Category: Loose in London

As you’ll recall, Victoria and I lucked out with gorgeous weather for our mudlarking adventure.

We decided to up towards Gabriel Wharf for a bite of lunch and on our way we passed a few landmarks you may recognize.

After lunch, we needed to get back across the River, so we walked out the back of the Wharf to a street known as the Upper Ground. This is where the docks once stood where, once upon a time, the streets teemed with a decidedly rough and ready trade – sailors who had just docked after months at sea and who were looking to let loose, ladies of the night (or day) looking to make a bit of coin, foreigners of all sorts seeking to sell or buy cargoes of exotic goods, street hawkers, cab men, coster mongers, fishermen, boatmen, etc. etc. The ships drove the neighborhood and the streets would have been awash in people of all stripes. Today, however, these were the sights we were met with.

Of course, this is more the way I was picturing it in my mind

“Where are we going?” Victoria finally asked.

“Waterloo. Station. And the Duke of Wellington Pub.”

“Do you know the story about Churchill and Waterloo Station?” Victoria asked me.

“I don’t think so.”

“Before he died, Churchill  worked on the plans for his own funeral. He was going to be buried at St. Martin’s Church in Bladon, in Oxfordshire, where many members of the Spencer Churchill family had been buried.”

“So,” Victoria went on, “Churchill’s fune
ral cortege would have traveled to Oxford by train. And trains to Oxford leave from which London station?”

“Paddington,” I answered.

“Exactly. But Churchill asked if it would be possible for his funeral train to depart from Waterloo Station, instead. Certainly, and official told him. It would mean diverting tracks and re-route thousands of daily tube passengers, it would involve redirecting signals and a host of other alterations, but in theory it could be done. Looking pleased, Churchill told him to arrange it when the time came. But why, asked official. What did Churchill have against Paddington Station? Nothing, he replied, but no doubt other countries would send heads of state to attend the funeral. France would no doubt send a representative, to which the official agreed. “Well,” Churchill said, “I don’t want to pass up the opportunity to force French President de Gaulle to have to walk through Waterloo Station.”

“Are you making this up?”

“No,” Victoria laughed, “If it isn’t true, it should be. Where are we going? Are you sure Waterloo Station down this way? It doesn’t look right.”

“The last time I walked this way, I wound up at Waterloo. It’s just down here,” I said, pointing.

Two girls were passing and Victoria asked them if this were the way to Waterloo Station. They told that indeed it was, and pointed in the direction I’d just indicated.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said. “And look, there’s the Wellington Pub. They haven’t moved that, either.”

And believe it or not, this is the poster we were met with inside the station, advertising the Wellington Exhibit we’d planned to see at the Tower. Nice to know I had unconsciously dressed to match Wellington’s uniform. He had Wellies, I have fur lined boots.

With still more on the day’s schedule ahead, we headed out onto Buckingham Palace Road and headed towards Buckingham Palace, passing one of our old haunts, the Bag O’ Nails pub, along the way.
Before long, we’d reached the Queen’s Gallery, where Victoria and I have attended many an exhibition. There’s another old haunt of ours just outside the Gallery – a long, low wall just perfect for resting upon, so we decided to take a short sit before going on.

After our break, we carried on, finally reaching the front of the Palace.

You may recall a prior post about mudlarking on the River Thames that I wrote a few years ago – you’ll find it here. I had been longing to return to the River again and was chuffed when Victoria said she’d like to take a turn at mudlarking while we were in London.

Victoria and I started out as part of a London Walks mudlarking tour on Sunday morning, with at least thirty other people in our group. The group was so big that the guide and her assistant broke us up into two groups, while she went back and forth relating the history of the Thames, it’s bridges and, incidentally, mud larking. This went on for quite some time before Victoriasidled up and asked me if we were ever going to get the opportunity to actually get our hands dirty, so to speak. After all, we were almost an hour into the walk and we were still on the northern side of the river.

Finally, we got across the Thamesand no sooner had we arrived then we lost the tour group. Both tour groups, in fact. The guide had organized us, in two groups, around a set of steps while she told us about something to do with shipping history. Victoria and I had only briefly wandered away and when we turned back, all thirty-something of them had vanished. Considering the size of the two groups, it was uncanny that we could find no sign of any of them. Poof! and they were gone. This did not bode well for our own turns as tour guides in the not too distant future.

Here’s a photo of me on the River bank, wearing my now famous fur lined boots. Before long, Victoria and I had drifted apart. Her wanderings took her in one direction, mine in another as we both dug through a few decades, if not centuries, of silt and sand.

However, this is what I saw in my mind’s eye as I gazed out at the Thames. 

Yes, Victoria, I was picturing a place where everyone was wearing period costume. And sailing in period ships.

Back in the 21st century, Victoria and I had a fabulous time collecting treasures from the River. Pottery shards, pipe stems and bowls, animal bones, driftwood, bits of metal and, most surprisingly, shells. We spent not a few hours treasure hunting before I looked up to see Victoriafurther ahead, waving an arm at me in a universal gesture that meant “get over here.”

“We’ve got to wrap things up,” she said when I’d reached her. “We need to eat something and then make our way over to Clarence House.” We’d booked a tour of Clarence House for four o’clock that afternoon, another place we’d always wanted to see, but which is rarely open to the public.

Reluctantly, I agreed but stopped by the station the Clean Up the Thames group had set up nearby. In addition to the sand sculptures below, they had set up a table manned by River historians and archaeologists who were available to a provide insight into the items people had found that day.

I showed them the bones I had found and their best guess was that they had probably come from a dog. 

My pottery shards were fairly self explanatory.

The pipe stems and pipe bowl I’d found were a different story. The archaeologists actually had a book with them containing photos of pipes from all periods and going by the shape and size of my pipe, they were able to tell me that mine was early 18th century. The photo above doesn’t do justice to the pipe bowl, it has a very elaborate design carved into the bowl. The expert was much taken with it and told me that it had to have belonged to someone of means. These pipes were meant to be disposable. One bought one already filled with tobacco, smoked it and chucked it away, many times into the River. They weren’t typically the sort of item one spent time carving designs into. He was quite impressed with my find and I was dead chuffed.

Perhaps my most interesting find was this tooth. I’m holding it upside down so that you can see the three rather large roots. The consensus is that it had probably come from a horse. 

Victoria’s treasures were much prettier and are pictured above: shells, clay pipe stem, blue-and-white shards, tile pieces.

You’ll find the black and white River photos above and many more period photos of all areas of London and London life on my Pinterest board, Old London. 

More Loose in London Coming Soon!

Victoria and I had finally arrived at Highgate Cemetery. It was a glorious afternoon – warm, sun shiny and the Cemetery was practically deserted. We were able to stroll the lanes and explore the East Cemetery all on our lonesomes. Save for the occasional birdsong, the air was still, quiet and the graves themselves were quite beautiful.

Victoria and I strolled in companionable silence, she a bit ahead of me as I threaded my way past crosses and angels, stopping to read some of the gravestones. At one time, all of these people were the light of someone’s life – a cherished spouse, a beloved child, a much missed grandparent, a favourite sibling or one’s closest friend. They were mourned, tears were shed over their loss and their graves were no doubt tended faithfully. Now, one hundred years on at least, they were nothing but forgotten bones in a cemetery, albeit resting beneath impressive monuments. It is said that no one is truly gone as long as there is someone, one person, who continues to remember them. I doubted there were many resting here who still had someone to remember them in 2014.

Eventually, Victoria and I made our way to the West Cemetery in order to join the 3 p.m. tour group. Once we were gathered, our tour guide gave us a brief history of the Cemetery, which opened in 1839. As we gathered in the large inner courtyard, our guide painted a vivid picture of the Cemetery as a thriving business concern – the courtyard would have been filled with hearses, carriages and male mourners as upwards of forty funerals a day were carried out on a typical day. Services had to be timed to the minute, as well as the arrival and departure of the attendant retinues, in order for everything to have run smoothly. You can read the Wikipedia entry on the Cemetery here.

Here, in the exclusive Egyptian Avenue, crypts were sold for the highest prices. Mourners coming to pay their respects often brought picnic lunches and erected tables within the crypts of their loved ones. Today, the plaques bearing the names of the departed are moss covered and the doors locked behind cobwebs that have been spun over the decades.

The Circle of Lebanon, above, is another of the exclusive section of crypts at the Cemetery. It was here that our guide took a detour and led us into an underground burial chamber. Once inside, there was almost no daylight, thus most of the photos I took did not come out well. Here’s one of mine below.

And here’s one taken in better light that I swiped off the internet so that you’d have a better idea of the space we were in. As I said, we were nearly in the pitch dark, surrounded on all sides by sealed crypts. As you can see in the photo below, there are sky lights in the ceiling, but by 2014 the vegetation had grown over them, dimming the space further. It was so dark that I had to step in close to peer at the stones that were marking the individual graves.

So you can imagine my surprise, nay shock, when I leaned down to read the lower stones only to be met by this sight.

Thank God the lid was still intact.

Perhaps one of my favourite graves is that of Tom Sayers, above. The grave stone, with the image of his faithful dog, a Mastiff named Lion, draped over his coffin as chief mourner is reminiscent of another of my favourite works of art, “The Old Shepherd’s Chief Mourner,” by Edwin Landseer.

Our group stood around the grave appreciating the poignancy of it all until our guide asked if any of us knew who Tom Sayer was. No one spoke up and for a time I considered whether or not I should answer. It seemed that either Victoria or I had been the only ones to know the answer to several of our guides previous questions. Victoria had been the only one among us to know who the lesbian author Radclyffe Hall was, which delighted our guide.  I was loathe to have the Americans once again provide the answer to his question. However, when it became apparent that no one else in the group was going to volunteer, I said, “A boxer. The best bare knuckle fighter in Victorian England.”

The guide’s eyes widened, “Yes! And it’s not too far a stretch that an American should know the answer to that question, is it?”

“Not if you know the story,” I answered. And so he began to relate the story of Sayers’s career to our group. You can read all about it here.

Sayers died in 1865 and huge crowds, made up of many of London’s rabble rousers and fight enthusiasts, followed his funeral cortege to Highgate Cemetery on the day of his burial. As the Morning Post of 16 Nov. 1865 put it:  The scene was “…an exhibition for which irredeemable blackguardism, brutal levity and barbaric ferocity, we are sure the like never disgraced the hallowed precincts of that most hallowed of spots – an English graveyard.” 

On our way towards the exit near the end of our tour, Victoria called me over to see something she’d found in the underbrush.  

A single, perfect wild strawberry to remind us that life goes on.

You’ll find the Highgate Cemetery website here, which is full of information of interest, including lists of other notable graves and the history of the Cemetery. Do also check out the site of The Friends of Highgate Cemetery – these are the people who volunteer their time as guides and who are at the forefront of restoration and upkeep for the Cemetery.

*** From Wikipedia: Earl Cowley is a title in the Peerage of the United Kingdom. It was created in 1857 for the diplomat Henry Wellesley, 2nd Baron Cowley. He was Ambassador to France from 1852 to 1867. He was made Viscount Dangan, of Dangan in the County of Meath, at the same time as he was given the earldom. This title is also in the Peerage of the United Kingdom. Lord Cowley was the eldest son of Henry Wellesley, 1st Baron Cowley, who like his son served as Ambassador to France. In 1828 he was created Baron Cowley, of Wellesley in the County of Somerset, in the Peerage of the United Kingdom. A member of the prominent Wellesley family, Cowley was the fifth and youngest son of Garret Wellesley, 1st Earl of Mornington, and the younger brother of Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, and Richard Wellesley, 1st Marquess Wellesley.