Category: Travels – Kristine

A Couple in England – Day Three – Part One

It occurs to me that since you’ve been invited along with the Hubby and I on our trip to England, you might like to see what your companions look like. The photo above was taken on my last birthday. We didn’t take many pics of ourselves during the course of our trip to England – for reasons that will eventually become clear. In London, it was the weather or the fact that we’re neither of us picture people to begin with.
We began Day Three as we had Day One and Day Two, at Caffe Nero. One of the handful of things the Hubby and I actually have in common is that we both turn our faces against breakfast. Give us a coffee and two cigs each and we’re good to go. Our first destination was Buckingham Palace, via Green Park. This picture, taken as we entered the Park will demonstrate what a dreary day it was.
No sooner had we started towards the Palace then we came across this plaque for the Princess of Wales Memorial Walk. As you can see, I stopped to take a photo. 

“This is the Princess Diana Memorial Walk,” I said.
“Yes . . . I can see that.”
“It winds through four London parks and takes in sites associated with her.”
“Uh huh.” At least he didn’t say my good man.
I looked around at our surroundings. “Green Park.” I sighed. “It was originally a burial site for lepers. Later, they had entertainments here, like ballonists and fireworks.” He doesn’t care! I reminded myself. I can’t help myself! I rejoined. “Handel’s Music For The Royal Fireworks was written specifically for a display here.The Earls of Bath and Bristol fought a duel here.”
“Uh huh.”
Leaving Hubby to his own thoughts (one can only guess) I began taking random photos of the park. The example below is a particular favorite of mine.

Before long, we had reached the Palace. There was only an abbreviated changing of the guard, as we were there on an off day and they really just trotted by on their way to the barracks. We missed most of the pomp and all of the circumstance, but it didn’t matter. We were at Buck House and I took a few more photos to add to the hundred I’ve already taken of the environs.

Finally, we gazed through the gates at the Palace.

“We were inside there last time,” I sighed.
“Yeah. That was great.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“Sure! Who wouldn’t? It was great. The best part was when you told that guide who the guy in the picture was.”
What actually happened was that during the course of our evening champagne tour of the Palace, the guide showed our group around the throne room, but totally ignored a huge, full length portrait of a robed figure. As she walked away I approached her. “Excuse me,” said I, pointing at the painting. “Isn’t that a Wellesley?” Our guide seemed taken aback. “Why, yes. Yes it is.”
“Isn’t it Richard Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington’s eldest brother?”
“I’m amazed that you know that,” the guide had replied.
“Let me get this straight,” I said to Hubby now. “You hate it when I go on about British history to you, but you like it when I point things out to others?”
“Yeah. I love it. The look on their faces is priceless.”
Go figure.
We moved on and walked through St. James’s Park on our way to Horse Guards and came upon a gaggle of friendly geese, birds and squirrels, all of whom charmed the Hubby, who stopped to admire them and suddenly didn’t mind the cold.

“I wish we had some bread,” said Hubby. “Why didn’t we bring bread?”

If the fowl were friendly, the squirrels were even more so.

“Look. They’re going right up to people. We should have brought some bread with us.”
Hubby went on in this manner for quite some time, inexplicably entranced with London wildlife. Eventually, he began making noises meant to draw the squirrels nearer. “C’mere squirrel. Come on. Click, click, click. “Here boy . . .  here boy . . . . that’s it, good boy . . . .  hey, hey, HEY!”

“Did you see that? He attacked me!”
“He didn’t attack you! What did you expect with all that clicking and here boying?”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s hysterical. You jumped about three feet.” Now I have to tell you that I didn’t take the last picture, I stole it off the web. Apparently, the St. James’s Park squirrels are known for this sort of behaviour. Oh, if only I’d had my own camera at the ready . . . . But I swear to you, the squirrel climbed up Hubby’s foot and began to make its way up his leg until he did a version of the St. Vitus Dance and dislodged it. Reader, it was priceless.
“Just imagine if we’d brought bread with us,” I said through gasps of laughter.
“Very funny.”
“We should come back tomorrow with some croissants. Maybe you can get one of them to go for your neck.”
“You’re a regular riot, Alice.”
Once we’d collected ourselves, we left the park and soon found ourselves at the Duke of York’s Column.

“That’s the Duke of York’s Column.”
“Uh uh. Are we anywhere near where you’re taking me yet? Where are we going again?”
“Horse Guards. Where the Duke of York had his offices. And more importantly, where Artie had his. He was married to Freddie.”
“Artie was married to Freddie?”
“No! The Duke of York. But he had a mistress, Mary Anne Clarke, and there was a huge scandal when it came out that she was selling army commissions.”
“The Duke of York had a mistress and a scandal and they gave him a column?”
“Freddie lived at Oatlands. We’re going there.”
“Now?
“No! Oatlands is near Windsor. We’re going to Horse Guards now.”
“What’s at Horse Guards, anyway?”
“Horses. And Guards. Come on, you’re going to love it.”
“Riiight.”
Part Two Comi
ng Soon . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Five

After tearing ourselves away from the Rolls Royce dealership in Berekeley Square, we caught a cab and were soon passing the historic Coach and Horses pub. As we approached the back of the Royal Academy I noticed a long line and asked the driver what was on at the RA that had people lining up as far as the eye could see. “It’s not the RA,” he told me, “They’re all waiting to get into Abercrombie and Fitch.”
Abercrombie and Fitch!? “We’ve got them in every mall in America.”
“Well, this is the only one in London and it just might be the only one in the UK. Next time you’re coming over, you should bring boxes of their stuff with you and sell it on the street. You’d make a mint.”
Not a bad idea.

Our destination was Ye Olde Chesire Cheese in Fleet Street. You may recall from a previous post that on a past trip over, Hubby and I had twice tried to eat there and had found it closed each time. I was determined that he should see it. Why this should be, since the man could care less about British, not to say London, history I can’t say. However, as we pulled up this time, we could see that it was, indeed open. Huzza!

We went into the alley, where the entrance stands.

And through the door to the entry hall.
Directly to the right is a bar room.

I’ll tell you right now that I did not take these pictures, as when we were there it was so crowded that none of these architectural details would have been visible. Not only was it crowded, but there was no host or reception point at all. I flagged down a harried looking waitress in the front room and asked about a table and was told that it would be at least forty-five minutes before a table in her section would be free. There was no waiting list to put one’s name down upon, one should just wander from room to room and look for a free table.
Turning away from her, my mind worked furiously for a way to put this information into more positive terms before passing it on to Hubby.
“What did she say? Did you put our name down? How long is the wait?” he asked in the very next moment. Truly, I had nothing else so I reluctantly went with the truth.
“Forty five minutes, no list, we just have to walk around until we find a free table.”
“Oh, great. With this crowd?”
“Come on, we’ll go look for a table and you can see the place properly. Dr. Johnson used to come here.” Shut up, you idiot. Now is not the time for Dr. Johnson. “And Dickens. Dickens used to come here, too.”
“What? I can’t hear you with all this noise!”
“I said let’s look in this back room here.” Nothing. Not a seat in sight. “Okay, we can try downstairs.”
“What?”
“Watch your head. The ceiling is really low in the stairwell. Really, watch your . . . . . . “
“Christ, I almost hit my head! Who in their right mind makes a ceiling this low?”
Not a free table in sight here either. Not a free stool at the bar. Not an employee who looked as though they gave a toss one way or another whether we stayed or not. The rooms themselves are quite small and, crowded as they were that night, they seemed to shrink as the noise level continued to rise.
“How badly do you want to eat here?” the Hubby yelled into my ear.
“It’s not so much that I’m set on the food,” I replied. “I really wanted you to see the place.”
“I’ve seen it. Can we go now?” Needless to say, we left. And started up Fleet Street back towards Piccadilly. We hadn’t walked very far before I was compelled to enter an alleyway off to our right.
“What are you doing? What’s in there?”
“Come and see. It’s Dr. Johnson’s house.”

If you’ve never been to Gough Square, where the House stands, it’s terrifically atmospheric and even more so at dusk.
I stared round at our surroundings for a few moments. “When a man is tired of London, a man is tired is life, for there is in London all that life can afford.”
“My good man.”
Back on Fleet Street, we walked a bit more and passed the Courts before the Hubby asked the question of the hour. “Where are we going to eat?”

“How hungry are you?”
“I can eat.”
“Yeah, but do you have to eat right now? Or can you wait a bit?”
“How long a bit?”
“I’m thinking we could take a cab back to Burger and Lobster.”
“My girl. I’m thinking I love you.”

So back we went to Clarges Street.

Where I showed Hubby the extensive menu. Everything comes with chips and a salad and everything is twenty pounds. Unless you want to upsize your lobster, but I’m getting ahead of myself . . . . 

There were no empty tables at Burger and Lobster, either, but there were two empty seats at the bar. We bellied up, ordered cocktails and waited for our table. And waited. And ordered another round. And chatted with the barman. And drank. And waited some more. Hubby, surprisingly, was uncomplaining. It may have been the convivial atmosphere. Or the three drinks. Reader, a fine time was had by all.

We were finally shown to a table and when we both ordered the lobster, our server asked if we wanted anything larger than the standard pound and a quarter crustacean. Hubby and I both opted for two pounders.

Yes, dinner tasted as delicious as it looked. And we were each served a complimentary dessert due to our long wait. Meal over, we put our coats and scarves back on and ventured out into the brisk night and walked literally around the corner to our hotel. The perfect end to a truly perfect day. Yes, at long last, Day Two is finally over. You’ve been real troopers putting up with my wanderings thus far and I thank you for your patience.
Day Three Coming Soon . . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Four

I returned to the hotel at about four o’clock, laden down with packages and panting for a drink. Opening the door to our room, I found Hubby sitting on the end of the bed, watching a competitive darts match on the telly.
“Hey, Hon,” said he in greeting, “You ever watch this?”
“Darts?”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching it for hours. These guys are great. Did you have fun?”
“I did,” I said, pulling off my boots, “And now I’m going to have rum.”
“Rum? Really? Where?”
“Right here,” I told him, taking the bottle and the six pack of Coke out of the carrier bag.
That earned me a smile from the Hubby. “My girl! I love you. Did you get ice?”
Ice? Really? “We’re in England. Learn to drink it with no ice.”
“I need ice.”
“I hear tell they have some downstairs at the bar. They probably have an ice bucket they can lend you, as well, if you ask nicely.”
“And I’ll get us some real glasses, too. We don’t want to drink out of the bathroom glasses.” Don’t we?
Hubby was gone and back in a flash and I made us two stiff drinks. I watched him watching darts as I sipped the glorious juice of the Gods. Egad, but that drink hit the spot.
“Why are you back so early?” Hubby eventually asked.
“I thought I’d come back here and get you and we could walk down to Apsley House together.” Hubby turned away from the telly long enough to give me the fish eye.
“The only way I’d walk to Apsley House today is if you told me it was seventy-four degrees over there. It’s freezing outside.”
“It is seventy-four degrees at Apsley House. And the sun is perennially shining. And they have a pool out back. With pool boys and cabanas.”
“Riiiiight.”
“Oh, listen . . . . . I stumbled on the most fantastic restaurant in the next street. It’s called Burger and Lobster.” I proceeded to regale the Hubby with all that I’d seen at the restaurant. “We’ll go and look at it when we go to dinner.”
 
“Where are we going for dinner? Not lobster?”
 
“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”
 
“Oh, not that again!” said Hubby. I couldn’t blame him. On our last trip to London we’d tried twice to eat at the Cheshire Cheese, finding it closed both times. Once after we’d called to make sure they’d be open and, more dreadfully, another time when we’d let the cab go and found ourselves on the deserted streets of the City after business hours with no other cabs in sight. Hubby was not best pleased.
 
So we eventually toddled our way to the lobster joint, where we pressed our foreheads to the big plate window and watched as the people inside dug into their meals. The joint was packed.
 
“Boy, they look good,” sighed Hubby. “What do they have at the Cheesey joint?”
 
“English food. Roast beef, bangers and mash, like that.” Even as I said the words, I knew they couldn’t compete with the scene before our eyes – a restaurant filled with happy, bib wearing people cracking shells and slurping melted butter to their hearts content.
 
“I guess we should get a cab,” Hubby gamely offered.
 
“In a bit. There’s something I want you to see first.”
 
Hubby turned away from the window and sighed. “What is it? Something to do with the Duke? It had better be quick, because it’s freezing.”
 
“It’s just down the street. You’re going to like this.”
 
“Riiiiight.”
 
So off we went to Berkeley Square, which really is just down the street. I intended to show the Hubby something that I knew would be just up his alley and then jump in a cab down to Fleet Street. But you know what they say about good intentions . . . . we’d just entered the Square from Curzon Street when I was overcome with the need to begin pointing out sights of historical significance to the Husband.

“That’s Maggs Brothers over there,” I said, pointing.
“It’s a bookshop. And the building is supposedly the most haunted in London.”
“Uh huh.”
 
“They sell rare and antiquarian books. They sold a copy of the Gutenberg Bible,” I told him, but received no response. I knew that I should just shut up, but again, I was compelled to go on. “And they sold Napoleon’s penis.”
 
“Riiiiight.”
 
“It was said to be Napoleon’s penis, but that was according to his doctor and his valet and you can’t trust anything the valet said. Look
at what he did with the death mask.”
 
“Death mask?”
 
“Yeah. You’ll see it at Apsley House. They said it was Napoleon, but now there’s speculation that the mask was taken from the living valet’s face, not the dead Napoleon’s face.”
 
“My good man.”
 
“Quite. And over there, where those buildings are, is where Gunter’s stood.”
 
 
“I just know you’re going to tell me what Gunter’s is.”
 
“Was. It’s not there any longer and more’s the pity. They were confectioners, most known for their ices. The ton would pull up in their carriages and the staff would bring out trays of ices so that they could eat them without climbing down. Of course, you could go in and eat, too.” Shut up, I advised myself. Save your breath. He has no idea what the ton was and no idea of the cultural significance of Gunter’s. Or Almack’s. Or Vauxhall Gardens, for that matter.
 
“We’re almost there,” I said. “The place I wanted to show you is right up the street.”
 
“A Rolls Royce showroom?” Hubby asked as we approached.

“And Bentley’s. I thought you’d like it.”

 
“I gotta be honest, Hon. This is even better than Napoleon’s penis.”
 
My good man.
 
 
 
Part Five Coming Soon . . . . . . . .
 

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 . . . . . . .