am just now noticing that there was a plaque beside the door. I know I didn’t notice it when I was standing there, or I’d have gone up and read it. Now I’m left to wonder, as are you, what this building houses. Sorry, old thing, wasn’t thinking . . . . .

Let’s make a right into Hays Mews, shall we?

This area was laid out circa 1750 to provide stables and coachhouses for the houses in Berkeley Square and adjacent streets. Architecturally, not much has changed, thank goodness, although there are now cars parked on the street, rather than a jaunty cabriolet.

 As I’ve already divulged the contents of my pockets, you know that I had no map with me and, truly, from this point on I simply wandered the streets as the whim took me, so I don’t have detailed descriptions of where some of the following photos were taken.

I wound up back at Charles Street, below, and still had the streets all to myself. I did warn you that I was oddly pre-occupied with house fronts and doorways, didn’t I?

The Only Running Footman, at the corner of Hays Mews and Charles Street. Now an upmarket restaurant, for centuries, it was known as the I Am The Only Running Footman pub, frequented by servants from the houses in the area.

I’ll leave you here, in Clarges Mews, for a bit until the next installment. I hope  you’ve enjoyed our Mayfair stroll half as much as I did.

Part Three Coming Soon . . . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part One



 

I awoke on Thursday way before the Husband to the realization that I was in London. It was a bit after 8 a.m., but the room was still dark as I climbed out of bed and crept to the bathroom. A short time later, I emerged to find Hubby still sleeping. And London still awaiting me outside. Stealthily, I rummaged around in drawers and suitcases until I found something to wear on the top and something to wear on the bottom. As to what these two garments consisted of I could not have cared less. I donned socks, hoping they were mine and not the Husbands, pulled on my boots, scarf and coat and dropped the room key, money, cigs and lighter and my camera into the coat pockets and crept like a cat burglar out of the door.
 
Emerging from the hotel, I found that it was overcast and drizzling. Undaunted, I grinned my way up the street to Caffe Nero, where I got a medium mocha and took it outside to one of the tables. I sat down, lit up and sipped – God was good and all was right in my world.


The Church of Christ the Scientist is just across Curzon Street, and beside that are C.F. Trumper, Men’s Hairdressers

and just to the left of that, G. Heywood Hill Ltd. booksellers.


Of course, neither was open at that early hour, so I took myself off on my long anticipated Mayfair stroll. You’ll recall that all I’d wanted to do since yesterday was to walk the streets and poke about at my leisure, which I did. And found my interest focusing, for some odd reason, on doorways. Here we go . . . . . . .



Let’s pay homage to the Beau first, shall we? It’s only fitting. Taking a right onto Queen Street, we stroll up to the top and make a left onto Charles Street, keeping on until we come to the corner of Chesterfield Street, where Beau Brummell lived. Before we turn in, though, take in the door across the street. And the elaborate railings. And the shrubbery on the terrace. And the pediments.


Now look back down the street, at the way we just came. See the street lights, the gentle curve of the street, the wet roads, the grey skies. Not another soul in sight . . . . London in the morning . . . . joy!



 
And midway down Chesterfield Street, on the left, we find Brummell’s house – let us linger here a moment in the drizzle and contemplate this particular doorway, shall we? Just imagine the visitors who must have come and gone through that door, with its elegant side and fan lights. Visitors aside, just imagine Brummell himself coming and going through that door. Oh, to have the mystery of what he looked like solved at long last! Did he look like this . . . . .
 

or more like this “I’ve just smelled something frightful” rendering?


Or possibly an amalgam of both?

In the early morning quiet, with the streets deserted, it’s easy to imagine a carriage drawing round the corner or the sound of a service door closing upon a maid who has just taken in a delivery. A horse may whinny in the distance, someone may shout in the mews two streets away, while the aristocracy sleep warm in their beds, having turned in just a few hours ago after a night of Regency revelry . . . .  
 
But back to the house . . . . .

 
 
Incidentally, Lord Rosebery lived here, too. 
 
 
 

Day Two – Part Two Coming Soon

A Couple In England – Day One – Part Two

You may recall that in the first half of my post about our first day in London, I left you at the gates of the In and Out Club on Piccadilly. It was cold, grey and wet; I was chomping at the bit to get into the midst of London, while Hubby was a tad less so. And it was Boxing Day, so that most things were closed.
“What now?” asked the Husband. I looked at him. What, indeed? I hadn’t factored in the weather. Or the closings. And speaking of closings, they made not a whit of difference to the hoardes of people walking briskly past us up and down Piccadilly. I looked across the street at the entrance to Green Park. What to do, what to do? Drawing upon my past experiences in London, not to mention the times I’d been over as as a tour guide, I went through my mental Roledex searching for inspiration.

“Come on,” I told Hubby, guiding him by the arm towards the crossing light. Over the road we went, then headed towards Apsley House until we got to the bus stop.

“Why are we standing here?” asked Hubby, naturally enough.
“We’re waiting for the bus. The Big Red tour bus.” I smiled encouragingly, recalling how much fun the Husband had had on the bus the last time we’d been in London together – when we’d ridden all the routes at his suggestion. And taken the Thames River cruise that our tickets also included.
He looked skeptical. “How do you know it stops here?” I pointed at the sign.

The Husband’s face lit with sunshine. “I love the bus tour!” Things were looking up. The next bus showed up sharpish and on we hopped. We paid for our fares and the Hubby took two pair of headphones from the attendant, who encouraged us to head up the stairs to the top level.
“The front of the bus is covered. You won’t get wet and you’ll have a better view. You don’t want to sit down here,” he said. Before I could respond, the Husband was all but pushing me up the stairs.
“Hurry up!” he encouraged. “Quick, before the good seats are all taken.” He apparently hadn’t noticed that the bus was thus far empty. Up we went and had our pick of seats. We chose two right in front of the big windscreen, sat down and plugged in our headphones.
“This is great!”
I smiled back at him. “Happy?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?” You bet. The bus pulled away from the curb and the narrative began. “The very first Hard Rock Cafe can be seen on the right . . . . . . . and the large residence coming up just ahead is Apsley House, home to the Dukes of Wellington . . . . . . . the Wellington Arch . . . . . . . . . the Lanesborough Hotel, formerly St. George’s Hospital . . . . . . “
Hubby turned to me with a grin and mouthed, “Apsley House!” He pointed at me and mouthed again, “Artie!” I nodded and grinned in return. It was turning out to be a pretty good day after all.
Up Park Lane we went and I spied the Winter Wonderland set up behind Apsley House in Hyde Park. “That’s where we’re going on Friday night,” I told Hubby. Soon we were at Marble Arch, then Oxford Street, which was absolutely crowded with people. Round London we rode – Trafalgar Square, the Duke of York’s column . . . . . Westminster Abbey and Big Ben.

Past the Embankment, the Tower of London and over Tower Bridge we rode. The narrative directed our attentention to St. George Wharf Tower on the left, which is destined to become the tallest residential building in London and which, unfortunately, would be the scene of a helicopter crash in just two weeks time.

We crossed back over the River and before long we passed Buckingham Palace.
And, once again, Big Ben.
Needless to say, the bus tour was a smashing success. Hubby and I were back on the same page, he was as glad as I to be in London and all seemed right with the world. On that note, we went back to the Green Park Hilton and had dinner in their lovely restaurant and then went upstairs to properly unpack. Climbing into bed a short while later, I kissed the husband and turned out the light secure in the knowledge that tomorrow I’d be waking up in England. On the street where Bertie and Jeeves lived, no less.
Day Two Coming Soon . . . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day One – Part One

After a fairly uneventful red-eye flight to England on the night of December 25th, we landed at Heathrow next morning and then headed for the Green Park Hilton, our hotel in Half Moon Street. This is a little gem of a place, located in a row of townhouses between Piccadilly and Curzon Street and backing onto Shepard’s Market.

Though it was much colder, and wetter, than the Husband or I had anticipated, we were given a warm welcome by the hotel staff and shown to our room, which wasn’t badly sized, as London hotel rooms go. Once I’d unpacked (i.e. put the suitcase on the luggage stand and the duffel in a corner) I urged the Hubby to get a move on.
“Come on, let’s go,” said I.
“Go? It’s freezing. Where are we going? You’re taking me to Apsley House, aren’t you?”
“Apsley House is closed till Saturday. We’re going outside. We’re in London. In Mayfair.”
I should probably tell you now that we spent three days with my family in New Jersey before flying to England. During those three days, my daughter, Brooke, had ample time and opportunity to warn the Husband against Apsley House, home of the Duke of Wellington. Boring is what she called it. Have you ever? She did allow that it was tolerable the first few times I’d taken her there, but that by now she would be grateful to never darken its doorway again.
“Really, Ma, how many times are you going to see it? And why do you always have to drag me along?” Kids.
So Hubby and I venture outside and make it all of a few hundred feet up to Curzon Street, where Hubby spots a Caffe Nero on the corner. I can take a hint as well as the next chap, so inside we go and order an Americano (Hubby) and a mocha (moi). We take them outside and sit at one of the little cafe tables on the pavement. We sip. We light up. And I begin to grin like a Cheshire Cat.
“Is it me, or is this the best coffee you’ve ever tasted?” asks Hubby.
“It’s pretty demmed good. Better than Starbucks, even.”
“Why is it so good,do you think?”
“It’s not made with regular coffee. It’s made with two shots of espresso and boiling water. Strong.”
“Is that why you’re smiling like that?”
“No. I could be drinking bilge water and I’d still be grinning like this. I’m in London. Finally. London. In England.” I looked across the street at the G. Heywood Hill bookshop. “Nancy Mitford worked there.”
“Eh?”
“A writer. Sister to the Duchess of Devonshire.”
“My good man,” said the Husband. His usual response to most of my remarks about British history, as he tends to feel as though I’m lecturing him whenever I attempt to explain what I think are interesting bits of trivia.
“Come on, let’s walk around the corner to Shepard’s Market,” I said, getting my things together.
“Shopping?” the Husband asked.
“Only if you want sheep. It used to be where they sold sheep in London. Now it’s full of restaurants and pubs. I just want to go and look.”
“Look at what?”
“Shepard’s Market,” I sighed. “We’re in London. We’re going to go and look at London. Starting with Shepard’s Market.” I refrained from explaining that I just wanted to walk the streets, any streets, in order to just be in London. I wanted to soak up the atmosphere. Personally, I didn’t care that it was cold, or grey, or wet. All I wanted was to walk aimlessly through Mayfair, to examine every nook and cranny as the whim took me, to peek down service entrances and read blue plaques and imagine Fanny Burney and Beau Brummell having strolled these same streets. Egad, but I’d never missed Victoria so much in all my life.
We walked up Curzon Street and through the alley there that leads to the Market. Unfortunately, it being Boxing Day, everything but one lone pub was shut up tight.

So I walked Hubby down the alley that leads to Piccadilly, where we came out just beside the In and Out Club, now almost obscured by sidings.

Peeking through the gates, I told the Husband that it was soon to be the most expensive private home in Mayfair, that the people who’d bought it were planning to do a massive remodel and that the building alone sold for one hundred and fifty million pounds.
“It was originally built for the Earl of Egremont,” I went on, even though I knew that Hubby might feel he was being lectured. “Then it was sold to the Duke of Cambridge. Adolphus. Brother to George the IV.” I was in full spate. “Then it was bought by Lord Palmerston. Who was Prime Minister. Twice.” I couldn’t have stopped myself if I’d tried. “Finally it was bought by the Naval and Military Club. They painted the words In and Out on the two gates and so the place came to be called the In and Out Club instea
d.”
“My good man.”
Part Two Coming Soon . . . . . .