Category: Travels – Kristine

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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“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.

 

 

 

 

As we made our way back to the Green Park Hilton for afternoon tea, I allowed Hubby to linger under the misconception that he would soon be eating a sandwich. In Hubby’s world, a sandwich is also variously known as a sub, a hoagie or even a grinder. Whatever you call it, Hubby believes that a sandwich should be a great, honking Dagwood doorstop of a meal. Boy, was he in for a rude awakening.

When we got to the hotel, we were shown into the Berry Bar and Lounge by a uniformed waiter and seated at a cozy banquette.

“Thank God we’re out of those crowds,” sighed Hubby. “You can’t walk two feet in London without finding yourself in the middle of a crowd. Crossing the street is like taking your life in your hands. I hate crowds.”

Our waiter returned and handed us each a flute of champagne.

“What’s this?” asked Hubby.

“Champagne.”

“I thought we were having tea.”

“It’s a champagne afternoon tea.”

“What? They can’t make up their minds? When do they bring the menues? I’m starving.”

“There aren’t any menues. Afternoon tea is afternoon tea.”

The waiter returned with a box of tea samples, presented it to us and then left us to make our choices.

“What’s that?”

“Tea. We have to choose which tea we want. See the labels here? Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Gunpowder, Lapsang Souchong . . . . . . ”

“Do they have Lipton’s?”

 

Sigh. “Afternoon tea is a ritual. Sampling and selecting the teas is a part of it. And there’s a Wellington connection to it, too.”

“Of course there is!”

“Way back when, in olden times, dinner used to be served late. Like around eight or nine o’clock. So there was a woman, the Duchess of Bedford, who used to get hungry between lunch and dinner and so came up with the idea of taking afternoon tea at around four o’clock. It was like a small meal, with tea, sandwiches and cakes. It’s generally believed that she came up with the idea while staying with the Duke of Rutland at Belvoir Castle. Other people came to find out about this and they, like you, thought it was a great idea and soon all of the aristocracy came to make afternoon tea a part of their day.”

“My kind of dame.”

“I don’t think so. She wasn’t very nice.” Our waiter returned at this point to inquire as to our tea preferences.

“Earl Grey, please, for both of us.” I would have preferred Lapsang Souchong, but went with Earl Grey simply because it was easier.

“What’s Earl Grey? I just want tea. Plain tea.”

Sigh. “Earl Grey is the same as Lipton’s. Getting back to the Duchess of Bedford . . . . ” Here we go again. Why go back to the Duchess of Bedford at all? Compulsive, that’s what I am. “She was a great friend of, and Lady in Waiting to, Queen Victoria.”

After leaving Horse Guards, I aimed the Hubby and myself back towards Trafalgar Square.

“Didn’t we just come this way?”

“We did. Now we’re going the other side of it.”

“Where are we going?” Hubby asked.

“Cecil Court.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where my antiques dealer is. Remember we went there the last time we were in London?”

“Oh, jeez, the place where you guys talk for hours about the Duke of Wellington?”

“Not hours, surely.”

“And where you buy more Wellington stuff? Are you going to buy more Wellington stuff this time? When are you going to stop buying Wellington stuff?”

“When they pry my cold, dead fingers away from my credit card.”

“Honest to God, Hon, it’s like we live in a museum as it is.”

I didn’t have a comeback for that. What could I have said? We don’t live in a museum? We do. And, honest to God, there’s barely any wall space left.

“Look, I promise not to buy any more Wellington stuff unless it’s really outstanding. Okay?”

I took us down St. Martin’s Lane and from there it was just a short walk to the turning for Cecil Court, a pedestrian thoroughfare lined with book, print and antique shops.

Now, if I had any sense in my head, or if I were the crafty sort, I wouldn’t share the name of my favourite antique dealer with you, let alone his exact location, but I trust that you and I are such good mates by now that, should you visit the shop, you’ll content yourself with buying things associated with William IV or Lord Nelson, or even Queen Victoria, and leave all the Wellington bits and bobs for me.  

The shop is just the right size for browsing and it’s absolutely crammed, floor to ceiling, with items from the Georgian period to the early 1900’s. I can, and have, spent hours in the shop. Mark is very personable and always pours me a drink before encouraging me to light up. We sip, smoke and have an old fashioned chin wag as the time flies by. We discuss Florida, Wellington items that we both missed out on, Wellington items that one or the other of us haven’t missed out on, dogs, restaurants, etc., etc.

On this particular day, Mark wasn’t there himself, but my good mate and Mark’s partner Dave was. That’s Dave in the picture below, in the white shirt.

“The Wellington Woman!” Dave greeted me. “How’s your daughter? Is she with you?”  Dave’s Boston Terrier came out from behind the counter to greet me and we spent a few minutes catching up on the past two years. It was about this time that the Hubby sidled towards the door and quietly let himself out. Then, as always, Dave threw out some Wellington trivia in his ongoing attempts to stump me.

“Publish and be damned.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Really? That’s the best you have? Harriet Wilson, that slut.”

“By God, I think my leg’s gone,” he said.

I sighed. “Henry Paget, after being shot in the leg at Waterloo. We just saw Paget’s leg at Horse Guards, as a matter of fact.”

“No! It was the Marquess of Angelsey,” Dave cried with delight.

“No. It wasn’t either. It was just plain, old Henry Paget. He wasn’t created Marquess of Angelsey until a few days afterward. The same Henry Paget who had, years earlier, run off with the wife of Wellington’s brother.” Why did this story sound so familiar?

“I didn’t know that. Really?”

“Why would I lie?”

Dave stared off into space for a few moments, his mind working. Finally, he said, “Sparrow hawks, ma’am.” 

“To Queen Victoria. Great Exhibition. 1851.”

“I give up,” Dave conceded. “Honestly, I can’t believe how much you know about the Duke of Wellington. You should do something with that knowledge. You could make money at it.”

“Like what?” Why did this suggestion sound so familiar?

“Like give talks. People would pay money to listen to you.”

“Alas, not enough people to make a living at it. I can’t see a Wellington lecture filling Albert Hall, can you? And there’d be even less people in America who would be interested in the Duke of Wellington, or who’d even know who he was.”

“You’re probably right. Pity, though.”

We were both silent for a time, contemplating the prospects of a traveling Wellington show. Finally, I said, “So, what have you got for me?”

“Ah, not much, I’m afraid. Wellington items are a bit thin on the ground just now.”

“Well, it would be hard to beat that figurine I bought from you last time, in any case.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Staffordshire, wasn’t it? That was a beauty.” Again, we were both silent, this time contemplating my acquisition of the figurine below.

“Didn’t you also buy a pot lid?”

“I did. The Duke riding at Stratfield Saye.” You can see me holding it, in the very same shop two years ago, below.

“I just remembered, I’ve got one very similar to it, but at Walmer Castle.” Dave found the lid and handed it to me. “Very like the one you bought, with the Duke riding his horse in the foreground.”

“He was Lord of the Cinque Ports, which is why he spent time at Walmer Castle,” Dave said.

“Hhhmmm. It was his favorite residence. He lived there with Charles Arbuthnot. They’d walk the battlements together. In fact, Wellington died there.”

“Yeah, that’s right. He did.”

“Sold. What else have you got?” Okay. The Walmer pot lid wasn’t what I’d term outstanding, but it certainly was beautiful. And besides, it rounds out the collection.

“I’ve got a brass profile of the Duke. Here it is.”

“Have one.”

“There are a couple of bronze commemorative medallions,” Dave offered.

I peered into the case. “Too like the ones I already have.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

This was deflating news. I had hoped to find something magnificent whilst in London, on a par with the figurine. It was a bit like charging off to Waterloo only the find that the battle had taken place the day before. “I’ll browse for a bit.” There was an Artie-fact in the shop – I could feel it.. I took my time and peered at cigarette cases and vinagarettes, figurines and a William IV coronation jug. Mourning rings, snuff boxes and a spy glass. Scanning to the right, my eye fell upon a small, coloured portrait.

“I found the Duke of Wellington,” I told Dave.

“Huh? Where?” I pointed. “So it is!”

I will leave the portrait and it’s history for another post. Suffice it to say that I bought it and Dave was able to carefully wrap both pieces so that I could pack them in my suitcase and later carry them on the plane with me. I walked out of the shop and found Hubby lurking in Cecil Court.

“Want to see what I got?”

He looked at the smallish bag in my hand. “No. I’ll wait till we get home. At least it’s not another full length portrait. I’m hungry.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel and have Afternoon Tea,” I suggested.

“Tea? Who drinks tea? And I said I was hungry.”

I sighed. “Afternoon tea is a meal. It comes with food.”

“Steak food?”

“No! Tea food. Sandwiches.”

“Oh, a sandwich. That sounds good. I could go for a sub. Yeah, a nice, big hero sandwich would really hit the spot!”

Part Four Coming Soon!

Leaving the Duke of York’s Column, we headed towards Trafalgar Square and on towards Horse Guards.

“Why is it that wherever we go in London, we’re always passing either Big Ben or Apsley House?”

 “Because London, old London, is not really that big. The City of London was known as the Square Mile. Strictly speaking, our hotel in Mayfair is without the City.”

“Without the City what?”

“Outside the City. As far as the time periods and people I’m interested in go, the most important bits of London are bounded on the east by the Tower, in the west by Knightsbridge, to the north by Bayswater Road and to the south by Southwark.”

“But why do you keep going to the same places every time you come to London? How many times have you been to Horse Guards?”

“Practically every time I’ve been in London.”

“That’s nuts. Why do you do it?”

“For the same reason that I keep returning to Apsley House. I’m hoping that one day I’ll see the Duke of Wellington. The first Duke of Wellington. I keep going to St. James’s Street because I’m hoping to spot Brummell walking into White’s. And I go to the Burlington Arcade because I want to one day find my carriage and coachman waiting there for me. I can’t actually go back to 19th century London, so I return to the scenes of the crimes, so to speak, and imagine what once was. Plus, while I do the rounds of the same places, I’m always looking at other areas surrounding them, too. Each time I explore some new aspect of the area.”

“Your ghost is going to haunt London when you die.”

“One can but hope.”

We walked down Whitehall and past the Clarence Pub, where Victoria and I have been known to  raise a pint together, and were soon at Horse Guards.

The Household Calvary on duty are an impressive sight and there are always tourists surrounding the mounted guards and taking pictures. On this particular day, the crowds were huge – one could barely navigate the sidewalk for all the people pressing in to see the guards.

“Are they allowed to get that close? Look, the horse doesn’t like it, he’s tossing his head. Hey, they’re touching the horse. Are they allowed to do that?

“I don’t think there’s a rule that you can’t get that close, but I’ve never seen the guards being that crowded before.”

“Why don’t they back off? It’s crazy.” No sooner had Hubby voiced these words than the mounted guard slowly, but deliberately, backed his horse further into the archway. Still looking straight ahead, we watched as he raised his right arm and began pushing a button on the interior wall. It was as contained as a cry for help could be. 

“Did you see that?” Hubby asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t even know they had panic buttons in there. Come on, let’s get out of this crowd.”

“Are you nuts? I’m not leaving until I see who comes to rescue him.”

So we waited. And waited. And waited. Reader – no one came to his rescue.

“I can’t believe no one is coming,” Hubby said, disappointed.

“No doubt they have cameras watching. Maybe whomever is manning them looked at the situation and didn’t deem it enough of an emergency to send the guards. Come on; no one is coming so let’s go.”

We walked through the courtyard and into the archway that leads to the back parade ground.

There is always a guard stationed in the arch, near the entrance to what was once the Duke of Wellington’s office.

“This is where they had the beach vollyeball during the Olympics,” I told Hubby when we came out into the rear yard.

“Uh huh.”

“You know, everyone goes to the Palace to see the changing of the guard, but if you come here any day at 4 p.m. you can see the daily inspection parade. Then you don’t have to fight the crowds. Although it’s not the same, is it?”

“Uh huh. Why are we standing here? It’s freezing.”

Sigh. “I’m just taking it all in, communing with the history. Look up there, that’s the window to Wellington’s office.”

“Uh huh.”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Inside where? What’s this?”

“The Household Calvary Museum.”

“What’s in there?”

“Household Calvary stuff!”

The Museum traces the history of the Household Calvary from the 1600’s to present day and, once Hubby got a look a the uniforms, arms, saddles, etc., he got into the spirit of the thing.

The Calvary’s stable is adjacent to the Museum and there’s a portion of the Museum that features a glass partition, through which visitors can see the horses in their stalls. It so happened that there was a guide on duty in the viewing room.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching him. “Can you tell me if Sefton is here?” Sefton, you may recall, was the Calvary horse who was injured but survived the 1982 IRA bomb in Hyde Park.

He gave me a sad smile and a pitying look. “Sefton is dead, Madam.”

“The original Sefton is dead, yes. But in his honour there is always a horse named Sefton in the regiment. I just wondered if he was stabled here.”

He seemed somewhat taken aback. “I didn’t know that. And I don’t know much about the individual horses kept here. There’s a bit about Sefton in the museum, however, towards the end. You may be interested.”

“No doubt. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“I love it when you do that!”

“I didn’t do anything. I just asked a question.”

“I love it when you tell them stuff they didn’t know and they give you that `just who the Hell are you?’ look.”

“Stop it.”

“You should get a job here.”

“At Horse Guards?”

“Somewhere in England, at a museum or a castle or something.”

God, are you listening?

“Look, Paget’s leg!”

“Who?”

“Henry Paget. Afterwards the Marquess of Angelsey. He ran off with the wife of Wellington’s brother, Henry. Henry suffered a sort of mental breakdown and was unable to care for his children, who went to live with Artie and Kitty for a time. Later, at Waterloo, it turned out that Artie had to put up with having Paget on his staff. When the fighting was over, Artie and Paget were both on their horses, talking, when one of the last shots of the battle was fired and hit Paget, nearly taking his leg off. He had to have it amputated shortly afterwards.”

“Maybe Artie shot him. Who could blame him?”

Who, indeed? We finished our visit to Horse Guards in the gift shop, where I bought the Christmas ornament below –

  

“I’ll just take this,” I said, pushing the ornament towards the clerk at the till. “Everyone should have the Duke of Wellington on their Christmas tree.”

“Yes, they should,” said the clerk. “Although you are the first person who’s recognized it as being the Duke. Everyone else seems to think that it’s Prince Albert.”

Hubby put his lips to my ear and whispered, “That’s my girl!”

Part Three Coming Soon . . . . .