July 23, 2009
And So It Ends—with Laundry
Talking with our latest landlady this morning, we mentioned our Austen adventures of the past several days. She said that the locals call the fanatics “Janeites,” while another guest mentioned that yesterday she had visited the house in Winchester where Austen died. That house is a private residence and the owners have posted a sign saying “this is a private residence,” which, reported the guest, makes it much easier for the Janeites to find.
Well here we are on the last day of our great circuit of Great Britain. To commemorate the occasion we did laundry. Having partially satisfied that necessity, we headed for lunch. (I misapplied the soap, leaving soap stains on all my shirts. Guess I’ll redo them in the ship’s laundry.) After lunch we visited the town flour mill.
The Doomsday Book of 1086 lists a mill in the town, and a water mill of one kind or another operated until World War I, when it was run out of business by modern rolling mills. The mill, slated to be torn down, was rescued by local benefactors who donated it to the National Trust. In the past decade the Trust has undertaken an extensive restoration, and in 2007 the mill ground grain for the first time in about ninety years. It wasn’t grinding grain today, but the mill race raced, the water wheel spun, and the main gears turned, which was fun.
After that we bought some takeaway salads from the supermarket, headed back to our room, and (I mostly) wasted the evening watching our last British television—news and quiz shows. Tomorrow morning we’ll ride the train down to Southampton for about an hour, then board the ship after 1pm. I don’t know what the internet availability will be, but we’ll try to get off a post or two from the deep blue.
July 22, 2009
Jane and a Train
This morning we did the distaff D-Day tour as I, three other guys, and a hundred women landed in force at Chawton, Hampshire, and overran the Jane Austen house museum. The women were organized into two platoons: Elderly Englishwomen and American college students. A few of the latter were too cool to be there, but most were into it.
The sum of my experience of Jane Austen’s works is the Olivier/Garson version of Pride and Prejudice (which I enjoyed), but having dragged Barbara around France for three days to stare into gun emplacements and bomb crators, simple fairness suggested the visit to Chawton. It was a visit well worth making.
Austen, born in 1775, lived with her family in London, Bath, and Southampton, before moving into the house in Chawton on 5 July 1809 (we made the bicentennial year and month, if not the day). Austen had already offered her first novel to a publisher, but did most of her significant writing on her great novels at a small table in the kitchen of this house between 1809 and her death in 1817, probably from either Addison’s disease or lymphoma, aged 41.
Her clan was fairly well connected (they lived in the Chawton house, part of a relative’s estate, rent-free for life) and successful (two of her brothers became admirals in the royal navy). All of them, save Jane, were long-lived, into their seventies and beyond.
As a representative of the genus house museum, the Jane Austen house did well. They had some original stuff exposed to sunlight; not so good. In terms of interpretation, however, they did well, using the house and its artifacts effectively to tell the story of Austen and her family. An interesting morning. Barbara extracted goodies from their gift shop to about the same degree that I did at the Brunel museum. In her case a book bag, a box set of the collected works, and a nice trophy refrigerator magnet.
We had one last steam adventure heading back to Winchester from Chawton, the Mid Hants Railway, which we rode from Alton to Alresford. While waiting for the train, I did a little shopping of my own. I picked up a booklet of sixty railroad track plans from the Alton hobby shop for under two pounds. The British, starved for space, are full of smart modeling ideas. Even if you don’t use their plans per se, you can always pick up a few pointers.
Further up the street at the local used bookstore, I picked up “Aunts Are Not Gentlemen,” a Jeeves and Wooster, for the voyage. In truth I should do my duty on the crossing and read a Revolutionary War monograph that I’ve assigned for this fall. And I probably will, but if the author gets all ernest and paradigmatical, I have Wodehouse to defend me.
So onto the Mid Hants Railway, also called the Watercress Line. Completed in 1865, part of this railroad extended ten miles from Alton to Alresford, near Winchester. The line greatly improved delivery of the area’s most important product to the London market—watercress. Yes, watercress, the leafy plant used in salads.
The line survived, merged into various larger roads, until British Rail closed it in 1973. Whereupon enthusiasts purchased and rehabilitated this section, reopening it as a heritage steam railroad in 1985. The line surmounts a 500-foot pass. The section from Alton to the pass is one of those tunnels of trees, but after the summit it opens up (insofar as British country opens up) into grain fields and farm country. Kind of a straight shot, so not much opportunity for photos, but a fun ride.
Once returned to Winchester, we had dinner at an Indian restaurant called Gandi’s. I managed to order something pleasant and not burn my face off, so a nice way to end the day.
July 21, 2009
Back in Britain
England seems like a homecoming after our four days in the wilds of France. I was on deck at 0530 (believe it or not people) to sail the ferry from the Isle of Wight up the Solent and into Portsmouth on a gray and overcast but calm and appealing morning.
We then rode the train up to Winchester, in part to visit the cathedral (and yes, I’ve had that dopey song in my head all day, thanks for asking). Visit we did; an impressive place. The cathedral is massive and impressive in its own right and is a special place for many as the site of Jane Austin’s grave.
We also visited the great hall of the former castle, the majority of which Oliver Cromwell ordered destroyed as a royalist stronghold. After seeing the cathedral we crawled back to our B&B and relaxed. Kind of a rest and recovery day for us after France, and it was cool and rainy today which discourages out-and-aboutness.
We’re also catching up on our communications as we’re peeking out of the internet shadow for a few days. We should stay connected until we board the ship in Southampton on 24 July.
Random thoughts: *Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of the first moon landings, which I followed with great interest as an eleven year old. The British TV channels have been celebrating the anniversary enthusiastically with many interesting programs for most of the time that we’ve been here. They describe the Apollo Program as a grand human achievement, which is an interesting way of putting it. *It isn’t just the beer they serve warm around here. You open the door to a refrigerator case busily whirring away at a store here and pull out a room temperature soda. A while back I overheard an American grousing about Britain being “the land of the lukewarm beverage,” and I have to agree. It’s one thing I won’t miss about Britain. *On the other hand, I love those pubs! This is the way to eat. You take your own time figuring out what you want, go order it at the bar, then they bring it out to you and you eat and leave at whatever pace you please. This eliminates my least favorite part of restaurant dining: how your waiter disappears like Amelia Earhart whenever you want your check. *Another interesting British custom which we’ve bumped several times is the “hen party.” These are mostly held for brides-to-be over the weekend before their weddings. You’ll see the occassional stag party; we saw one future groom being led around the streets dressed in a prison outfit. The difference is that in a hen party the bride gets to inflict financial and personal embarrasment upon her girlfriends by making them dress up however she wants. I ran into my first and favorite in Liverpool when coming out of the Western Approaches museum; must have been twenty women dressed as lady bugs, entirely matching outfits complete with wings and bug antennae. *I joined your club today Dad. We were on a bus packed with Italian teenagers on their grand tour. I was working myself into a comfortable nitch in which to stand when one of the teenaged girls offered me her seat. For the record, I’m 51.
July 15, 2009
The Boat Train(s)
Before we headed for Portsmouth to catch our cross-Channel ferry tomorrow, we stayed in Windsor long enough to catch the changing of the guard at castle this morning. Not so grand as the change at Buckingham, but fun—half a dozen pipers followed by twenty soldiers or so, all being led by the biggest wolfhound I’ve ever seen.
I mentioned security yesterday, and it’s certainly much in evidence. (Between “the troubles” and the jihadis you can see their point.) Police sentries at the gates carry automatics with twenty-round clips; if you get past them the army’s waiting inside.
I unwittingly fell afoul of security myself this morning. They have a long row of benches in front of the castle on the route of the trooping of the colors, and we’d landed on a good one with our gear. Since we were on our way to the train station we had our large, square backpacks (that look like satchel charges) with us.
Given the crowd, I didn’t want to occupy the bench with luggage, and I didn’t want to set mine onto the dirty cement and bubble gum in front of me, so I stuck it on the grass behind the bench, that is between the row of benches and the castle wall.
It had been there only a couple of minutes when a large police officer appeared and gruffly asked whose it was (I confessed), then told me that it would have to be removed or that I might be “canceled” and the bag blown up.
I’m still not sure what being “canceled” entails, but one of my cardinal rules is never to die for my luggage. I’m sure they teach them gruff at the academy to overaw the tourists, and it works. I had that bag back on the right side of the bench before he’d finished speaking.
All of this to see the guard skirl, thump, and march up the street for a minute or two, disappear into the castle to do their business, then emerge heading the other way twenty minutes later. Still hundreds of tourists, including this one, crowded the sidewalks to watch the proceedings.
After that we headed to the train station at about noon, and caught the train for Portsmouth, arriving here just before four. I’m afraid I drowsed quite a bit on the train this time, which I try to avoid doing. The train rides count as sightseeing with me, and I try to get the most out of these trips. What I saw of this trip, however was mostly close, flat, urban landscape, so not the same magnitude of bad as, say, sleeping though the Highlands.
The highlight of this rail trip was that we had to change trains at a place called Clapham Junction, two or three miles south of London (with the city center clearly visible). This was as impressive a bit of railroading as I’ve ever seen.
The junction, shaped like a Y, has about eight tracks feeding into it from each arm from the north, and maybe twleve or so running south out of its base. The station sits in the junction itself, and between the two northern arms of the junction is a 24-track, train-storage yard. Standing on the passenger bridge at the station looking south for a mile or so, one sees generally half a dozen trains in motion at once. That they don’t have a collison every hour or so is a testimonial to somebody’s skill and ulcers.
Having arrived at Portsmouth, we checked in, walked down and found the ferry terminal, then walked the town a bit. Tomorrow we board the ferry for Caen in Normandy, coming in after a five-hour crosssing at the mouth of the Orne River, the extreme left of the Allied landings.
I’m looking forward to a much nicer crossing than they had, high skies and breeziness this afternoon suggest fair weather tomorrow. Like the heroes, however, we may be out of touch for some days. We don’t exactly know the lay of things in France, much less of the French internet. If we can’t communicate at all from France, we will post an update of our doings when we arrive back in Britain on 22 July.
July 14, 2009
The High Rent District
This morning we took the train from London down to Windsor. In many places in Britain if urban settlement lies astride a river it’s two different towns, as for example Newcastle and Gateshead on the Tyne. So too Windsor and Eton on opposite banks of the Thames. So we got the chance to visit the famous castle town and the site of the famous prep school all in one sitting.
After we checked into our rooms, we entered the back yard of Windsor Castle—that famous single-lane, miles-long drive—about half a mile from the Castle and walked to it. Windsor Castle is magnificent, of course, but its signal feature is that it lies on the Heathrow flight path, meaning that HM The Queen gets serenaded at least every few minutes when in residence by Boeing or Airbus coming or going. (I can’t imagine Henry VIII having such problems; one airport manager’s head on a pike at the tower gate and the next guy would rework the approach vectors first thing.)
This is strictly high-rent country. Touring the castle cost us about $25 each, the highest we’ve yet paid for a tourist attraction. Apparently it takes quite a bit of money to keep the royals in the style to which they are accustomed. (And they’re making it; the place was swamped.) In fairness, much of that cost is security persons, both to protect the grounds from terrorists and the artifacts from tourists.
So we toured the public rooms and great halls (over temporary carpets that can be quickly removed so that the “regular” carpets can be rolled back into place for the VIPs), and gawked at the paintings, sculptures, and furniture. This while listening to a very helpful audio guide provided at no additional charge. We only toured the front part of the palace; still plenty of room out back for any royals or guests to roam unencumbered by the masses.
After the castle we had a very nice dinner in a pub nearby, then in the fading daylight crossed the Thames bridge and stolled the main street of Eton. Also very high end: art galleries, men’s clothiers, and several tailor shops offering “bespoke” (i.e. custom-made) items—none of it cheap. But if you need anything fancy for a school reunion or a royal ball, I’m sure they can produce it for you.
July 13, 2009
The Anthill
In 1887, Arthur Conan Doyle uncharitably had Dr. Watson describe London as “that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained.” I wouldn’t go that far; “anthill” might be a nicer way of putting it.
Either way, the city is noisy and congested and crowded with at least one person of every size and discription and with many shades from the pallette of languages in use. We’ve been imersed in this for a couple of days, of course, but today got the maximum voltage. But first . . .
This morning we visited the Thames Tunnel’s pump house, which lies on the south side of the river. This is a curious little museum commemorating the first tunnel dug under the Thames (or any other river), though one cannot see the tunnel itself except by special appointment.
What the museum really commemorates is the great Victorian engineers Brunel, father and son. The father, Marc Isambard Brunel was an outspoken French royalist in 1793. Bad idea. So in short order he was an outspoken French royalist working in America, engineering with some celebrity in New York.
But there he met and fell in love with an Englishwoman, last name Kingdom. So he moved to London, resumed his engineering career, and it was there that his son Isambard Kingdom Brunel was born. As a teenager, dad sent Isambard to be educated and trained in post-revolutionary Paris.
In 1825 Marc Brunell proposed to dig a tunnel under the Thames in order to provide a cheaper alternative to the crowded river’s ferries and barges. Isambard returned from Paris to join the project, serving as managing engineer from 1825 to 1827, when he was nearly drowned in a cave in.
After recovering, Isambard left that project the following year, and embarked on his career as the most celebrated Victorian engineer. In the thirty years that followed, he built famous railroads, buildings, and ships.
Some of these were ingenious projects that inaugurated new directions in engineering. But economically, some of them were legendarily impractical. That problem was a feature of the younger Brunel’s career that he shared with his father. Which brings us back to the Thames Tunnel.
Marc Brunell estimated that he could finish the tunnel in three years. It took eighteen, and even then it wasn’t finished to his original conception. To reach depth, Brunell sank shafts on either side of the river. Though the tunnel was completed with two large bores meant to accommodate freight wagons, when it finally opened to foot traffic in 1843 the company lacked the money to dig the approaches.
So the Thames Tunnel remained a foot tunnel, defeating its original purpose, until 1865, when a London railroad purchased it and finished the job. Today it is still an active part of the tube system, thus off limits to the public.
So we saw the exhibits, a very good film mostly about the younger’s achievements, then I bought out the gift shop and we headed back to town. Once again, we split up. Barbara went to visit the Tate Gallery and wander about the city, while I headed for the cabinet war rooms museum.
The war rooms, located underground a block behind Whitehall Street, were the emergency seat of the British cabinet during World War II. They’d begun building the bunker in secret in 1938 and managed, according to the museum, to erect the bunker’s roof of five-meter steel beams and tons of concrete under a pre-existing building without drawing the attention of the passing public.
The war rooms were somewhat like those of the Western Approaches bunker in Liverpool, and I don’t think they were interpreted as well. The war rooms museum spent more energy mentioning the famous persons who worked there, giving less attention to how the place actually operated. And the war rooms tour itself was interupted by a visit to an entirely different museum, albeit a very effective one.
The war rooms were opened to the public in 1984. In 2005 a large room within the former bunker was opened as a Winston Churchill museum. This was the most effective of the new zillion-buck, high-tech, gizmo-laden museums that I’ve seen to date. Most of these places sensate you to death, and this one risked that at times, but it also shielded sound units effectively from each other, stayed focused, and was reasonably critical of its subject.
I think that the sound and light show was more effective here than in some other places, partly because biography, inherently linear, is always easier to interpret than general subjects, and partly because what matters about Churchill is the light and sound, the images and words. (They had, for example, a text screen containing famous humorous Churchill quotes. One I liked about Monty (from memory): “In retreat indefatigable; in advance invincible; in victory insufferable.”)
They also made the very interesting choice to start Churchill’s biography with his elevation to prime minister in 1940, move to the end of his life, then start over with his early years leading to World War II, thereby leading the visitor back into the war rooms tour. This sort of disjunction could potentially be very distracting, but I think that it worked very well here. Generally a good afternoon for me.
Emerging from the bunker, I walked from Whitehall, through Trafalgar square, to meet Barbara at Covent Garden. It was in these places that we had the absolute anthill experience. Swarms of tourists, and maybe a few locals actually trying to get somewhere, though I think we scared most of them off.
In Trafalgar Square, on our way back to our lodgings, we passed the talk of the town (even the nation), which is the doings on the fourth plinth. They built a series of plinths in Trafalgar square as bases for various monuments, but never got around to putting anything on the last one.
This summer for a hundred days, they’re been loaning out that plinth in hour-long segments to winners of a national internet lottery to do with what they will, hoisting them up there thirty feet or so with a cherry picker. Ours was a woman standing up there knitting. She was lucky enough to draw a decent hour and get good weather. I can’t imagine it’s much fun to be up there at 3 am in the rain.
This is either lame exhibitionism or the people’s pedestal of performance art, depending on who you ask. But people seem to be enjoying it (the plinth has its own crowd now). They’ve had statue guys, and people dancing, and people protesting this and that. My favorite so far is the woman who spent her hour firing paper airplanes into the crowd, but I also like the idea of one TV comedian, who wanted to get dressed up like Napoleon and spend his hour screaming invective at Nelson’s statue—presumably in French.
July 12, 2009
Where the Industrial Revolution Begins
We rode the tube (we’re old hands on our second day) down to Kensington this morning to partake of that wonder of the museum world, “The Science Museum.” As they refer over here to the London Times as “The Times” and the British Open as “The Open,” so too this isn’t the British Science Museum, just “The Science Museum.” And in all three cases they’re probably justified.
Oh sure, they have their futurama and their psychology wing and their garden, but any discerning techno-head quickly gravitates to their collection of about a zillion marine models (ships, power plants, propulsion systems—who knew there were so many types of propellers?), their room full of Enlightenment scientific instruments, and (the show stopper) their entrance hall full of steam engines, from Newcomen’s atmospheric to Parsons’ turbine dynamo. But first, a little Wallace and Gromit.
For you squares, Wallace and Gromit are the world famous claymation creations of a Britton named Nick Parks. They’ve appeared in three or four movies to date, win Parks an Oscar almost every time out, and are a whimsical good time. At the Science Museum they’ve been recruited into a patent (“pay-tent”) and innovation campaign. So we went first to see that exhibit.
More fun than patents for us certifiables, however, were the bits of W&G stuff on exhibit, including several of the “sets” from the movies. For you groupies who want the inside dirt, the real Wallace stands seven or eight inches tall, while his dog Gromit stands about three inches high when on all fours.
The sets themselves are like proportioned, and each room (the living room and kitchen were on display) is about two feet on a side, open on one side for filming like any movie set, and built into a substantial wooden crate for storage and travel. Done on the scale of a doll house. Cracking model making, of course.
After leaving that section of the Kensington, Barbara went to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum to see a few favorites, then to visit the gravesite of a Bahai leader. I spent the next five hours with the ship models and steam engines and such.
The stationary engines included a Newcomen type from 1791, several of Watt’s efforts of like period, and various other takes and improvements up to the revolutionary (in more ways than one) Parsons’ 1891 turbine-dyanmo setup. Queen of the locomotives was Robert Stephenson’s Rocket, that thirty-mph lightning bolt that revolutionized land travel in 1830.
Very cool. Then off to dinner, blog, and bed.
July 11, 2009
Where Time Begins
This morning we headed for the Thames, boarded a river cruiser jut east of Big Ben, and headed for Greenwich. The tour down river was very interesting to me. One of the boat’s crew pointed out the various landmarks, maratime and architectural (including famous old pubs—he knew his pubs).
London became a seaport in 50AD, when the Romans built the first bridge across the river and established Londinium. It ceased to be one in 1981, when the Royal Docks closed, put out of business by giant and efficient facilities down river. Although they don’t land cargo in London anymore, the city remains a world hub of maritime ownership, brokerage, insurance, and such.
So much of the maritime archictecture on the Thames has ceased to serve its original function, but they’ve done a good job preserving facades as they’ve converted old wearhouses into luxury flats (you and six of your friends couldn’t afford one).
One of the most interesting things about these old wearhouses to me was a completely clever bit that had never occurred to me: they built the pier’s crane into the front of the building. They lie flush with the facade when not in use, but can swing out as far as they need to in a 180-degree arch to cover the dock and the ship. A number of these still remain. Our guide also informed us that the word “wharf” stood for “wearhouse at river front.” Never heard that one; will have to check.
The cruise took us to Greenwich, site of the Royal Naval Observatory, and formerly of the Royal Naval College. Barbara and I trooped to the top of the hill to visit the Observatory, stand astride the zero meridian, and behold an excellent view of London. We took a few pictures, saw some of the exhibits, then headed down the hill.
The place was swamped with tourists in a way we haven’t experienced before on this trip. We’ll have to get used to it for the rest of our stay, I suspect. We’re in high tourist season and British schools have let out, a deadly combination.
After seeing the obseratory, we split up. Barbara set out for the Tate Museum, only to remember that it was located on the Victoria subway line, closed this weekend. So she headed for the city instead, and, sad to say, spent most of her afternoon doing the administrative things necessary to get us to France and back.
Mine was the better fate. I headed for a much anticipated treat: The National Maritime Museum. This consists of three floors of good, clean nautical fun, and as I only had four hours, I had to pick my spots. I did get to see most of the bits that interested me, however, thanks to quick feet and their good map.
Favorite Act: ringing (softly) the Mauritania’s crow’s nest bell. Truly a brush with greatness. Favorite Fact: Mirrors on the Queen Mary were tinted slightly peach, so that even if you felt terrible, you’d look great. Most Surprising Discovery: models of giant new container ships showing them to be single-screw vessels. Putting all your faith in one propeller seems like asking for trouble. Most Hallowed Artifact: Horatio Nelson’s dress coat from the battle of Trafalgar, bullet hole in the left shoulder.
After they tossed me out of the museum, I went toward the waterfront to see what sort of shape Cutty Sark was in after her fire of several years ago. It was impossible to determine, since she is covered in tarps and surrounded by a screening fence. So I headed for the subway and a roundabout return to our lodgings, dinner, and blogging.
July 10, 2009
Urban Anniversary
Into London from Wakefield this morning in two hours by express train; unromantic but fast. We’re billeted at the London School of Economics. Student dorms fall through spring, giant tourist B&B in the summer, as this university, like universities everywhere, scrambles for every pound (or dollar).
Once established, we returned to some of Barbara’s old hunts from her semester-in-London student days seven years ago. We saw the buildings where she lived and took classes, trooped familiar streets, and saw such landmarks as the Albert Hall and the Royal Geological Society. After that, we dropped into Harrod’s to tour the rediculously expensive stuff. Sort of slumming in reverse.
You can understand the prices; three sales staff at each counter, often talking to themesleves. Sales must be an intersting gig there. You’d realize that 98 percent of visitors are riff-raff like us (sales people looked through us), but that the other 2 percent are gold veins waiting to be mined.
We saw an exceedingly well dressed English matron with hair spun like cotton candy—a vision of another era—picking up a few items. In the jewelry department, we passed a finely dressed Middle Eastern woman looking over the L18,000 watches, with sales staff hovering. We also beheld a $1,500 tin of caviar the size of a hockey puck.
After this brush with greatness (or at least affluence), we set sail for an annivesary dinner at a nearby Polish restaurant, with the unlikely name “Daquise,” recommended by a friend and old London hand (that’s you Dave). Still there and apparently thriving in their 62nd year.
Random Thoughts: Rowan Atkinson is appearing as Fagin in the London theater revival of “Oliver!” That sounds like fun. On the dark side, “Sister Act,” a mediocre movie from twenty years ago, has been reprocessed as a musical and is running at the London Palladium. We’re officially out of ideas.
July 9, 2009
Into the Depths Again
We really stopped in Wakefield in order to visit the National Coal Mining Museum for England, located at the recently worked Caphouse Colliery, a few miles to the south. At its peak, 1.25 million men mined up to 300 million tons of coal a year in Great Britain. Today it’s down to about ten thousand men producing a tenth of peak output.
Our underground guide knew of five mines still operating in Yorkshire. He thinks it could be down to three by next year. Like much of American mining, British mining has largely gone overseas to places where environmental and health-and-safety standards have yet to intrude.
We toured the museum and mine site, operated into the last decade (this version of the museum opened in 2005), for five hours. I went on their pit tour underground, which lasted an hour and a half and was good. The tour worked through all of the stages in the development of English coal mining, from proto-industrial to contemporary.
(No pictures, however. They are so concerned about the gas hazards that they confiscated all battery-operated appliances, including my camera. Incidentally, the British call any coal mine a “pit,” whether it’s an underground or a surface operation (which we would call a pit). Glad we got that cleared up.)
The museum was somewhat less successful. It including all of the usual elements of coal mining museums (technologies, labor issues, workers’ lives, etc.), but presenting them in a somewhat scattershot fashion.
The rest of the day we stood down, largely so that Barbara could work out the logistics of our next move tomorrow—to London.
