A Coolish Morning in Edinburgh

So, it is day two in Edinburgh. We are about ten minutes away from the train station, near the Royal Mile. We are going to spend the day in the lovely city of Edinburgh and get on the train for Dundee tonight. We will spend Sunday in Dundee and get back on the plane on Monday. I am very happy to make it back to Edinburgh. It is one of my very favorite cities. It looks like a beautiful morning, rainwashed and sparkling.

We got up relatively early and made our way down to breakfast.



This is a view of the inside of the teeny little elevator. I am not sure exactly why I would need to take a little rest on the 7 second trip, but ... it is good to know that there is a foldy-down seat if you need one.



One of the selling points of this hotel was the fact that we get a Scottish breakfast. I am aware that this differs from an English breakfast. I am a big fan of breakfast and feel a kinship with a culture that sees breakfast as important. Toast and coffee does not breakfast make in my opinion. We walk into the dining room and spy Rowan. She is waiting for us.



I am game to try everything, so what you see is my breakfast of scrambled eggs, baked beans, sausage, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding and something else that I can't remember. I think it was some type of sausage that I had never tried. I am generally not a sausage eater, but the sausage is nice and meaty ... it does not call to mind mysterious leavings. I am becoming fond of baked beans and eggs.

Rowan writes:
Morning is again – sigh – rainy. I get up early and go down to breakfast. There is a lovely array of items on offer. I am sensing a ‘food cooked for me by other people’ high radiating within my slightly chilled core (I have chosen to sit right by the window, for meterological and nosy-parker reasons. But the windie seat is always the cauldest ane in the hoose.)

I survey the smorgasbord of proscribed fried fare, which is just what the doctor prescribed. One with a Ph.D in an arts subject with little interface with dodgy lipids depositing themselves in narrowing arteries. Knowing about the perils of things doesn’t stop people doing them, nevertheless. A lot of medical doctors over here smoke and drink too much.

I pondered thus, building up a good head of steam on the cognitive dissonance front, and deciding on just how much I could heap my plate with, before I begin to look greedy in front of Bob and Wry. I know they will not skimp, and try everything they fancy – but – they stop when they are full. I recall a visit to a self-service buffet restaurant with my mother, sister and brother, when we were in our teens. It was an ‘eat all you like for a fiver’ situation, with large chunks of gammon steak, lovely bowls of potato salad, and a fabulous selection of puddingy items. I still remember the stomach cramps which assailed me, holding on to the hotel banister, as I groaned my way out into the street. Michty! :0O That was baaaad. Now I have developed a little self-control. (No, that needs qualifying. I haven’t. But I have reserves for when I’m in company.

I am sipping my third cup of tea, craning my neck to watch the breakfast news on the TV behind me. I ought to move, but I like my hidden corner spot, watching the raindrops pooling on the glass, and am hoping that they will throw everything they have into the fray, and thus be forced to throw in the towel, just when we are sortie-ing out into the streets of Embra. I pray for nice weather for our stravaig.

Wry comes into the breakfast room with his notebook. I am glad to see that he is accessing his inner luddite in this way. Bob soon follows, and we fill up our plates. I think I ate two sausages, black-pudding, beans, scrambled-egg, a hash-browny thing, and undoubtedly, bacon. Maybe a mushroom or two. Certainly, toast. My memory is conveniently drawing the curtain of amnesic decorum over how many slices.)

Breakfast is yummy, and I am enjoying myself very much. It is so nice to be out and about with my friends who are curious about everything, and have a well-honed sense of the bizarre, relishing the quirky and extraordinary features which append to everyday life. I recall being lectured by a lady in a garden centre, on how to keep an african violet alive. (They look gorgeous, but it is really too cold from them here, and they turn a horrible pulpy brown in a week once you get them home.) Bob was with me, and I had trouble keeping a straight face, knowing she would be inwardly giggling heartily at my outward attempt to maintain a veneer of polite British sang-froid, agreeing that I had simply been at fault on the flora maintenance.) There are such quirky moments around each corner, and the day is all before us.



Bob says:
Wry jotting down his thoughts. I feel a little bad for him, because he is easily chilled and his hands are probably like ice already. However, the day beckons and we get ourselves sorted out and check out.



Some nice flowers liven up the lobby. Our plan is to take our cases to the train station and check them in and then explore. I am excited by the thought of seeing Edinburgh Castle, St. John's and St. Giles again. I know that Wry will enjoy seeing everything and that Rowan and I will be remembering our last trip and seeing new things as well. The hotel is in a little square with a little plot of lawn in the middle.



Right across the street is the Royal College of Surgeons.



Rowan and Wry admiring the building.

Rowan writes:
Once out in the street, we notice that we are in a quadrangle which contains the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons. How fab! I wonder if Alexander McCall Smith might be in there, quietly writing, as he is a Fellow. Joseph Lister was one of my greatest childhood heroes. I read loads about him, trawling through the medical history section, long before the days of the internetz. There will shoorely be lots about him here in Edinburgh, where he trained. Lister was the happenin guy on the antiseptics front. He pioneered aseptic surgery in the miasma-tastic days when you could make a pot of soup out of a surgeon’s apron, albeit a fatal one. Lister consulted Pasteur, and was at the forefront of acknowledging and wiping out dodgy micro-organisms. He selected phenol (carbolic acid) as his chosen media for washing instruments, and exposed the dangers of using porous natural materials as instrument-handles. He developed a spray which he used prior to operating. We are as little sad that the museum is closed. Maybe we can see it on a future stravaig.



Bob says:
The flowers are peeping out, even though it cannot be considered spring at all.



Daffodils -- one of the images I will carry with me of the UK. I think that Rowan said that the other flowers were snowdrops, but I am not sure.



Looking back toward the hotel.



I imagine that medical students live here, but that may just be in my imagination.



Once again, I am impressed by the cleanliness of the streets. Not a trash bag or tag in sight.



Down a stairwell.

We set off down the road at a nice clip, enjoying the morning. It is coolish but not freezing. It is not far to the station.




A typical row of buildings.



The front of the College.



I liked the statue of a skeletal hand holding what I assume is a bone saw.



More rows of buildings.



My Latin is rusty, but I liked the architecture.



The inscription up a little closer.



The train station is in the distance.



I liked the look of this building.



Here is a better shot of the detail on the building. I liked this, because there is a long-standing Scottish tradition of education. I think that the Scots have the highest degree of education per capita in .... something. Europe? The world? Prolly.



Wry peering into a music store window. I wonder if we will be wrestling an instrument case onto the plane. I envision a melee at the security line.



A look over the side of a bridge. You can see the water in the distance.



I resist the impulse.



Rowan and Wry have not yet started tugging on my sleeve trying to get me to pick up the pace. This is how I know they love me. This view is worth it, though.

I love to just peer into shop windows. I love that it is not like a street in California. Even the small differences are pleasing.



Barber poles are not red and white.



I don't know what a USB dongle is ... but it makes me laugh. I might need one.



Lovely architecture.



Waverly Station is coming up.



This is Calton Hill, off to our right.



It is the home of the Scottish government buildings. I wish we could go over and see the Parliament building, which is supposed to be wonderful. Holyrood Palace is over that way, as well.



As we get close to Princes Street we are treated to this odd spectacle. It reminds me of the shops on Melrose Avenue in LA -- they have names like Unique and Risk and Shine and Clash. Just a bit of an incongruous note.



Daffy-dils. The window boxes in front of the hotel we walk past are filled with them.



The lamp post over the entrance to the train station.



Walking down the ramp. I feel like Christopher Robin, with Winnie-Ther-Pooh, going bump, bump, bump behind me. Rowan and Wry are far ahead of me, as I have been taking pictures. I can see them talking and laughing.



A nice Victorian detail. We deposit the cases, get some cash at the ATM, give ourselves a shake and set off.

Rowan writes:
So much to see in Edinburgh! We head off to visit St John’s and St Giles, and are aiming to hit the height of the Castle at lunchtime. Yay! St John’s is such a beautiful church. Bob took some amazing shots of the interior last year, and I am looking forward to seeing it again. I know Wry has loved St Paul’s (I am still suffering from evensong-envy) and I am keen to see his reaction to one of Scotland’s finest churches. I love that St John’s has an intimate feel, in spite of its splendour. Its beauty is harmonious, delicate, and decorous, all for the glory of God. No-one could accuse it of Gothic-piledom, an accusation occasionally hurled, rather unfairly, at its compatriot, St Giles. (The hurlers have an agenda. Jist sayin.) Anyway…I sort of think of the church body, St John’s as it’s finely woven lace robe, and St Giles as it’s imposing embossed leather shoes, massive and anchoring, yet wonderfully wrought.



Bob says:
We come up and out of the station. The castle is on our left and the shops on the right. I still think that Jenners has a great look.



To our left, the Royal Mile and Princes Gardens. In front of us is St. John's and Edinburgh Castle. We stop for a few minutes to take pictures of each other, but it is pretty windy and cold. What looks like grins in the pictures are actually our jaws clenched because of the loud chattering of our teeth. I am very glad of my hat and scarf.



I think that this is the Royal Scottish Academy Building. I am sad that we don't have time to check it out. Next time for sure!



Down the steps into Princes Street Gardens. It is beautiful. The last time Rowan and I were here, it was winter and there was an ice skating rink and a Christmas fair. Now it is almost spring.




It is as otherwordly as Mars to my desert-seared eyes. You can see Edinburgh Castle crouched in the distance.



St. John's is at the end of the walkway.



The Castle atop of the Gardens.



There is a lot of history, just taking a nice stroll. This was a plaque along the walkway.

As we walked along, there was a nifty bench, somewhat of a war memorial. It is shown in three parts.
















Another, closer shot of Edinburgh Castle.



I liked the juxtaposition -- the play park in the shadow of the church and castle. I wonder if the parents and children marvel at being at the foot of such history.



Some trees think it is spring. As we start up the steps back up to the street, we are surprised to see a lady amidst a flock of pigeons. Myself, I am not so fond of pigeons, because they are flying germ vectors. But I am not British. Feeding the pigeons seems like such a British thing to do. If you did that in LA, angry passers-by would pelt you with bags of day-old bread. However, there is something a bit different and rather charming about this pigeon feeder.



See it?



There is a cat amongst the pigeons! It is a wonderfully quirky thing, and we all grin at each other and shake our heads.



I liked the contrast of the shapes -- tower and tree.



We get to St. John's and take a little time to wander around outside. The gravestones are still lovely and solemn.



We do not tread close enough to read the inscriptions.



There is a little gated graveyard next to the church.



Reluctantly, we leave the grounds and head inside. On the way in, Rowan and I are sidetracked a little.

Rowan writes:
There is a sale of amber jewellery in St John’s church hall. Bob and I peek in, pulling open the heavy wooden door, and letting it bang for a second, before realising its weight. We apologise for making the jewellery-sellers jump, and then survey the attractive goods on offer. We are very abstemious, and refrain from purchasing anything. We drift into the church, and Bob and Wry drift about, taking photos. I think Wry maybe made some notes.

There is a lot to see and one just has to sit still and soak it up, at times. St Johns is a very special place, where, although visitors come and go, there is a real sense of the Spirit, truly humbling and uplifting at the same time. I need to come back here more often. Bob and Wry wander driftily and disappear, but meet up as congenially as ever. It is nice to watch how happy and relaxed they are.

Bob says:
Rowan and I lose Wry, but we meet up again, and wander around the church. It dates back to the 1800's and is a marvel of light and space. It is just lovely. There is a virtual tour here. It is worth the look.

Here is the layout.


Last time we were here, we missed the Chapel.



Rowan in contemplation -- soaking it up.






This looks older than it probably is.



The organ.



The colors are so light and clear.



I light candles for the children.











It does look a little fairy-land like.



St. John's is famous for its ceiling, which is supposed to be reminiscent of Westminster Abbey.



Details.



And more details of the work. I admit to playing with my camera a bit. I am really liking it.






Hard to imagine that this is stained glass, isn't it?



One of my favorites.



The Lamb of God.









Although it is late morning, it is a wonderfully peaceful time. Wry is walking around in quiet contemplation. Rowan is off in another corner, gazing at a stained glass window. We wander away, or call attention to something as it suits us. I am happy to see Wry jotting notes in his journal.



I look over and see that Wry has made it over to the Chapel, which Rowan and I missed when we were here last. We peep in.



It is a little dark, but this is a close up of the stained glass on the far wall.



And a plaque over the door.

We notice an increase in the visitors and I look toward the back of the church. I am charmed to find a little group of bekilted men. There is going to be a wedding! I think the most nervous looking of them is the groom. The men are all very handsome and handsomely dressed. I think it is a marvelous place to get married. I pray for the soon to be couple -- that they are as blessed in their marriage as I have been in mine.



The bride and groom will kneel here, I am thinking. It is a nice thought.

We decide it is time to leave and do so. Of course we manage to lose each other and spend some time wandering around looking. It is a nice morning and so I don't mind. Too much.

On to the Castle!

And on to Edinburgh!

I love Edinburgh. It is a lovely city and I am so excited to share it with Wry. And I am also very excited that he is going to meet Rowan, because I think that they will get along famously.

So, we are going to get up really early and get on the Tube to Heathrow. It is about a 45 minute trip and the stop is right in the terminal, so we don't have to worry about parking or anything like that. We get up really early and give ourselves two hours to get there. When we leave the Jesmond Dene, it is cold and dark. We get to the train station at about four thirty ...

to find that it wasn't open.

The Underground station is closed. And it is cold and dark.

We walk around the station a couple of times, looking in vain for someone that we can ask about the time table. I cannot even believe that I managed to not check the departure times. I just figured that the train would be running early.

I was wrong! Ack! As we wander around in the dark, looking fruitlessly for a door that is open, I finally spy an early morning worker as he comes into the station. He says that the station opens at five.

It is a cold wait and I am glad for both my scarf and my glovies. Had I known that we were going to be standing on the street corner, I would have grabbed a cup of tea or something. The gates finally open and we sprint down the steps, suitcases bumping along behind us. We finally get to the platform and are informed that the train should be there in about twenty minutes. I calculate and think that, as long as there are no more delays, we should still be okay.

We amuse ourselves by watching the mice.



Or maybe they are rats. I couldn't tell.

I would give some valued body part for a cup of coffee. The morning commuters trickle in and I bounce in place, becoming more and more anxious. A half an hour passes. And then another. The station is filling up and I begin to feel like I need to establish that we are getting on first, because we have been there the longest.

As I sit there, I realize that I have badly misjudged things. The train leaves its first stop at five am, but King's Cross is not the first stop. It is a middleish stop, which means that when the train finally gets to the station, it is pretty full. We struggle onto the train, suitcases in tow, and settle in for the 45 minute trip to Heathrow.

We travel in sort of grim silence. We are tired and hungry and crowded and probably going to miss the plane. At some point, it is clear that we are going to miss the train, no maybes about it. I feel awful. I am a terrible trip planner.

We get to Heathrow, just in time to have missed our flight. The terminal is awfully familiar -- it looks just like the last time I was here and missed my flight. I cannot believe that I have flown exactly twice in London and have missed the flight both times.

Pah-theh-tic.

We swap out our tickets with no difficulty and with no added charge, which was really nice. We go through security, and the tone is a little different here than at other checkpoints. There are guards, armed with machine guns, because there has been some sort of security incident and there is a terror alert.

Well, Wry sets off the alarms ... again. He has set off alarms each and every time that he has gone through a check point, for various reasons. This time, he sets off the alarm because he has forgotten that he has his swiss army knife in his carry on bag. I cannot keep my mouth shut and make some comment about it, and Wry gets tight-lipped with me, as he is clearly not having a good time getting searched. I decide that I am not going to wait for him and, well -- I am pretty sure that I flounced away. We get separated and I sort of hope that he worries about me getting to the proper gate. The fact that I am pretty self-sufficient nips this hope in the bud. He is going to be completely unconcerned about me, all on my own in a foreign country where they speak the language and I have made most of the travel plans. Sigh.

I spy the familiar balloon-skirted restroom signs and am once again in better spirits, because I am in the UK and the bathroom signs are not the same as at home.



I get to the gate and I get a cup of coffee and a sandwich. My outlook changes dramatically with the hope of caffeine, and I get Wry a sandwich as well, tomato, cheese and basil, because I am back in charity with him. I get out of line and offer Wry his sandwich. He has managed to procure a Coke Zero. People start queuing up, preparing to board, and we notice that there has been a change in gates for our flight.

There is no way to really describe the next series of events, because words will not convey the flavor of those events. We are told that we have to go to another gate, and quickly, because our plane will be leaving shortly. Everyone hustles and we get almost to the gate and are turned away, and are told that we have to go out and go through security again.

Now at this point, the entrance to the gate and our awaiting plane is about twenty feet away, through the gleaming glass doors. We protest, in vain. At this point, the entire plane load of people are getting a little grim. We walk all the way around and go through security. Wry is turned away because he has the Coke Zero that he bought in the secured part of the airport. He throws it away with a little more force than necessary. All of the passengers protest the rigorous searching, because we just came through and we are all getting seriously worried that we are going to miss our plane. Surely they will not leave without any of us?

The forced march continues and I am just about done in. My foot is sore and we have been walking as fast as we can for almost a half an hour. We are almost at the gate -- we are on the other side of the gleaming glass doors when we are told that we cannot get through this way -- people explain that we have had our gate changed, something that the security guards did not know about. I think that we are going to have a full-fledged riot on our hands. I sink onto the steps to catch my breath. You have to love the British -- they were not going to take this cavalier treatment lying down. The guards relent and we are allowed to go through. Another few minutes and we finally board the plane.

It has been a long four hours, but we are finally on the plane. We are given breakfast, which is sandwiches and yogurt. And hot tea. Mmmm. It is fine for me, because I like egg salad sandwiches, but Wry cannot get a sandwich that doesn't have mayonnaise, so he declines. I gave him my orange juice and yogurt.

The flight was uneventful, but once again, we are flying into Edinburgh, and it is wiiiindy over the Frith of Forth. This is the part of the flight that gave me my new-found anxiety about flying last time I flew into Edinburgh. Understand that I have been flying since I was six or seven -- at that age, I remember flying by myself, sitting in the front next to the flight attendant, looking at magazines and admiring my shiny plastic pilot wings. I have never been afraid of flying -- ever. But on the last entrance into Edinburgh, there was so much turbulence that I thought we were going to crash ... really.

This time is worse. It was so windy that the flight attendants looked scared -- which is never a good sign. After something close to an eternity, we land. It is so windy that the plane, even when it is on the ground, is rocking like a boat on the high seas. I have never been in a plane that is rocking like that -- I have visions of getting blown over and distract myself by taking a picture out of the window.



I would like you to note the brilliance of the blue sky. It is as bright and clear as a day at the beach. Where is the rain? Drizzle? Mist? Sigh.

We navigate our way with no difficulty and get our bags and hope on the bus that will take us into the city proper. I have texted Rowan to let her know that we are finally in Scotland.



Wry looking over the map -- we are sitting at my preferred spot, which is the very front of the double decker bus.



A picture for Rowan.

What is really interesting is that it is so bright that it is almost painful. The sun streams in through the bus windows, and we begin shedding layers like arctic explorers getting to the beach. I actually have to fish out my sunglasses because my retinas are being seared.



It is hot and now I am sweating. I fish out the Coke Zero that was not confiscated at the security checkpoint and Wry and I share it. I had remembered it as I was going through, but was not about to call attention to it at that point. I did not feel too bad, because I bought it in the secured area and never opened it.



Leaving the airport.



It looks like it has rained at some point.



I am taking this picture, partly to show an average street and to show that we are really in Scotland. And to show what the sun blazing through the window looks like.



I am happy to be back -- there is a very familiar feel to the streets.



And nice architecture.

We get into the train station and start looking for Rowan. We find a seat and wait for her outside of the bookstore. Finally we see her get off the train from Dundee and we greet each other happily.

Rowan says:

I am up early, wanting to look respectable, and so stuffing my adipose tissue into the low-rise bootcuts which Trinny and Susannah so heartily recommend. Nevertheless, for bellies at the extreme end of the hernia spectrum, like wot I have got, the flab-grabbing fashionistas suggest wearing the aforementioned style in a size bigger than one would normally wear. I tried this, but they fell down. I guess this means I am a true sphere, and have no hips.

So…I am going for time-honoured flab-stuffage. And a baggy top. And boots with unfamiliar heels. Cos they look nice, even if I can feel my ankle joints dislocating, just by looking at them. Much as they look nice, and are tolerated in some remarkable and mysterious manner by other people, I am not amongst them. The cortical map for heels has always spontaneously combusted, and refused to become a behavioural norm. (Unlike too much toast and marmite.) But – I digress.

Today, I am meeting Bob and Wry in Edinburgh. I am excited to meet them, and looking forward to seeing Bob again. She is a fab travelling companion, full of zap, curiosity, and pep. I have wondered if the source of her energy lies in her parabola of sunny curls. If I sneaked up behind her and chopped them off, would she become a listless slob like me? Bob allows me to liberate the ‘mums can still have fun’ aspect of my psyche. And she makes me laugh, and think, and laugh some more.

I am somewhat anxious about meeting Wry, as I am always anxious about meeting new people, and hope to make a reasonable impression, rather than the burbling unfocussed individual who tends to surface on such occasions. I am a little socially uncertain, but I have sort of met Wry already, if not in material form, and know him to be a very fine kind and sincere person, who thinks around things in an independent manner. He has a very funny, clever blog, and, although he likes a good ponder now and then, he doesn’t have to skate in concentric circles, until he hits the point he wants to make. Unlike me.

Bob says:

So, after finally sorting ourselves out we walk up and out of the station -- it is full of nice memories of when Rowan and I were here last time. Rowan and I are chattering, with Wry chipping in. I was not really concerned about whether they would hit it off, because I know both of them pretty well, but of course, I am a leeetle concerned. My husband is reserved and Rowan has a touch of social anxiety -- and I know that Wry is hard to read sometimes.

For some reason, I can't remember why -- I think it was because Wry had the map to the hotel and he was turned around and we were going back to ask directions. Anyway -- for whatever reason, we were walking back down the ramp into the station, Wry and Rowan walking ahead of me. I was pretty far behind them and I could see the two of them -- Rowan talking animatedly and Wry listening to her, head cocked, with a slight smile on his face. It was the look he gets on his face when he is secretly delighted by something that he is hearing. I am very happy -- two of my favorite people have hit it off.

While we are in the station, Wry begins his photojournalistic exploration of Odd British Advertising. This is the first entry.



I don't think that you should allude to the fact that spending time with your family makes you want to stick knitting needles in your eyes.

We set off and it starts to rain. Finally.

Rowan says:

The stage is set. I am meeting Bob and Wry in Edinburgh. And the foldy-up timetable doesn’t marry-up with the online one. So I am late. :/

I text Bob from the train, unaware that she is not getting my texts – that they are rocketing across the globe, only to find no-one at home, and are grumpily trudging back, only to be stopped and searched at some ethereal border post for confused telephone signals. (The funny text thing persisted for a while, until the jet-lagged signals re-acclimatised. I thought that only happened to people!)

Bob and Wry are sitting waiting for me. Bob is her old self, and I shake hands with Wry. We set off in search of the hotel, under a lashing icy deluge.

Now…I am fighting off the urge to bundle my far-travelled friends into a black cab, and zoom, if pricily, towards our dry and cosy destination. However, I quench this unadventurous impulse, as Bob and Wry appear to be lurching towards the nearest bus stop, with their heavy luggage. They are game for throwing themselves on the mercies of the public transport system, and so I square my wet and rapidly solidifying jaw, and follow suit. It is veeeery cold. I have no gloves, cos we don’t tend to wear them over here. We try to pretend that it is not really freezing. That the agonizing pulse of blood returning to frostbitten digits is just, well, a breeze. The British hold out against the Winter Coat, for as long as humanly possible. It is some sort of bravado, but I am not in a position of adequate clinical detached-ness to offer a feasible hypothesis as to why. I live here, and I subscribe to the prevailing inappropriate clothing ethos. Brrrrr.

Bob says:
All I can say, is -- I wish Rowan had bundled us into a cab. As it was, we walked and walked and walked ... looking for the hotel. The thing is, the hotel was supposed to be about a ten minute walk from the train station. You were supposed to be able to throw a stone from the station and hit the hotel. Alas, this didn't happen. And the locals had no idea where Hill Place is. We walk around and around and finallllllyyy find Hill Place, tucked away on a little cul-de-sac. The young men in the Blockbuster told us to look for the KFC sign on the corner. It is with a deep sense of relief that we spy the red and white sign and take the right turn.

I don't think that I have mentioned that it has been raining the whole time. A lot of rain. Pouring down. It is with some relief that we finally check in. We sort out who goes where and do a little bit of unpacking. The rooms are nice -- modern with flat screen TVs and fluffy duvets. One odd note is the bathroom door -- which is glass. Not the door to the shower, but the door to the bathroom. It is an odd, jarring note.

But everything is nice and fresh. It rained so hard that it soaked into the suitcases, so I laid some things on the towel rack to dry. We are all hungry and ready to explore. We will not do any serious sight seeing today, but I need a hat.

Once we are all sorted out, we decide to set out and get some lunch. There are a lot of interesting little restaurants.

Rowan says:
After a bit of back-tracking down the dreich and rain-lashed streets, we find the hotel. It is very nice, very modern, and tucked in-between a row of elegant Georgian buildings. It is a good choice. It was nice to watch Bob and Wry stop and peep in the little shop windows, and to watch the companionable way they drift apart and meet up again, without harbouring large wodges of resentment that one has had to wait for the other to catch-up. This is a new experience for me, and I am doing my Miranda in “The Tempest” bit, whispering, “O Brave New World, that has such people in it.” I am glad to have my wandering twitch, borne of experience, challenged by the relaxed meanderings of my braw transatlantic pals. That is how things should be. And for any major drifts, there is always texting.

I have pretty serious drifting tendencies. But I am workin on it.

Bob says:
As we are walking along, I spy a fish monger with anglerfish in the window. I have never seen one in the flesh -- but they made an indelible impression on me when I saw them on Iron Chef. I cannot resist taking a picture. Rowan resists tugging on my arm.



Anglerfish are wonderfully grotesque.



And there was a shop selling Scottish hares.

We discussed a lot of places as we walked along, but I was struck by the restaurant with the sign that advertised Scottish and Thai food. How can you go wrong with that?



Rowan says:

We drop our bags and go in search of lunch. There is an interesting-looking Thai restaurant, and I am devouring the images the description of the dishes conjure up, before they hit the table in their steaming and fragrant tureen. Michty…that soup is good. Bob is snapping the décor, and I am sort of cringeing, but trying not to show it. She can tell, however. Somehow, she can read me like the proverbial book. (And we British are supposed to be impenetrably impassive.) Ah weel…Scots may not be quite so natural at it. Bob is chuckling. I know that she knows that I will be grateful sometime down the line, to see her pictures, and relive the culinary delights, even if in 2D. Oh for Womkavision! Oh to be a synaesthete in more than just seeing colours for letters and numbers. I want another plate of what I ate.

Bob says:
I knew that Rowan was cringing a little, but I really liked the light fixtures and the colors. The owner did not seem to mind.



Rowan says:

We have a nice chat over lunch. I am stealing interested glances at Wry’s Blackberry, wondering what model it is. I have become a dreadful phone geek. It is nice to be in the company of others of the tribe, nevertheless. Peeps who would not be offended if I were to send a text during our conversation.

I begin to get a little jittery however. It is becoming clear that my lunch-mates are going to actually leave some of the blissful food uneaten. I am not as full as I could be. I have had enough, but there is some left. I have room for it. I gibber and point, as Bob and Wry get into their coats. Bob tells me that we have enjoyed what we’ve had, and prods me towards the door with a purposeful finger (well, perhaps she didn’t quite, and will put that down to artistic license. But she will leave it in, as it is funny.

Bob says:
We had a very good lunch and start to leave, replete. I am still wandering around, looking at the decor. It is a little odd, with modern colors and some movie posters. Near the back, I spy the restroom.

I could not help but take a picture of the facilities, because they are sort of quintessentially British. How in the heck are you supposed to wash both hands?



What you can't see is that if you were to actually use the toilet, your chin would be resting on the sink. Funny.

We start walking around, just looking at things -- on a hat-hunt.




Rowan says:

The cold drives us in search of hats and scarves, and we examine the ancient and modern examples of the genre, as we trawl the gems on offer in the little charity and hippy shops near the hotel. I am reluctant to buy one, in spite of the cold, as I look daft in hats. People have always told me that I “don’t have a hat face.” I am quite glad, not to have a face like a hat, but the comments sort of stuck. I might go the whole hog and get a balaclava, as anything else tends to sit on my head like a pea. I seem to have a rather big head.

Bob is keen to prove that I can actually wear a hat, and that they don’t sit like the proverbial pea, if you pull them down over your eyes, so that the woolly bits make yer corneas scream. She adjusts the varied chapeaux to the requisite angle, and I sort of feel the way I did when I tried lying on a memory foam mattress, in a furniture shop, and felt I was being eaten alive by the thing. (Echoes of grain silos in Witness.) Bob is a sensible hat adjuster, I am sure. I am just not a good adjustee. Even though the consequence of going bareheaded in Edinburgh in the depths of Winter risks me being hacked out of an ice-floe by some irritating TV archaeologist, a couple of millennia down the line. Wry asks me if I am an “Autumn or a Winter”, which is funny. I tell him I am a nuclear winter, as this sort of sums up the arid wasteland of my success in finding a hat which I can tolerate. Bob finds a nice hat and scarf, which suit her, and I get a nice brown drop-stitch scarf, which I am grateful for. It is bone-numbingly cold. Finally, I find a cosy black fur hat in a charity shop, and Bob persuades me that it is nice. In order to fend-off my knee-jerk protests, she tells me that it is indeed so fine a piece of headwear, that she would have it herself, and get me something else in exchange. I am instantly mollified, and become secretly proprietorial over the thing. No way is she going to have it. No way, Jose.

We had the best luck in the shop that had the Iranian store owner who was listening to Mexican pop music. It was funny. Rowan and I make selections with all of the seriousness such an event deserves. Wry stood back and made amusing comments. Rowan insists that she does not look good in hats, but she is completely mistaken. I got not one, but two hats.

Rowan says:

I love charity shops. I guess I could have travelled club class around the world and back on what I have spent in them over the years…but I have found some real gems. Well, not real gems. Or I could now travel around the world, club class. But you know what I mean. The cornucopia of discarded treasures catapults me into a wonderful meditative relaxation, and time stands still, as I muse over the items. I know I will kick myself for passing them by, but there you go. Bob finds a nice tartan scarf for Wry. I am trying to persuade her to buy a woolly one, but it is a bit too old and booly. (That is a Dundee word for being covered in bools, which are marbles, or balls.) Bob has a funny word for old and tatty and grungy, but I can’t remember it.
I am still regretting passing up the gazillion decibel Seventies alarm clock, and the rainbow-coloured canvas bags. (The latter objects, though I loved them, came in too many appealing variations, to precipitate an actual choice. Suffering from gorgeous fair-trade hippy-bag acquisition-angst overload, I turn once again into the biting wind. Oh for decisiveness-gene therapy.

Another in the Odd Advertising Series.


Across from our hotel is the Royal Surgeon's College and what might be a church. We will look at it tomorrow. We go back to the hotel room to relax a little before dinner.



Wry needs to recharge.

This is a picture of our bathroom. I am not trying to be a complainer, but it is oddly nonfunctional. There is no shower curtain and the glass comes out just enough so that the floor gets wet. I think that I actually prefer the Jesmond Dene -- dinky shower and all.



And the water is yellow. Really yellow. Not tinged yellow. I call down and am assured that the water has been tested and is perfectly fine. The woman at the front desk said it had something to do with peat. I am not buying it.

We decide to take a walk and go have some dinner.


Rowan thinks the place looks dicey, but I have read good reviews and so off we are going.
Rowan says:

I am enjoying my day very much. Evening meal becomes an issue, and we cast an eye over the various local eateries. I am hoping for a return to the Thai place, but Bob is keen to be a bit more adventurous. She spots a utilitarian Indian restaurant, with melamine tables and a brightly-lit window. It looks sort of basic to me – not that I am looking for pricey places. No siree. It is just…I am sort of phobic about a lot of melamine tables in a small space, and bright lights. Perhaps they remind me of an enforced visit to Pizza Hut, lang-syne, where my order of “extra tomato” involved three semi-opaque slivers added to the unappealing offering before me. It is probably a fear of Seventies deep-fried-dom, from my youth. I am not adverse to a bit of deep-frying, but I don’t like things reheated too many times. Somewhere, in the dim and distant past, I have been forced to eat re-fried fish batter to the power of thirty-seven. At a yellow melamine table with fixed hard plastic bucket chairs. I tell Bob the place looks scruffy. She insists that it is not, and finds my protestations funny. We are going. I anticipate a little schadenfreude, when the pakora turns out to be brittle and dry.

Bob says:
I completely ignore Rowan's distress, and hope that the food will be good. The restaurant is filled with families and it looks like a place that locals eat at. The food is Indian and is very good -- spicy and filling. We enjoy a leisurely meal with interesting conversation and lots of laughter. It is nice to spend the evening with Rowan -- it is easy and relaxed, lingering over the last bits of naan.



Rowan says:

I enjoy my meal, and the place gets pretty busy. The other diners look like people eating on a budget, but who expect a good standard of wholesome fare. The jury is still out over the pakora, which may have been a little brittle in places, but hey – it was very good value, and plentiful, which is a big plus in anyone’s book. A nice spicy filling portion, and money left-over for tomorrow’s jaunt. I am chattering on, nibbling, and I realise that Bob and Wry have finished, and that it is late. It has been a really nice day, and we retire to the hotel. I buy three outrageously expensive tiny bottles of diet coke from the bar, to take up to my room. The barman kindly loans me a bottle-opener. I feel very happenin, somehow. The bathroom is very smart, all marble and chrome. I tiptoe about, trying not to sully anything, but definitely on a pampered-high. I have to admit to nicking the individual bottle of Body Shop-lookalike “sea-kelp” shampoo and conditioner. Just as a wee reminder, ye ken. I still have them!

Tomorrow will be a busy day -- we have cathedrals to see and castles to visit.

Thursday: Our final night in London ....

Some Really Big Guardians ...

And Some ...

Lions!!

(Lots of Lions.)


We have had quite a busy day, and we are off to our last destination, The British Museum. I had intended that we would go over more than once during this trip, as there is just too much to see there. I thought we would go over for a couple of hours here and there -- but this did not happen. Rather, we made it there at about five in the afternoon on Thursday afternoon, on our last day in the city. I guess we will just have to come back.


We walk out of the Temple Church and go around the front of the building. Just a shot that I liked of the outside of the church, where the two parts meet.



The contrast in the shape of each from the outside is just as interesting as it is on the inside.



And this is across the way from the church. Yes. That Dr. Johnson, I think.



This is the entrance with the Norman door and the wheel window above it.



As we round the building and begin our walk back to Fleet Street, we note these in the courtyard around the side and back of the building. I think they are graves?



What you don't see in this picture are the people sitting on them, eating.



A nice alleyway.



And the view through the arched doorway toward Fleet Street.



As we walk to the bus stop, we see this rather creepy and 1984ish sign. Just another sign that we are in a foreign country. That would have lasted about three seconds at home -- even the rapidly-converting-to-socialism California.



A shot of the bus stop.



Again, it feels funny to read this. I understand the need for security, but ... yeesh.




And the bus ride. This is a shot from the top level of the double-decker bus, front seat.



We get off and walk through the park that is near the British Museum.



And up the street toward the museum. What you don't see is the line of buses, filled with tourists with cameras.



And a lion!



We get inside the Great Rotunda, and find out that we just missed seeing The Terracotta Army on loan. Had we but known, we would have come to see it today. This is a good reminder to always, always do your research beforehand. What you are seeing are warriors that British schoolchildren have made out of clay.



It is almost as good as the real thing.



I like this shot. Wry was practically prone on the floor, getting just the right angle on these fine warriors. In an interesting coincidence, the Army is trotting out to our neck of the woods and we will be able to see them here in Southern California. Odd, no?

So we begin to wander through the museum. I go over to the information desk and they helpfully provide a map with the areas that will stay open late highlighted.



A lovely hunt scene.



"The city and palace at Khorsabad (in modern northern Iraq), was built for the Assyrian King Sargon II (721-705 BC). The palace entrances were originally dominated by pairs of colossal human-headed winged bulls, which were intended as guardians, accompanied by protective spirits with magical powers."



Wry getting a sense of perspective.



A king in repose.



I forget what Prince this was. I liked the image of the horse and rider. The British Museum is just amazing. Ancient Turkey, Iran, Mesopotamia. They have stuff from the Caananites, for crying in the sink.



Going on a lion hunt.



I thought that this was interesting, because it is carved to look like a rug.



A row of soldiers marching to battle.



And of course, lovely Greek and Roman statues.



And the Parthenon.



A little more detail.



What a fine, handsome horse.



I loved the detail and drape of the cloth.



More figures from the Parthenon.



Wry getting film of the Greek statues.



A crouching lion. (But I am pretty sure it is a hunting dog.)



I thought that these carvings of the battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs were wonderful. The lion skin across his arm is something else.



A centaur carrying off a captive. His face is oddly blank.



And two figures, locked in battle.



And, of course, ancient Egypt.



A lion-headed figure.



It is hard to conceive of the age of these panels.



A massive Pharaoh's head.



I liked this full figure of an Egyptian. I think it is a dagger in his waistband.



This was an interesting stone panel. It was carved to look like a door. It dates back to 2400 BC. It memorializes the marriage of a king to his queen.



A small sphinx from the 12th century.



I included this picture, not because it is very good, because it isn't. I included it because it gives a nice sense of the space. And you can see the twilit night sky.



This lion was sitting next to the sphinxes.



I think that this was one of my favorite lions. He is vibrating with menace, mouth wide open. He is just grand.

"This gigantic standing lion, roaring angrily, formed one of a pair carved half in the round which once flanked the entrance of a small temple dedicated to the goddess Ishtar, adjoining the palace of King Ashurnasirpal II (reigned 883-859 BC). "



I really liked this carving. It shows the chief god of Nimrud, winged and holding thunderbolts battling with a monster.



A little better shot of the monster. It is like a winged lion. The panel dates back to about 900 years before Christ.



A majestic figure.



"This colossal lion weighs some six tons. Made from one piece of marble, it was mounted on a base crowning a funerary monument. The monument itself was square with a circular interior chamber and a stepped-pyramid roof. It is a type of funerary monument inspired by the greater tomb of Maussollos, built about 350 BC at Halikarnassos, less than a day's sail from Knidos."



From the 5th century -- a panel that symbolizes the triumph of good over evil. At first it was to depict Bellerophon and Pegasus killing the chimera. Later it was seen to symbolize the triumph of Christ over the devil.

We wander from ancient Egypt to Greece to Early Britain.



Some Celtic brooches.



An early depiction of the Alpha and Omega.



This is actually a plate. A Great Dish, in fact. It is from about the fourth century. It is a Roman dish made in Britain and "much of the decoration relates to the mythology and worship of Bacchus, the god of wine, a theme that was very popular on silver tableware throughout the Roman period." That is Bacchus in the middle.



Some horse figurines from prehistoric Britain. Apparently you just plow a field and find archaeological treasures.



And early Viking glass work.



An Iron Age shield. Extraordinary. This is the Battersea Shield, and was found in the Thames. "The highly polished bronze and glinting red glass would have made for a great spectacle. It was finally thrown or placed in the River Thames, where many weapons were offered as sacrifices in the Bronze Age and Iron Age."



Celtic torcs.



And an astonishing gold cape. It dates to about 1800 years before Christ.

"Workmen quarrying for stone in an ancient burial mound in 1833 found this stunning gold object which remains unparalleled to this day. The mound lay in a field named Bryn yr Ellyllon (the Fairies' or Goblins' Hill). At the centre was a stone-lined grave with the crushed gold cape around the fragmentary remains of a skeleton. Strips of bronze and quantities of amber beads were also recovered, but only one of the beads ever reached the British Museum."

"The cape would have been unsuitable for everyday wear because it would have severely restricted upper arm movement. Instead it would have served ceremonial roles, and may have denoted religious authority."

"The cape is one of the finest examples of prehistoric sheet-gold working and is quite unique in form and design."

At this point. I just sat down for a while. Honestly. You could dig up the entire state of California, and what would you find? Nothing. Not really.

At this point, I have completely lost Wry. I am in Roman Britain, but who knows where he is. I have to back track a little. When we were leaving California and Wry realized that he did not have a battery for his little camera (he realized this while were on the way to the airport), we stopped real quick at a Radio Shack to look for the battery. He emerged, sans battery, but triumphant. In his hand he held little tiny walkie-talkies. Good wife that I am, I rolled my eyes. In fact, I think that everyone in the car rolled their eyes. The walkie talkies were a bit of a pain in the tush, because they got us held up in the security line at the airport.

However, undaunted, Wry tucked one into my bag at the beginning of the day. It turned out to be completely worth every penny, because we lost each other in the British Museum and were able to find each other by whispering into them.

So, I am saying here, on the Interweb ... You were right and I was wrong and the walkie talkies were a fabulous idea.

So I got to sit for a moment, easing my shoe off my throbbing foot, considering the history that surrounded me. I missed Rowan, because I knew that she would really love this part of the museum.

I waited until I contacted Wry and set off to find him. I take the long way around.

On the way back, I took these.



A lion attacking a bull.



The detail is remarkable. This is from Persepholis, Iran.

Finally, I wend my way back to the Great Rotunda. Still no Wry, so I have a cup of tremendously over-priced coffee and a brownie. I wrap up half of it for Wry for later. When I was paying for my snack, I got stuck behind about a hundred giggling little French schoolgirls and I have the impulse to kick my way through them. I feel marginally better after my coffee and getting off of my sore foot.

Wry says that he is here. I don't see him.

I finally spy my husband.



There he is!



I am having a fit of the giggles. I am giggling because my husband is a gem. He is pretty much deathly afraid of heights, but he is forcing himself to get framed for a good picture. I really appreciate it. He comes out slowly and then goes back.



We are both laughing. We are pretty much done. It is late and we are hungry and have to schlep back to the hotel and then pack and then get to bed.



A nice shot from the steps of the museum. I have to smile, because I remember taking the exact same shot, with poor Rowan freezing while I tried to get the best possible shot. Wry gets a really good shot.



Me freezing on the street corner, waiting for Wry to get the picture.



And at the gates, looking back at the museum.



And on the bus going back to the Jesmond Dene. I feel a bit like the Thought Police are out in full force. Maybe just a bit too much official tsk tsking for my taste. Do you really need a national campaign to tell people to be courteous? And if people are not going to be basically decent, will a sign on the bus make them so?

We get off of the bus and have a nice bowl of hot noodle soup at the Chop Chop Noodle House for a final cheap dinner. We get back to the hotel and bustle around, getting everything charged and organized for the morning trip. We will be getting up really early to get on the Tube to Heathrow, flying to Edinburgh.

Whoo hoo!

Thursday: Parte the Third

Knights!

Okay -- we have been on the go all day. Wry and I have visited the British Library, had a lovely meal in the student cafeteria at the YMCA, seen the oldest Catholic Church in England and are off to our next destination, the Temple Church.

This is what the interior looked like originally. I always think it is interesting that these old places (like St. Giles in Edinburgh) were so brightly colored. It completely negates my image of churches at that time -- joyless, punitive, and harsh. Faith as an obligation, not a delight.

How could anybody not be joyful in such a place as this?

As you may remember, when Rowan and I came to London last year, we had not even known about this place and I decided, if I ever came back to London, this was a place that I must see. Wry and I were over here day before yesterday, but it was closed ... so I am very excited to get here today.

The day is a little gray and cold, but it is nice. We are warm from walking across town.



This is a shot from the exterior. The round part of the building is one of its famous aspects. The history of the church is intertwined inextricably with the history of the Knights Templar. They were an order of crusading monks "founded to protect pilgrims on their way to and from Jerusalem in the 12th century. The Round Church was consecrated in 1185 by the patriarch of Jerusalem. It was designed to recall the holiest place in the Crusaders' world: the circular Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It is a numinous space - and has a wonderful acoustic for singing."

The round shape of the church is symbolic and fundamental. "Jerusalem lies at the centre of all medieval maps, and was the centre of the crusaders' world. The most sacred place in this most sacred city was the supposed site of Jesus' own burial: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Here the crusaders inherited a round church. It was the goal of every pilgrim, whose protection was the Templars' care. This was the building, of all buildings on earth, that must be defended from its enemies. In every round church that the Templars built throughout Europe they recreated the sanctity of this most holy place."




There are two different parts -- the Chancel and the Round. The Round was built by the Knights Templar in the 12th century. It is one of only three Norman round churches left in England. The Round is the oldest part of the church and the Chancel is slightly older. There have been many "renovations", mostly trying to eradicate any semblance of popishness, but more recently, the church is being restored to its former settings.



I liked this shot -- it is at the border of the two parts of the church. So we are going to look at the Chancel first, and then the Round, and finally, the Knights Templar in effigy. We have walked in the door and taken a right.

The structure of the Chancel has been described as a "large, lofty, and light structure, consisting of a nave and two aisles of equal height, formed by eight clustered marble columns, which support a groined vaulted ceiling richly and elaborately painted."

The Nave is lovely, "featuring colorful stained glass windows, an impressive organ, and a beautiful wooden altar designed by famed architect Sir Christopher Wren". The altar was designed for the Temple Church, but was mercifully in a museum in Durham when the Temple Church was nearly destroyed in 1944, during the German bombings.



It has now been restored to its intended position, where visitors can admire the woodwork and read the Ten Commandments, the Apostles' Creed and the Lord's Prayer in handsome gold script.



The lovely curving pulpit.



The stained glass above the altar.



And to the right of the altar. Along the walls there are monuments and plaques.



Wry recording the moment.



One of the most interesting is a 17th century monument. My Latin is pretty rusty, so I could not read the inscription.



A carving off to the right of the monument.



The organ is just beautiful. Apparently, the church is famous for its acoustics and a number of very famous and popular recordings were made here. There is an ongoing music program, with noted visiting artists.



A little door tucked off to the left of the altar. I like these little doors -- I wonder where they go.



We were lucky enough to have waited out the crowd, and when it was almost empty, someone pulled up the carpets on the floor to reveal these inlaid into the floor. I could not read it, because they were rapidly being covered up.



Here is a closer look at the stained glass beside the altar. If you look very closely, you can see the double-seated Knights in the right-hand corner.



This is the image, a little closer up.



A nice winged horsie.



A picture of the church during the fires in London.



This is not a shot that I got, because there are not a lot of people in it. However, it is a nice aspect, looking into the Round with the Knights arrayed along the sides. I thought that you would like the perspective.

So, now we enter the Round. One of the things that strikes you first is that there are carvings of faces ... sort of everywhere. On the walls, hidden on columns, each with its own expression.



We did see a picture of a goat in a mortarboard, but I did not get a picture of that. The gargoyles are interesting, because sometimes they look silly and sometimes they look tortured. "The use of gargoyles to express masons' imaginations and irreverence through gargoyle sculptures is common in churches, but it is unusual for them to be placed indoors.

"The more these human countenances are scrutinised, the more astonishing and extraordinary do they appear. They seem for the most part distorted and agonised with pain, and have been supposed, not without reason, to represent the writhings and grimaces of the damned."



" Unclean beasts may be observed gnawing the ears and tearing with their claws the bald heads of some of them, whose firmly-compressed teeth and quivering lips plainly denote intense bodily anguish."



"These sculptured visages display an astonishing variety of character." They do capture the imagination. You wonder if there were models for each -- a hidden meaning in the carvings. Maybe some mason's disreputable brother in law or something.



"Over the western doorway leading into the Round, is a beautiful Norman wheel-window, which was uncovered and brought to light by the workmen during the recent reparation of this interesting building. It is considered a masterpiece of masonry."



Around the curved walls there are stained glass windows.



The stained glass makes a pattern on the floor and splashes across the Knights as they repose.



From what I can ascertain, this is a baptismal font, possibly from Norman times. I had a hard time even getting that information. If I am wrong, sorry about that....



Some detail on the side.



One author, in describing the Temple church said "the beauty and richness of the architectural decorations, and the extreme lightness and airiness of the whole structure, give us the idea of a fairy palace."

And there is something to that -- the church, for all of the stone and marble, is not a cold or dark place at all. There is a sense of light and space and dimension. The space is not empty, but even today, filled with light.



I liked the way that these vaulted like palm trees.



Every where you look, there are carvings of faces.



Along the curved walls.



I liked the sense of perspective. Now let's look at the floor and the marble effigies -- because on the floor are ...

the Knights!!

I am pleased by the idea of the warrior knight. I know that I shouldn't be, because as Christians, we are so self-effacing as to be practically invisible. However, when I was reading C.S. Lewis and following his analogies of actual and spiritual warfare, I was struck by the almost radical idea -- that, as a faith, Christianity is both ardently peaceful and staunchly prepared for battle. So, to me, the concept is a solid, foundational one.

"The Order was founded in 1118-9 by a knight of Champagne, Hugh of Payns, who led a group of his fellow-knights in vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. At their foundation they were deeply suspect: it was unnatural for one man to be soldier and monk together. A handful of such ambivalent knights had little chance, it might seem, of attracting support. In the twelfth century the significance of their seal was well known: Matthew Paris, monk of St Albans, explained that the two knights on one horse recalled their lack of horses and poor beginnings."



"All the knights are on their back, but are otherwise positioned in different ways: some have their legs extended straight out while others have their legs crossed; some wear tunics over their armor and others wear full-length robes; some clutch their swords, some pray, and some have their arms straight at their sides. One has no effigy at all, but only a trapezoidal sarcophagus lid."



"Our knights have good reason to draw their swords. For buried in 'Jerusalem', in Jerusalem they shall rise to join the Templars in the martyrs' white and red. Here in the Temple, in our replica of the Sepulchre itself, the knights are waiting for their call to life, to arms and to the last, climactic defence of their most sacred place on earth."



"This figure is the monumental effigy of Geoffrey de Magnaville, earl of Essex. It represents an armed knight with his legs crossed, in token that he had assumed the cross, and taken a vow to fight in defence of the christian faith. His body is cased in chain mail, over which is worn a loose flowing garment confined to the waist by a girdle, his right arm is placed on his breast, and his left supports a long shield charged with rays on a diamond ground. On his right side hangs a ponderous sword of immense length, and his head, which rests on a stone cushion, is covered with an elegantly-shaped helmet."



"This interesting monumental effigy is carved in a common kind of stone, called by the masons fire-stone. It represents an armed warrior clothed from head to foot in chain mail; he is in the act of sheathing a sword which hangs on his left side; his legs are crossed, and his feet, which are armed with spurs, rest on a lion couchant. Over his armour is worn a loose garment, confined to the waist by a girdle, and from his left arm hangs suspended a shield, having a lion rampant engraved thereon. The greater part of the sword has been broken away and lost, which has given rise to the supposition that he is sheathing a dagger. The head is defended by a round helmet, and rests on a stone pillow."



This effigy is described as having "a spirited appearance. It represents a cross-legged warrior in the act of drawing a sword, whilst he is at the same time trampling a dragon under his feet, It is emblematical of the religious soldier conquering the enemies of the Christian church."



It is clear that these images have fired people's imaginations. You can see the light from the stained-glass window splashed across this knight. The light dapples the floor and I wish I was there when the full light shines onto the sleeping knights.

"Our effigies seem to us frozen in stone, their figures forever poised to fight battles that ended 700 years ago. But these knights' eyes are open. They are all portrayed in their early thirties, the age at which Christ died and at which the dead will rise on his return. The effigies are not memorials of what has long since been and gone; they speak of what is yet to come, of these once and future knights who are poised to hear Christ's summons and to spring again to war."

And, as we left, I turned and got this final picture. It might be my favorite in the Temple Church. I liked the long shot from the Round looking toward the Chancel.



I found this Virtual Tour of the Temple Church in London. It is well-worth the trip.

So, we have one more stop in London and thence to Edinburgh and Rowan.

Thursday: Parte the Second

What else we saw that day ...



We have just finished lunch (yummy!) and taken the Tube back to central London -- near Chancery Lane. Last night, I looked on line (yay for free wi-fi) and found out how to get where we are going. I am now aware of how difficult it is to find places in London -- and the directions actually caution us that we may have a little difficulty in finding the church.



We are to get off at the same station that we did on our Legal London tour. This is one of the buildings across the street from the station. I love the red sandstone bricks.



This time, we walk up to Ludgate Circus, which is a busy intersection. It is a largish roundabout. We are on our way to St. Etheldreda's church, which is very, very old. I am quoting heavily from the website here ...



"St Etheldreda's Church is just a stone's throw from the noise and bustle of modern day London ..."


"... and it is hemmed in by the glittering wealth of Hatton Garden, where gold, silver and diamonds are traded and millions of pounds change hands daily. "



"But amid the clamour of mammon, there stands this hidden ancient gem, a spiritual sanctuary of the Middle Ages, a haven of peace and tranquillity." We almost passed the small street that the church is on, but, map in hand, manage to arrive at the destination.



This is what it looked like in 1772. It is a nice reminder that London back then looked much different.




At the present day, you walk down a crowded street and can miss the church if you are not careful. This is a shot outside, from the sidewalk. To the left is the entrance to the church, and the wooden door to the right is the crypt. Crypts are neat -- if a bit scary.

We enter and walk along the narrow hallway. There are tables with leaflets and books to our right, and down the hall to our left is a little cafe. The wire book racks are holding used paperbacks. I restrain myself from buying one or two. I look to see if there is anything that my inlaws would like, but, alas ... no.

We peer into the window of the cafe and see that it is really small. I open the door and some lovely, steamy smells drift out. I think we might need to come here after wandering around. The place is bustling, for all that there are only six or eight tables. It looks like the kind of place that you will be elbow to elbow with your neighbor and might have nice conversation and wonderful food.

We walk up the stairs and enter the chapel. It is dark and quiet. There are people drifting about, looking at the stained glass and praying. With your back to the East window and facing the West, on your right is a little alcove with a statue of Mary.

"St Etheldreda's Church was the town chapel of the Bishops of Ely from about 1250 to 1570. It is the oldest Catholic church in England and one of only two remaining buildings in London from the reign of Edward I. It was once one of the most influential places in London with a palace of vast grounds. It was like an independent state, the Bishop of Ely's place in London or Ely Place as it is now called, and its chapel took its name from one of England's most popular saints of the day, Etheldreda."

"Princess Etheldreda, daughter of King Anna, a prominent member of the ruling family of the Kingdom of East Anglia, was born in 630. She wanted to be a nun but agreed to a political marriage with a neighbouring King, Egfrith, on condition that she could remain a virgin. When the King tried to break the agreement, she fled back to Ely, where, as well as founding a religious community, she also built a magnificent church on the ruins of one founded by the efforts of St Augustine himself but laid waste by war.

Etheldreda was quite a revolutionary. She set free all the bondsmen on her lands and for seven years led a life of exemplary austerity. After her death in 679, devotion to her spread rapidly, as people received help and favours through what they were convinced was her powerful intercession in Heaven. And when, through popular demand, it was decided to remove her to a more fitting tomb, it was found that even after 15 years in wet earth her body was still in a perfect state of preservation. When the Normans began building the present Cathedral at Ely and moved her body in 1106, it was again reported to be still incorrupt. That was nearly 450 years after her death."

It is here at Ely House that Shakespeare has John O'Gaunt making one of the finest speeches in the English language. It is the oration in Richard II, the first lines of which are known by heart by many English speaking people -

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This Earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This blessed plot, this Earth, this realm, this England.

And it was at St Etheldreda's that the Black Prince, brother of John O'Gaunt, kept the Feast of Trinity in 1357 and ordered 16 swans from the Thames to be sent to Ely House.

Medieval chronicles talk about the cloister and the gardens of St Etheldreda's, saying how wonderful they were with their fields of saffron and strawberries, which are mentioned in Shakespeare's Richard III, when the Duke of Gloucester says to the Bishop of Ely -

When I was last in Holborn,
I saw good strawberries in your garden there
I do beseech you send for some of them.

This in fact was part of a ruse to get the Bishop out of the way and in fact the following day the Bishop found himself in prison. Commemorating those infamous strawberries is the annual Strawberry Fayre held every June in Ely Place to raise money for charity.

The church has survived The Great Fire of London, neglect, and the Blitz. At one point, the saffron fields turned into some of the city's worst slums, becoming the location for Dickens' Artful Dodger. Seven years were needed to repair the bomb damage to the ancient Chapel.

The West Window, created in 1964 by Charles Blakeman, is reputedly the largest stained glass window in London, with a glazed area of more than 500 square feet. It is dedicated to The English Martyrs.

"Five martyrs, each holding a palm, stand underneath the Tyburn gallows."

"The cross, merging with the central upright of the gallows, carries a triumphant Christ." It is hard to describe the impact of the window. The figure of Christ is in shades of red, and it is a bold, striking image.

Down either side of the chapel are windows with various panels. Here are some pictures of the details.

At the back of the church is the East Window.

The East window is amazing. It is a marvel of color and rich detail.

"The great East window made by Joseph Lutyens and completed in 1952 reflects all the original medieval splendour.

Christ is enthroned as King, watched by his mother Mary and St Joseph.
The Dove symbolises the Holy Spirit and at the apex God the Father completes the Trinity.
St Etheldreda, the Church Patron, and St Brighid, Patron for the First Mission to the Poor Irish, stand at each side.
The four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John look down on them all.

There is also the scene of the Last Supper and high in the main traceries are the nine choirs of angels, breathtaking in their magnificence."

We sit for while, just thinking. Wry is scribbling in his notebook, pausing to reflect. Finally, we get to our feet and leave. There are still a few people scattered about.

We walked down the stairs into the crypt. The metal railings were coming out of the wall, and I was scared to touch them, for fear of breaking the church. It was dark inside, but after our eyes adjusted, we were able to walk around without bumping into things. At one end of the room, there were two alcoves ...

I liked the muted colors of the stone.

Stained glass windows are along the sides of the crypt, letting in a little light. The whole place had an unused sort of feel, maybe because of the stacks of items along the walls.

Along the wall, they had the Stations of the Cross. It was appropriate as Easter was coming up. As I am not Catholic, I don't know my stations as stations, but I know what each stands for. Wry spent some time here, tinkering with the camera, playing with different exposures. I sat on the steps, the cold seeping into my hindquarters, just soaking in the quiet.

The Stations are not as old as they look -- they are a more modern addition.

The interesting thing about this church is that it is a work in progress. There are ancient parts of the building, with more modern aspects as well. It is sort of summed up in the name of their cafe, The Cafe in the Crypt, which is good enough to draw people in for lunch, but then end up sitting quietly in a pew, in the cool colors of the stained glass. Discoveries are still being encountered:

"In the early 1990s, when parts of the ancient stonework were found to be crumbling, £300,000 had to be spent on yet more restoration. Archaeologists, digging in the area of the pantry, uncovered colourful Flemish tiles hidden for hundreds of years. They had stumbled across the original 13th century cloister."

Walking up the stairs out of the crypt.

Near the door there is a poor box. St. Ethelreda's is a Rosminian church -- an order devoted to charitable works. The founder had "two life-principles, written down at this time for his own guidance, and forming the true harmony of humility with confidence and passiveness with activity, were:

first, to apply himself to the amendment of his faults and the purifying of his soul without seeking other occupations or undertakings on his neighbour's behalf, since of himself he was powerless to do anyone real service;

second, not to refuse offices of charity when Divine Providence offered them, but in fulfilling them to maintain perfect indifference and do the offered work as zealously as he would any other."

I think it means that he was trying to help people without patting himself on the back too much.



As we walk down the street, we see the convent. I had not seen any nuns.



As we walk along Hoburn Street, we find St. Andrews church.



I really loved the ceiling.

Roman pottery was found on the site during 2001/02 excavations in the Crypt. However, the first written record of the church itself dates to 951, calling it a church on top of the hill above the river Fleet (a medieval spring from which is also to be found in the crypt, though usually not on public view).



"The medieval St Andrew’s survived the 1666 Great Fire of London, saved by a last minute change in wind direction, but was already in a bad state of repair and so was rebuilt by Christopher Wren anyway. In what is his largest parish church, he rebuilt from the foundations (creating the present crypt) and gave the existing medieval stone tower (the only medieval part to survive) a marble cladding."



I just like the garden ...



We start walking again, heading up the street toward the legal district.



Crossing over a neat overpass. There are interesting dragons on the lamp-posts.



Some workmen taking a break under the watchful gaze of Commerce.



A fine, handsome bridge lion. Even though he is probably a griffin.


More interesting bridge work. Wry does not enjoy hanging over the bridge, looking at the traffic as much as I do. After we cross the bridge, we see this amazing-looking building. Amidst modern London, it is a towering, brooding Gothic figure.



We decide to brave the traffic and check it out.



We get separated and I see Wry across the street. I am walking around the building, trying to figure out what it is.



It turns out that we are at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, otherwise known as St . Sepulchre-without-Newgate, which I think is a really great name. Newgate is where the prison used to be.



Originally founded in the 12th century, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was the starting point for the Crusaders en route to Jerusalem. This particular church was built in 1450, during the reign of Henry.

St Sepulchre is one of the "Cockney bells" of London, named in the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons as the "bells of Old Bailey".

Traditionally, the great bell would be rung to mark the execution of a prisoner at the nearby gallows at Newgate. The clerk of St Sepulchre's was also responsible for ringing a handbell outside the condemned man's cell in Newgate Prison to inform him of his impending execution.

Despite walking around the building a number of times, I was not able to get it. It is now on my list of things that I must see sometime in the future. But for now, we are going someplace that I missed on my first trip to London, so I can tick that off my list. So, we are now off to the Temple Church.



Just a neat building. I wonder where the other half went. For whatever reason, even though we had a map, we got completely lost. All of my navigator points vanished with a whimper. However, there was a bonus in that we found the Old Bailey, something that I really wanted to see.



The Old Bailey is the criminal court in London. It conjures up images of bewigged judges passing sentence and manacled defendants pleading their case.



Well, you really can't argue with the sentiment.



Justice with her sword and scales on top of the building. As far as I can see, she is not blind at all. I wish that we had time to go in and see the court in action.

However, we don't. We have half a day in London left. We have to get to the Temple Church and the British Museum, get up really early and then make it to Heathrow.

An even busier Thursday! Parte the First

Just one of the magnificent things that we saw on Thursday -- the frontispiece of the Lindisfarne Gospel at the British Library.

Well, we have been packing in the sights ... it is really amazing how much we have seen. It has been so much fun. However, it is our last day in London, so we have to get cracking. I have made a list, complete with notations on the map and have planned out the whole day. With luck, we will be able to see all of the things on the list, because these are "must sees".


If we don't make it to everything, I guess we will just have to come back.




We get up and walk down Euston Street, past the train/underground station.



Great details.



And thence to the British Library. This is a statue of Isaac Newton bending forward to plot with a pair of dividers the immensity of the universe. We couldn't tell what it was at the time.

The Library is housed in a relatively modern building -- very unprepossessing. You would never know that some of the world's greatest treasures reside here, from the original scrawled Beatles lyrics to the Magna Carta. And Rowan's dissertation ...

Some facts from the website ...

• The collection includes 150 million items, in most known languages
• 3 million new items are incorporated every year
• We house manuscripts, maps, newspapers, magazines, prints and drawings, music scores, and patents
• The Sound Archive keeps sound recordings from 19th-century cylinders to the latest CD, DVD and minidisc recordings
• We house 8 million stamps and other philatelic items
• These require over 625 km of shelves, and grow 12km every year
• If you see 5 items each day, it would take you 80,000 years to see the whole of the collection
• The earliest dated printed book, the Diamond Sutra, can be seen in our exhibition galleries alongside many other national treasures

What I find really amazing, is that most Londoners have never been here. The owner at our hotel said that he hasn't ever been, despite the fact that he lives a stone's throw away. Europeans are so spoiled ...



Inside, there are some interesting busts. I don't know who they are, but I liked them. If you walk a little farther, on your left, you will enter into the exhibit room. We walk in and are immediately drawn in by the amazing books. In some ways, this is a very British place. First, it is completely unassuming. It is very quiet and pretty empty, which again, is really surprising. The fact that you can take your elementary school class and talk to them about geography and dragons and mythology from some of the most extraordinary books ever published is ... just ... mind-blowing. There was one group of ... oh, maybe first graders, sitting cross-legged in front of a huge medieval map of Europe, being encouraged to think of what exploration must have been like at that time.

You walk along the glass-fronted cases and can see anything from Leonardo Da Vinci's notebook to Shakespeare's folio to the originals of Handel and Mozart. There isn't time to describe here all of the amazing things that we saw. I am providing the link to the British Library here. It is well-worth a peruse.

After we had been wandering around a little, I discovered, to my delight a feature that is pretty amazing, if you think about it. It is called Turning the Pages, and it allows you examine an exhibit in great detail. You can literally look at something page by page, zooming in to look at a detail or border of an illustration. I was very happy to find that they had this feature on the website. Be sure to go and look at Turning the Pages at the British Library. Here are a few of the things that we were able to see:



The Luttrell Psalter is one of the most famous medieval manuscripts because of its rich illustrations of everyday life in the 14th century.



It was made in the diocese of Lincoln for Sir Geoffrey Luttrell (1276 - 1345) of Irnham, probably sometime between 1325 and 1335.

I also very much liked a little lovely herbal.

Elizabeth Blackwell's A Curious Herbal is notable both for its beautiful illustrations and for the unusual circumstances of its creation.

Elizabeth Blackwell was born in Aberdeen in about 1700, but moved to London after she married. She undertook this ambitious project to raise money to pay her husband's debts and release him from debtors' prison.

Blackwell's Herbal was an unprecedented enterprise for a woman of her time. She drew, engraved and coloured the illustrations herself, mostly using plant specimens from the Chelsea Physic Garden.

There was also an Ethiopic Bible, which was a lavishly illustrated 17th-century manuscript contains the first eight books of the Old Testament (the Octateuch), the four Gospels, and several canons of church councils.

Exerpts from Mozart's Thematic Catalog. Amazing.

A copy of the 'Diamond Sutra' is the world's earliest, dated, printed book (AD 868). A central text of Indian Buddhism, the Diamond Sutra was first translated from Sanskrit into Chinese in about AD 400. Carved wooden blocks were used to print this copy on a scroll made from seven panels of paper.

The Golden Haggadah is one of the finest of the surviving Haggadah manuscripts from medieval Spain. The Haggadah, which literally means 'narration', is the Hebrew service-book used in Jewish households on Passover Eve at a festive meal to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt.

The Golden Haggadah was probably made near Barcelona in about 1320. In addition to the Haggadah text itself the manuscript contains liturgical Passover poems according to the Spanish rite.

And then, there was the Book of Hours. The colors are unbelievable.

The Sforza Hours is one of the finest surviving Renaissance manuscripts. It is a Book of Hours - a volume, designed for private use by a private person, containing the prayers and offices to be said at the eight times of the day allotted by the church to prayer.

Like most Books of Hours, its pages are small (13.3 cm high x 10 cm wide); the manuscript was designed to be carried easily by the owner.

One of the most complicated illustrations was of the Last Supper.

The left-hand page shows Christ's last meal with his disciples is usually depicted in a strongly horizontal composition, with the participants arranged around a long table. Birago broke away from this tradition in his Last Supper, creating a sophisticated composition in which Christ and his disciples are grouped tightly around the central table, while servants are arranged in tiers above and below.

Christ instructs Peter and John how to find the house where Passover is to be celebrated.
Peter and John follow a man carrying a pitcher of water, as Christ had instructed them.
Judas Iscariot wears yellow. This colour was often used to suggest treachery and deceit.
Servants prepare bread and wine, which Christ and the disciples will eat and drink, providing the basis for the Christian rite of Communion.

As you can see, there is just too much to see, let alone describe here, but I wanted to show a little more about The Lindisfarne Gospels -- one of the world's greatest books. As I am less than ignorant, I am presenting the information as found at the British Library and various on-line sites. The only thing that I know of Lindisfarne is what I know from Rowan. She would be very happy here. Next time, this and the Natural History Museum will be tops on the list.



This is the world map of the time. The gospel was probaly made between 680 and 720, in the island monastery of Lindisfarne. It is the work of a very gifted artist who merged words and images to create a beautiful, enduring symbol of faith.



This is the cover.

The monastery at Lindisfarne was founded by Irish monks in 635.

It lies off the coast of the former Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Northumbria (NE England). Although remote, it was certainly not cut off culturally.

The Lindisfarne Gospels reflect many influences: native British, Celtic, Germanic, Roman, Early Christian, Byzantine, North African and Middle Eastern. The book contains the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John:

Of the four evangelists, only St John is shown facing out of the book, directing his gaze at the reader. He is not writing but appears to be expounding the contents of his scroll. He is accompanied by his traditional symbol, the eagle.



Recounting the life and teachings of Jesus Christ, the Gospels are the core of Christian belief as contained in the Christian Bible.

The Lindisfarne Gospels is written in Latin, using the Vulgate version made by St Jerome, who died in about 420.

Bishop Cuthbert of Lindisfarne (634-687) came from the Northumbrian middle classes. Although he spent long periods as a hermit, he was a very popular man and noted healer of plague-victims. In 685 King Ecgfrith persuaded Cuthbert to become Bishop of Lindisfarne, an estate which had grown rich under his royal patronage. When Cuthbert died two years later the monastic community started a cult in his name.

Writing and painting sacred texts were seen by monks as acts of meditation, during which the scribe might glimpse the divine. It was a high calling but very hard work. This picture shows you how you can zoom on Turning the Pages.

Imagine what it must have been like to undertake the eye-straining, back-aching task of making the Lindisfarne Gospels by hand, in a hut on an island in the wild North Sea. It would have been cold and tiring. Monks attended eight church services every day and night, displayed humility by manual labour, prayed and studied.

If the artist-scribe was Bishop Eadfrith, he would have carried a heavy administrative burden as well. The Lindisfarne Gospels would have taken him at least five years to complete.

It also contains the oldest surviving translation of the Gospels into the English language. In around 950-960 Aldred, a member of the Community of St Cuthbert, added his Old English translation between the lines of Latin.



When it was finished it was a book to see and be seen. But it was also the maker's personal 'opus dei' - a work for God.

I think of what a life of contemplation would be like. I have often thought that Wry would have been well-suited to such a life of thought and creation, hiding humorous touches and puns in his illustrations.

I finally tell him that we have to go if we are to stay on schedule at all. After all, I have maps! And a list! We leave after about four hours. It is time for lunch and then off to our next destination.



Near the elevators on the upper floor are some wonderful murals -- an exhibition about the literary history of Bloomsbury (the part of London that we are in). We have gotten separated, and I turn the corner to see my husband, chatting easily with an elderly woman. I got a picture of him as part of the mural.



We get on the bus and head over to the Indian Student YMCA. It is a hostel near the University of London. We will travel down Euston Street and then hoof it.



The vantage from the bus is not bad at all.



A nice little pub, but we are not stopping. We are looking for Grafton Street. I remember it because of Kinsey Milhone.



Almost at the end of the street and about to turn left on Fitzroy, past Grafton.



Some of the University buildings.

We find the hostel, just as promised. I have read that this is a good place to get authentic, inexpensive Indian food. Student food is always a good idea.

From 1920 to 1940 there was a period of Indian Nationalism and Indian Renaissance led by Mahatma Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore and Jawaharlal Nehru. The debate and discussion held in the YMCA ISH became the sounding board of public opinion of Indian affairs. It has been referred to as "a little bit of India in Britain". Mahatma Gandhi conducted an Inter-Faith dialogue programme in 1931 on the premises when he came for the round table conference.

When Rabindranath Tagore visited the YMCA ISH he gave the students the following message:

Be not ashamed, My brothers, to stand
Before the Proud and powerful with
Your White Robes of Simpleness.
Let your Crown of Humility, Your Freedom,
Build God's Throne daily upon the ample
Bareness of your poverty
And knowing what is Huge is not Great, and
Pride is not everlasting.

Sadly to say, we were mainly there for the food.



This is a picture of the dining room. We got there just after they had opened, so it was less crowded. It reminds me a lot of the dining room at Loma Linda. We sat up on the left, by the windows.



Not much in the way of decorations in the dining hall.



But you can go and wash your hands before your meal. Balancing our trays, we go and sit down.



Wry's lunch. I am sad that I did not see any naan, but had nice chapati. It is like a whole-wheat tortilla.



And mine. The food was good and just hot enough.

We finish and are off to the center of London. We walk up to the Warren Street tube station. Along the way, we pass what would be an Army/Navy surplus store here in the US. I have not had gloves, and my hands are a bit cold.

I am very, very happy to get some fingerless shooting gloves. I have been afraid of gloves for fear of dropping my camera. And they are a bargain at about five pounds. These are perfect. I only have the smallest quibble, which is that the velcro catches on everything. It takes some time to get the hang of not catching them on every bit of clothing that I own, but again ... they are well worth it. I look around for anything for our boys, but find nothing. We get back out on the street.




A nice big car.



A nice little car. I liked it and looked inside it. We are almost at the tube station.



I liked the feel of this station -- it is very minimalist.



A shot through the subway doors. We are on our way to Chancery Lane to see St. Ethelreda's church, the oldest Catholic church in England and one of only two remaining buildings in London from the reign of Edward I. We will also be able to see the Temple Church, which was closed last time we were down here.

Wednesday in London: We continue with Westminster

We turn away from St. Margaret's and toward Westminster Abbey. In some way, it is like St. Paul's Cathedral for me. I have no preconceived ideas at all of what I will find. I guess that is true for all of the churches that we have seen on this trip and on the last trip. That is what makes everything so amazing -- that there is this abundance of glorious history and beauty, and we are able to just stumble over it, like stones in the path.

Amazing, when you think about it.



We pause for a few moments, looking at the details of the entry way. Take a look at the rose-shaped window at the top of the picture -- you will be seeing it later.



A fine waterspout, I think.



The details above the door.



A shrine was first founded in 616 on the present site, then known as Thorn Ey (Thorn Island): its tradition of miraculous consecration after a fisherman on the River Thames saw a vision of Saint Peter justifying the presents of salmon from the Thames fishermen that the Abbey received. In the 960s or early 970s Saint Dunstan, assisted by King Edgar, planted a community of Benedictine monks here. The stone Abbey was built around 1045–1050 by King Edward the Confessor, who had selected the site for his burial: it was consecrated on December 28, 1065, only a week before the Confessor's death and subsequent funeral. It was the site of the last coronation prior to the Norman Invasion, that of his successor King Harold.



Again, we are not able to take pictures of the cathedral. I rent the audio tour. Wry does not want a headset, but I share with him anyway. I worry that I will be grabbed and chastised. I am not really just being cheap, just trying to share.

Armed with insider knowledge, we begin to wander around. There are many memorials and almost anyone you can imagine who is famous is buried here. I don't think I can really describe what it was like to tour the Abbey. Wry has a great recollection of just how crammed with the amazing that this place is -- when we walked in and were getting our headphones for the audio tour, there was a marble knight in effigy that had been put to use by having brochures stacked on him. That tells you something about just how much there is to see.



And almost every inch is covered by something beautiful, like the pavement in front of the High Altar.



Or historic, like the resting place of Edward the Confessor.

This shrine, which Henry III caused to be erected in honour of his predecessor, stands in the middle of the chapel. We were able to walk past this on our right, with a rabbit's warren of memorials and effigies to the left. You had to look at the floor and pay attention, because the floor is worn and uneven. It is one of those moments when I was enjoying the screen and finally looked up to see something extraordinary.



Or just amazing, like the effigy of Sir Isaac Newton.



The layout of the church from the 1800's. We have entered through the North Transept, taken a left and toured the memorials and effigies. One of my favorites is a small memorial of a woman with this inscription:

Courteous to all yet strictly sincere
humble without meanness
beneficent without ostentation
devout without superstition.

As I ponder these words, I think that these are worthy aspirations, and a lovely testament to a life lived for Christ.



And sometimes, you look up.

It is just so big. And there is just so much to see. And unlike most of the churches that we have seen, it seems more like a state institution than a place of worship. The history is palpable. It is grand. And sumptuous. And cold, somehow. It is easy to see the glory of man and history, but Christ is a little harder to see. However, it is certainly not to be missed.

My very favorite thing is that once an hour, everyone is stopped and asked to observe a moment of silence to reflect or pray, to remind us that we are in a church. I also liked that if you wanted to know something more about a term, such as baptism or the Trinity, that you heard on the audio tour, there was a snippet of information to explain it. I pray that God will reveal Himself to some seeking heart through such encounters.



So this is looking toward the front of the church. I think this is the view from the middle of the church looking back at the North Transept, where we came in.



This contains a large and superb rose-shaped window, consisting of sixteen pointed leaves, which are divided into as many smaller ones, nearer the center. They all proceed from a circle, in which are eight round leaves, in the center of which, on a ground of deep yellow, is-an open book, inscribed with the Greek words DOROS ETAYPOT. The divisions of the central circle are in straw colour; and in that beyond is a surrounding band of cherubim; while the large leaves are filled with the figures of the apostles and evangelists.



This is looking toward the Choir, past it toward the Nave.

We wander from place to place, seeing history piled upon history, monument upon monument. Chaucer, Browning, Dickens, Johnson, Kipling, Spenser and Olivier. The monarchs of England. The Henrys and the Annes. Amazing.


We see the resting place of Mary, Queen of Scots



and Elizabeth I.



At the base of the monument to Elizabeth and her sister, Mary is the inscription:
"Partners both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in the hope of the Resurrection"

It is oddly sad and poignant. At the end, they were just two women, despite the fact that they embodied history.

This is Henry VII's Lady Chapel. It is one of the most extraordinary things that I have ever seen. It is a Perpendicular style chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary in 1503.

Henry was buried in the Chapel on his death in 1509 in a tomb designed by the Italian artist and sculptor Torrigiani, although the chapel was originally intended for Henry VI. It is one of the first examples of the Renaissance in Britain, and the chapel itself is one of the best examples of Perpendicular Period architecture.

What does it mean that you can just walk into something like this? I had the same feeling at St. Giles in Edinburgh. It is stunning -- staggering -- opulent and gorgeous beyond words. It is like being slammed by beauty. You can feel it like a blow to your middle, and you can't catch your breath for a bit.

I was a little ahead of Wry and, after a bit of trying to absorb what I am seeing, I go back to get him. He is not willing to be hurried, so I sit on the steps outside of the Lady Chapel, looking at the chair of King Edward, trying to absorb what I have just seen.




King Edward's Chair (or St Edward's Chair), the throne on which British sovereigns are seated at the moment of coronation, is housed within the Abbey; from 1296 to 1996 the chair also housed the Stone of Scone upon which the kings of Scotland are crowned, but pending another coronation the Stone is now kept in Scotland. (But we knew that, didn't we.)

I get up a couple of times and go back in and try to absorb what I am seeing. This is a view of the ceiling. It does not even begin to do it justice. There is a mirrored cart that you can wheel around and use to look at the ceiling. I guess that it is so that tourists do not topple over like bowling pins from kinked cerebral arteries after looking upward for long periods of time.

Wry finally comes in, and I am walking beside him, pacing like an eager border collie. I want to see his reaction, and it is satisfying to see him checked by the same stunning view. I am almost chortling, because I can see the awe and delight on his face.

I stop and chat with a docent who has a very heavy London accent. He tells me about the RAF window. It is an interesting note to the Lady Chapel.

And back out. I take a quick walk through the Cloister and find that I am able to take pictures here. I pull out my camera and begin snapping away.



Coming out into the open air of the Cloister, the walkway to the right.



The open area is to my left, and the wall of monuments is on my right. Here are a few.






I get to the end of the walkway and consider going back in, but I have lost Wry. So I backtrack a little and get a few more pictures.



There are different cloisters. I am not sure which one I am seeing.



The Cloister were, in pre-Reformation days, one of the busiest parts of the monastic precincts and, with windows filled with glass, rushes strewn on the floor and braziers burning, would have been cosier than they seem today.



They were used by the monks for meditation and exercise, besides providing access to the main monastic buildings.



The floor is wet.



On the wall. Here are the close-ups.







I wish my Latin was not quite so rusty.



This is a view of the wall just before turn left to go back into the transept. I still cannot find Wry.

After looking around for a bit, I find that services are going to be in a very short time. I figure that Wry and I will meet up then, because I know that he will want to attend. I am eager to do so as well. I follow the signs and exit and enter the Nave. Evensong will be spoken this evening, so we are to sit in the Nave.






We sit among a group of people who are participating in the services. There is a man a row in front of me wearing an old military jacket. He is praying fervently. A woman has some angry, paranoid outburst, and rushes out.

It is odd and beautiful and sad, in a way. There are less than a couple of hundred of us, which seems rather small in such a large city. I pray for revival.

When the service is over, we walk around a little more, seeing Newton's effigy and Darwin's memorial on the pavement.



We exit and see the wall with the twentieth century martyrs.

A prettier shot, I think.

We have not been able to take any pictures of the interior. I am outside and see no reason why I cannot shoot through the door to the interior. I am having a hard time getting the shot, and give Wry the camera.

And he gets this very good shot through the locked door.

And one of Newton's memorial. The monument is of white and grey marble. Its base bears a Latin inscription and supports a sarcophagus with large scroll feet and a relief panel. The latter depicts boys using instruments related to Newton's mathematical and optical work (including the telescope and prism) and his activity as Master of the Mint.

Above the sarcophagus is a reclining figure of Newton, in classical costume, his right elbow resting on several books representing his great works. They are labelled 'Divinity', 'Chronology', 'Opticks' [1704] and 'Philo. Prin. Math' [Philosophia Naturalis Principia Mathematica, 1686-7)]. With his left hand he points to a scroll with a mathematical design, held by two standing winged boys. The background is a pyramid on which is a celestial globe with the signs of the Zodiac, of the constellations, and with the path of the comet of 1680. On top of the globe sits a figure of Astronomy leaning upon a book.

The Latin inscription is:

"Here is buried Isaac Newton, Knight, who by a strength of mind almost divine, and mathematical principles peculiarly his own, explored the course and figures of the planets, the paths of comets, the tides of the sea, the dissimilarities in rays of light, and, what no other scholar has previously imagined, the properties of the colours thus produced. Diligent, sagacious and faithful, in his expositions of nature, antiquity and the holy Scriptures, he vindicated by his philosophy the majesty of God mighty and good, and expressed the simplicity of the Gospel in his manners. Mortals rejoice that there has existed such and so great an ornament of the human race! He was born on 25th December, 1642, and died on 20th March 1726/7."

Replete, we leave into the cold, rapidly darkening evening.



Outside of the Abbey.



Amen and amen.

More lions.

The gift shop is right below this. I run in quickly, because they are closing, but do not see anything that I need right now.

This is across the square ... I just liked the way it looked.

Twilight is dropping. It is just about my favorite time of day.

St. Margaret's Church, Big Ben, and the moon rising.

A shot across the Abbey Green. From right to left, Westminster Abbey, St. Margaret's Church and Big Ben. Pretty, no?

St. Margaret's, lit up against the evening.

The North entrance of Westminster.

Big Ben and the House of Parliament.

And the moon rising behind.

This is my favorite shot.

But this is nice, too.

You can see how long we have been standing outside in the cold, trying to get good shots. Apparently, there are things that we are willing to suffer for. Wry probably got the best shots. I am going to say it was because he is tall and is not impeded by things like people's heads. But I think that he is just better at this than I am. He risked life and limb, running across the traffic to get some really nice shots.

We are pretty cold and hungry, so we consult our Cheap Eats book and find a fish and chips joint on the way back to the Jesmond Dene.

We stop at the Fryer's Delight for fish and chips. We walk about a hundred blocks to the restaurant (okay, not that far, but it seemed pretty far) and finally spy the restaurant across the street. We step in and it is warm (aaaahhhh) and smells really good. I am about starving at this point.

It is really small and narrow, but we are able to get a seat. We end up sharing a table with two nice ladies, both of whom are relatively local. One used to come in all of the time and has had her friend meet her here. One had just come back from a trip to the US and we have a nice chat.

Our dinner is well within our budget. I decide to have fish and chips with mushy peas, to have a true culinary experience. Wry decides against the peas. He sort of detests canned peas.

While we eat, we discuss where we are going tomorrow. We sketch out the itinerary, which you can see to Wry's right. The fish was very, very good and worth every penny. Mmmm.

Tomorrow is our last day in London -- it looks to be pretty busy.