Category: Loose in London

LOOSE IN LONDON: HIGHGATE CEMETERY

After our morning at Kenwood, we still had a few particles of energy left…enough for a visit to Highgate Cemetery?  Well, we’d only know if we gave it a try.  So Kristine and Victoria climbed aboard a bus and trusted we’d remembered the right number — and voila!  Soon we were across the Heath and at the cemetery gates.  From here on, this is Victoria’s account. Kristine’s will come in her own inimitable style.

Entrance Gates in Swain’s Lane
We started out wandering in the East part of the cemetery, where individual rambles are allowed.
The paths are lined with memorials of all sizes and shapes.

I wonder if anyone has ever counted all the angels watching over the departed?
As we will see even more below, Mother Nature rules the area.
The draped urns on so many markers represent the soul and the image of grief.

Many kinds of crosses 
We moved slowly, fascinated by the sights, and soon we had to hurry back to the West part of the cemetery for our guided tour, beginning at the Chapel. As you will see below, there is a reason to require guides for this larger part of the cemetery. It would be very easy to get lost!
Victorian Stained Glass in the Chapel

Monuments of all varieties
Highgate Cemetery is maintained and managed by a Friends group which organized to preserve the grounds. Though some of the monuments and graves are maintained by families, many were abandoned long ago.  The Friends group keeps the natural growth under some control without trying to restore the appearance to that of the originals. It is also a wildlife refuge for all sorts of creatures, few of which ventured out while we humans were trudging around.
Areas on both sides of the cemetery are available for current burials, and among the Victorian monuments, you find recent graves here and there.  One of the most famous is below.
Alexander Litvinenko (1962-2006) is widely believed to have been poisoned by Russian agents in London.
Author Beryl Bainbridge, DBE, 1932-2010,
And many old ones…
The tomb of General Sir Loftus Otway, 1775-1854, hero of the Peninsular War
and family members
The Egyptian Avenue,
among the most exotic areas reflecting the Victorian imagination  of the cemetery creators.
Circle of Lebanon
The Family Catacomb of P.W. Talbot of 439 Haverstock Hill
Vault of author Radclyffe Hall 1880-1943 and her partner Mabel Batten
Hall wrote The Well of Loneliness, 1928; admirers keep fresh flowers here always.
This horse is one of the numerous animals adorning gravesites.

Our Guide tells us about the tomb of George Wombwell 1777-1850
known as The Menagerist, owner of a Victorian Traveling circus, 
interred below a statue of his favorite lion, Nero
Highgate was begun as a garden cemetery on the outskirts of London; by the mid-19th century, parish graveyards were running out of space.  In 1836, Parliament established joint-stock companies to build cemeteries. Stephen Geary (1797-1854) headed the group that laid out (so to speak) Highgate, planning to hold 30,000 gravesites

The slope on which Highgate was located had excellent views and clear clean air, contributing to the appeal of the site.

Victorian families acquired lots in the cemetery and sometimes adorned them with statuary before anyone died.  They often visited for picnics or just to admire their property. 
In preparation for this visit, I read Audrey Niffenegger’s interesting novel set at Highgate, Her Fearful Symmetry.  And I re-read Tracy Chevalier’s Falling Angels, also set at a Victorian burial ground. Both novels are fascinating for the subject matter and also for excellent prose styles.
RIP, Mary Nichols, and family. And all the other souls in this amazing place.

LOOSE IN LONDON: KRISTINE MUSES ABOUT HIGHGATE CEMETERY

Highgate Cemetery is another of those places that have been on my bucket list for years. I’ve always wanted to visit, but somehow never had the luxury of time in order to add it to past itineraries. So, after Kenwood House in the morning, Victoria and I headed over to Highgate via the bus. The bus itself was another thing I’d never done before – whilst navigating my way across London and England via the tube and railway seems easy peasey, the bus system mystified me before Victoria took me in hand and explained all the vagaries of the process. I admit I’m still a bit puzzled, as often during the coming weeks Victoriawould say that the approaching bus wasn’t the one we were waiting for, but let’s get on anyways. Huh? Why are we getting on a bus that isn’t ours? It doesn’t matter, she’d say, climbing aboard. I, of course, followed. Blindly and like a trusting sheep. Granted, we always reached our destination, but I still don’t have the whole bus thing down in my head, so I doubt I’ll be using it again if I’m in London without Victoria (quelle horror!).
The weather was glorious – warm and mild, with bouts of watery sunshine. And I was still wearing my fur lined boots. That morning, Victoria had found me sitting on the side of my bed, applying cushioned bandages to my feet.
“What are you doing?” she’d asked.
“Covering my blisters. Then I’m going to put on socks and then my boots.”
“Not those fur lined boots again!”
“Have to. They’re the only shoes I’ve got with me that don’t cause me to scream in pain with every step.”
“Do you really need all those band aids?” I raised my as yet unbandaged foot so that she could get a better look. “Holy Crow! I had no idea your feet were that bad!”
“Thus the fur-lined boots. And the fact that I’ve got no shame in wearing them in the middle of a balmy English summer. We have so much to do, none of which I want to miss out on, so band-aids it is. As Wellington said, `A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’”
“He did not. Wellingtondid not say that.”
“You don’t think so?” I said, ripping open another plaster. “I’ll bet he did. Many times. Think about it.”
“Okay, he might have said something along those lines, but who really said it?”
“John Wayne. And maybe Winston Churchill.”
So now here we were, on the bus traveling from Kenwood House in Hampstead towards Highgate Cemetery. As we rode, I thought about what Victoriahad said at Kenwood – that I always expect there to be people at these sites who are dressed in period costume. Sometimes, no kidding, I do find myself a tad disappointed in the reality of a place. I do expect period people to be present. Georgiana should be strolling the grounds at Chatsworth, complete with straw bonnet and a saucy tilt to her chin. Brummell should be sauntering up St. James’s Street with a walking stick in hand and clever insults at the ready. A carriage or two, along with a fresh pile of horse manure, would not go amiss. It would add to the period ambiance. As would a regiment of foot practicing squares in Hyde Park. Or milkmaids standing round Green Park with their cows nearby. I want to eat ices at Gunter’s and present my card at Apsley House, preferably to FitzRoy Somerset himself. I’d like to be able to visit Almack’s in order to see, first hand, just how lousy the refreshments were. I want to look up in the sky and witness balloon ascents. And go to the Exeter Change. I want a waterman to row me across the Thames to Vauxhall Gardens. If I met Caro Lamb and Princess Lieven, would they be as awful as I imagine they were? Would the original Earl Grey tea really taste like the 21st Century blend? How long would I last without Bacardi rum? Did Queen Victoria really bray like a donkey when she laughed? Was Prince Leopold really drop dead gorgeous at the time of his wedding to Princess Charlotte? 
“Our stop is next,” Victoriasaid, bringing me out of my reverie. We were almost at Highgate Cemetery– I’d finally be able to strike it off my bucket list. And it would most certainly not disappoint as the place would be filled with period people. Granted, they’d be dead and buried and not on view as they strolled the paths, but technically they’d still be there. 

 Highgate Cemetery Coming Soon!

LOOSE IN LONDON: KRISTINE'S FIRST DAY – PART THREE

Victoria arrives!

In front of the hotel
Victoria here.  You wouldn’t believe the scene I encountered upon entering our room at the Sloane Square Hotel.  Kristine, usually smiling and eager — Kristine, usually dressed attractively and appropriately — Kristine, usually eager to impart all her latest adventures — yes, this Kristine was a faint shadow of herself.  I won’t describe her appearance or her demeanor any further.  You wouldn’t believe it!
Of course I had been in France for two weeks before kissing Hubby goodbye at DeGaulle and flying to Londonwhile he returned home to the US. I was thoroughly accustomed to the time zone. I was ready for our big London fiesta: over three weeks in heaven — exploring, learning, photographing, leading The Duke of Wellington tour, more touring — a perfect storm of delight.
Kristine and I had been looking forward to this first meeting of ours in London, which would signal the beginning of our long anticipated English Idyll. So who was this disheveled half-conscious wraith that faced me now upon my arrival in our cluttered room, already looking like the typhoon had just passed on? Well, never one to coddle — or condescend — I shed my own two, compact travel bags and began to chatter.  “We had a great time in Paris, blah, blah, blah…”
Two eyes made a valiant effort to open wide…and failed.  Slight acknowledgement of my arrival with a nod.
“We went to Malmaison, loved the Rodin Museum, blah, blah, yadda…..why are you sitting there in the window like that? Were you watching for me?”
At last, the wraith sat up and came alive.  “No. I didn’t want to lay on the bed because I’d have fallen asleep and then I’d screw up my sleep pattern. I have to stay awake until bedtime tonight. So, here I am, looking out of the bay window just like Brummell at Whites.”
Well, not exactly, but close enough.  We managed a big hug and, ever so gingerly, Kristine began telling me of her ordeal.  And there was Big Red, all right.  Immense enough to carry supplies for the Siege of Badjos, as well as several boxes of materials for the Wellington Tour. 
Aha!  No wonder Kristine felt like a beast of burden — she had way too much to carry. 
Kristine picks up the tale –
“I need a drink,” I told Victoria.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” she replied. “The state of you!”
“Duke of Wellington pub?”
“Absolutely! As planned. Egad, but we’ve been looking forward to this moment for months now. Our first drink together in London! Almost a month of Wellingtonmerriment ahead of us! Downton Abbey! Copenhagen! The WellingtonTour! Open Houses Weekend! Mudlarking! . . . . . . . why on earth are you wearing those things?”
I’d pulled on my fur topped boots while Victoria was rhapsodizing about the weeks ahead of us. “You’re going to have to trust me on this – they’re the only shoes I can wear right now. Everything else is too painful.”
Victoriablinked. “It’s in the 70’s outside. Those are boots.”
“I know. But they’re all I have at the moment.”
“Yeah, but it’s summer and . . . . . . . “
I grabbed Victoriaby the arm and practically frog marched her to the door, “Let’s go. I’ll tell you all about it once we’re at the pub.”
“Are you really going to wear those in public? They’ve got fur, for God’s sake.”
“I can leave a few minutes after you and meet you at the pub. That way no one will know that you’re with me. And my feet will be under the table once we get there. No one will notice my boots.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Sorry. I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me.”
“I am ashamed to be seen with you. I said don’t be silly because I can’t go without you. I don’t know where the pub is.”
Thankfully, it was but a short stroll to the Duke ofWellington pub on Ebury Street. It was early enough that the place was nearly deserted. An adorable barman who looked to be about thirteen years old asked us what we’d be having. 

Now a strange thing happened. As you may recall, I had been dreaming of a stiff rum and Coke all day long, but now that we stood before the beer taps, I suddenly wanted nothing more than a cold pint. Unfortunately, the pub had many micro brews and specialty ales. Not a recognizable brand in sight. The infant barman was kind enough to allow Victoria and I to taste a few before we ordered.

In the end, Victoria and both opted for the Oranjeboom which was fabulous. Here’s how it’s described:

‘Quirkily Continental’, Oranjeboom is a Dutch classic and was judged the ‘best draught lager in the world’ at the Brewing Industry International Awards. A delicious, easy-drinking Dutch drop with a hay-like hue and a herbaceous, grassy and fruity fragrance. Citrus notes on the palate speak softly of orange, kiwi and lemongrass buttressed with a hint of caramel sweetness and a gentle, drifting finish.

After our first sips, we took up our glasses and spent a good few minutes examining and photographing all of the Wellington memorabilia ranged around the walls. They even had a copy of one of my favourite Wellington portraits, which I fondly refer to as the Grandpa Artie image.



Finally, we found an empty table and took a load off. Victoria told me about her two weeks in France, whilst I regaled her with tales of my poor feet. And the Royal Hospital.

“I still can’t believe that no on there knows where the painting is hung,” I said, relating the story of my search for the painting entitled The Chelsea Pensioners Reading the Waterloo Despatch.

“Or what the painting is,” Victoria added.

“Yeah. I mean where else would it be but at the Royal Hospital?”

“Come to think of it, I could swear I’ve seen it somewhere before,” Victoria mused.

“At the Royal Hospital?”

“I can’t recall, but somewhere. You know, there were probably a few copies made when it was commissioned by the Duke of Wellington. It was a fairly common practice. There are at least three copies of the Lawrence portrait of Artie.”

“I know. I think I’ve seen the Chelsea Pensioners before, too, come to think of it.”

“Where? You haven’t been to the Royal Hospital before today.”

“Damned if I know.”

“Do you think we saw it when we went to the National Army Museum?” Victoria asked.

I took a sip of beer. “Could be. It seems to me that I saw it someplace in London. Someplace connected to Artie.”

“Where else in London could it be?” Victoria asked. “Horse Guards?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, but I’m going to go back to the Royal Hospital when we get back to London in a few weeks time to see if they find out where it is. This mystery is driving me crazy.”

Eventually, we moved on to discussing other things and ordering dinner, after which I was truly ready for bed. As I fell asleep, I thought about our agenda for the next day – the newly renovated Kenwood House and Highgate Cemetery. Life was good. Even when your feet hurt.

Next installment coming soon!