Category: Travels – Kristine

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 . . . . . .

A Couple In England – Windsor

As you probably know by now, my Husband, who is accompanying me on my trip to England in a week, is not a history buff, nor is he very good at playing tourist. I have been trying my best to add items to our London and Bath itineraries that he will also enjoy and don’t mind telling you that it’s been a hard slog. Therefore, when it came time to plan our stay in Windsor, the final leg of our trip, I gave up any pretence of pretending that this entire trip wasn’t designed for my sole pleasure and have crafted an itinerary sure to make my Husband’s head spin, whilst no doubt making his feet hurt. You may recall that Victoria, Jo Manning and I have a good friend who lives in Windsor, the author Hester Davenport. Who has actually met the Queen, I might add. You can read all about it here. Last time Vicky and I were in Windsor with Hester, we toured the Castle and visited the grave of Mary Robinson, mistress of George IV, about whom Hester has written a biography.

This time out, Hester and I have been fiendishly crafting an itinerary to gladden any history buff’s heart. No matter that it is guaranteed, at the same time, to send Hubby off the deep end.  We shall be visiting the Windsor and Royal Borough Museum, which Hester has played a part in developing, and will then again be touring Windsor Castle. This time out, we will also be taking a rarely open tour of the royal kitchens, something we are both looking forward to seeing. And I’ll get to see this magnificent portrait of the Duke of Wellington that hangs in the Castle again.
Next day, we’ll be driving to Oatlands in order to visit the pet cemetery of Frederica, Duchess of York, pictured above in black and white. Naturally, Hester and I are both excited about this stop – I can only imagine what Hubby’s reaction will be . . . . Then it’s on to Hampton Court Palace, a place I have never seen, if you can believe it. I’m especially interested in seeing Apartment 8, where the Duke of Wellington’s sister, Lady Anne Smith, lived.
No doubt Hubby will opt out of certain of the aforementioned entertainments. Unfortunatley, the thing he can’t opt out of is our nine hour flight home, followed by a seven hour layover in Newark, and then another flight to Florida. We’ll be leaving England at ten a.m. and not landing in Florida until 11 p.m. – a total of 18 hours travel time. Hubby, naturally, has no idea what he’s in for, as I’ve decided not to spoil the trip by telling him in advance what fate awaits. Have I mentioned that he has a bad back? Reader, it won’t be pretty. So, while I’m looking forward to the trip, at the same time I’m dreading our return journey. I can’t help but think that January 5th, 2013 will be the date of my very own Waterloo. . . . . to be continued (one hopes).

A Couple In England: Bound For Bath

As I write this, the news is filled with reports of floods, cold snaps and even snow in the UK. However, my heart is warmed by the thought of returning to Bath, one of my favourite cities. Bath stone, Georgian architecture and Regency reminders on virtually every street. As you may know, my Husband is a reluctant tourist. Our most recent discussion about the Bath portion of our trip went something like this:
Him – We don’t have to be doing something every minute of every day.
Me – Mmmmmmm.
Him – What’s there to do in Bath, anyway?
Me – Well . . . . there are the Roman baths and the Assembly Rooms and the Holburne Museum and the ice rink and the Royal Crescent. And, er, the Fashion Museum.
Him – (Groan, eye roll, deep sigh) Remember that I’m old and have a bad back, will ya? I can’t keep going and going every day like you.
Me – You’re not that old. You’re only four years older than me. 
Him – Yeah, but you’re actually interested in British history and you don’t have a bad back.
Point taken. But it’s Bath. Our hotel is in walking distance of Pulteney Bridge (above) and the Abbey and I must admit to having splurged on this portion of our trip – we are booked into the Wellington Suite for the duration – sitting room, bedroom and bathroom with a tub big enough for a right proper soaking. So far, in addition to those items listed above, our itinerary for the three days in Bath includes a bus tour of the City, a stroll of the streets of Bath, a trip to Longleat House for the Christmas extravaganza, some shopping, some pub hopping, a horse and carriage ride, New Year’s Eve dinner followed by fireworks over the Abbey and finally a New Year’s day trip to a nearby spa for two hours of couples pampering. I mean, one must spa when in a spa town, non?

The only dark spot on the Bath horizon (aside from a grumbling husband) is that the City won’t be filled with people dressed in period costume. Note to self: attend Jane Austen Festival one year soon. When I think of Bath, I think of Mrs. Delaney and Jane Austen, Beau Nash and liveried footmen. It’s a bit of shock to arrive to find the streets populated instead with 21st century people dressed in down jackets, button down shirts and jeans and not a single gleaming brass button in sight.
Upon taking a really good look at our itinerary, I admit it may seem a tad crowded. Ish. And Hubby might have cause to gripe at having to take the train, and then a taxi, to Longleat. And having been at Longleat all day long visiting the house, Christmas displays and perhaps even the safari park, Hubby might not be in the mood to return to the hotel, get all spruced up in order to go out for dinner and then stay up until midnight to watch the fireworks display. The phrase “going and going” comes to mind, but, hey, things could be worse for the Husband. At least I’m not expecting him to dress like Colin Firth.