The evening of Monday, October 17, sitting on a bed in room 28, the Elizabeth Hotel, 32 Eccelston Square, London SW1 (City of Westminster, to be precise) -

We got here, though there was a time when that was far from a clear certainty. I got up yesterday morning a little before nine, having laid out a large collection of clothes for packing, having taken care of the electronics previously. A Saturday spent scurrying about by Sharon landed a slew of last-minute items, prescriptions refilled and so forth, cleaning gotten, the like (I never did get the chance to purchase a new pair of black walking shoes, more's the pity), all necessary batteries recharged (this time the converter was brought but we had to get another plug adaptor since the one of use was left plugged to the hair dryer that didn't get packed), the video camera replaced and re-cased, all necessary paperwork printed, and so forth ad so on ad nauseum.

I got about four hours of sleep; Sharon got none, wedded as she was to the washing machine and other things. By eleven we were more or less packed - that is, I was packed and ready, Sharon still in transit. Luckily Hol, Anne and Matt had come down for a Gaskill family affair over the weekend and were kind enough to bring over Hal's SUV to take us to the airport. Anne helped with the packing, Hol and I did odd bits around the house, Matt helped hump the six sizable pieces of luggage to the vehicle, which finally got underway to the airport about 11:30. After numerous fond farewells we got through the tedious process of checking in and getting our dunnage stowed, and were in plenty of time for our 1:30 flight to DFW for a connecting flight to Gatwick at 4:20, with eventual arrival in the UK about 8:00 AM this Monday morning.

O fond hopes! We arrived in Dallas without fanfare, located our next gate - which had been moved to one another quarter-mile down the concourse - and discovered that there was a delay concerning a late flight to Frankfurt. We emplaned, finally, a little after 6:15 and after a routine flight over land and water we landed at foggy Gatwick about 10:20 AM, not quite eleven hours ago. Sharon slept for a great deal of the flight; I dozed off and on with classical music on the earphones, spending the rest of the time keeping us airborne by sheer force of will.

Gatwick meant coming through passport control, getting train tickets to Victoria Station and making arrangements for hiring a car next Monday (Hertz, some kind of Ford), then claiming our mountain of luggage, putting it on trolleys, getting it on the train with the help of a porter, making the express run to Victoria Station, schlepping the same luggage out to a cab and making the short trip here. We had yet another sandwich (gotten at Victoria), eaten in the pleasant confines of the private park across the street in Eccelston Square and ensconced ourselves in this pleasant little room, with its balcony overlooking the park, its Book of Mormon in the bedside table drawer, its pleasant beds and high ceilings, its air of history (this is an old block, 16th century, with the standard white Georgian front that characterizes the whole of Belgravia) and pleasant ambiance. Breakfast is at eight, checkout eleven, and a trip to the Strand Palace soon after to begin the Official part of the London tour.

The weather has been mild and dry, indeed too warm for my taste, but there is nothing for it. We are in a foreign country, with peculiar money and strange traffic rules. We'll manage. What we need to do is get some sleep, and soon; but we'll manage that, too.

The evening of Tuesday, October 18, sitting on a chair facing the little desk in room 333, Strand Palace Hotel, London -

We did indeed finally get a night of sleep, and no wonder; breakfast at nine-ish, luggage trundled downstairs for brief storage, checkout, and a cab to One Night Stand to get Sharon a formal dress, not an easy thing as the place was in a studio hidden in a building not easily found. In fact Sharon was able to ask a nice lady on the street, who kindly called the place up on her cellphone, and we were not that far away (we had passed it a moment before, all unknowing). An hour later, and a lovely red number with shawl and necklace was decided upon. Then off to Moss Bros near Covent Garden, where a hire tuxedo, shoes and all, was gotten in ten minutes - on the way there we saw a squad of the Guards marching smartly back to their barracks in St. James, a soldierly group with gray greatcoats, pipeclayed cross-straps, functional if not parade-issue automatic rifles, and those enormous bearskin hats all the tourists point at; back to the Elizabeth and the mountain of suitcases, another cab back towards the Strand Palace Hotel (whoops! turn around, Mark left his tuxedo hanging on a doorknob at the Elizabeth), where we checked in, changed for a less noisy room, took a brief stroll to allow cleaning, had a quick sandwich at some hole-in-the-wall, came back to let the luggage fellow deal with the Stuff, and unpacked a little.

(pause for a deep breath)

Downstairs to search for the Pauses Tea and Reception; after some asking, located same and said hello to our group, some seventeen strong, of whom I had already met Capt and Mrs. Steven Maffeo USNR - they are a pleasant and conversable group, all American as we can judge. Sadly, Patrick Tull was not among us, he having recently been diagnosed with a malignant abdominal tumor - which was recently excised - and who is currently about to undergo chemotherapy for same; we didn't ask for specifics. His absence will be missed extremely. After conversation over coffee and tea we adjourned to the nearby hotel restaurant (Johnstons Brasserie I believe, this Deco pile has several of them) for an enormous meal, steak or swordfish as preferred, and we preferred the latter, and lingering conversation over cheesecake and coffee or what-have-you. It was pleasant to talk to the Maffeos again four years on, and their bright and energetic son Micah made a good addition to the group. Towards the end of the serving Susie Smith-Petersen, Stuart in tow, arrived with nicely made up file boxes filled with our revised itinerary, in day-to-day detail, together with other interesting pamphlets and articles, and - a packet of the Trafalgar commemorative stamps!

And so after the gigantic breakfast awaiting downstairs at 0830, we begin the week's touring with a 0915 march over to the Embankment and embarkation on a vessel taking us to Greenwich and its naval and scientific wonders. It is 10 PM London time, and it seems much, much later.

The evening of Wednesday, October 19 (a trifle earlier than usual) -

A rainy night in London town, the sort of gentle rain that gets everything wet but no sort of downpour, after another mild and pleasant day, one that began too early (as they all do) with the effort of getting up, getting ready to greet the world - or at least the breakfasting world - going down to the usual stupendous breakfast, then out as a group at 0915 down to the Embankment, along same to a pedestrian bridge across the Thames just up from Westminster, and after a brief pause on to one of the many excursion boats to go up to Greenwich. We made the journey with the usual running commentary from the guide (pretty much the same as four years ago), landing by the Cutty Sark and the familiar lines of Classical Greenwich, the Hospital, National Maritime Museum, and so forth. Our cicerone this time was Rob Williamson, a capable young man with a wealth of information at his fingertips, who conducted us through the Painted Hall of the Old Greenwich Naval Hospital (now Greenwich University), Queen Anne Wing, a Christopher Wren design with an astonishing wealth of painted interior design, all done by the same fellow over a nineteen year span; he painted himself into the allegory-strewn landscape, hand out for a bit more payment. Just how the naval pensioners appreciated it all is a matter of conjecture.

From there it was on to the nearby Trafalgar Tavern for luncheon (high-class fish and chips for me, chicken for Sharon), and after a general settling-up, over to the National Maritime Museum for the Nelson and Napoleon exhibition, which was quite impressive indeed: there before us was Ingres' famous painting of Napoleon as First Consul, across the way from Beechey's famous post-Trafalgar portrait of Nelson, the autograph scores of both Haydn's "Nelson" Mass and Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony (!!), rare letters and documents from nearly every major player concerned, an astonishing multimedia recreation of the action itself, and much more. It was worth the price of admission, whatever that was.

Before reembarking on our return river vessel we dawdled around Greenwich for a few moments, long enough to pick up a Dr. Pepper and a paper with yesterday's baseball score hidden away (Astros lose 5-4, no details, go on to St. Louis up 3-2 in the NLCS); then back down the Thames as night began to fall, and with it rain. But! I had taken my raincoat and Idiot Hat and Sharon her umbrella, so all was well. There was a group supper on the schedule but I begged off with an uneasy stomach, one still not quite at rest.

But it will be better tomorrow, since many grand things are on the schedule, including the Guildhall Extravaganza, and so eventually to bed.

The evening of Friday, October 21, Trafalgar Day  -

Whence the lacuna, you may ask; and for good reason, naturally. Well, let us back up a bit and see what happened yesterday: morning was beautiful, nearly clear and with a pleasant breeze, a fine day for our various excursions, which began with our guided tour of selected portions of the Admiralty buildings, old and new, with our guides and savants-general, Charlotte Henwood for the Art and Justin Reay for the history; upon coming through the Admiralty Screen, who should I espy but Admiral Klein! Granted, Jim is hard to miss - and there was Seamark (Mark Smith of Richmond WA, another gunroom stalwart) as well, and Lois from DC, and the redoubtable Sara Waterson herself, forming the nucleus of a second tour group, which naturally joined ours.

With such company, and such a genial guide, our tour was a fine one indeed, especially when we were standing (or sitting) round the Old Admiralty Board Room, much of it unchanged since 1700 or so, and a place known to us all by illustration and reputation. Such history! Yes, Nelson waited here in the Captain's Room, and sat at this table in the Board Room, and came up those steps, and across this corridor, and...you get the idea.

We emerged onto the Horse Guards Parade, and wandered in various directions for the rest of the morning and afternoon, except for Jim and Mark and Lois and Sara and one other nice lady whose name I cannot recall, who invited us to join them for lunch at the National Gallery restaurant (Sainsbury Grill, I believe), an invitation we took up with relish, and worth it too, both for the food and the company kept. As it turned out Jim and Justin were also slated to be at the Guildhall Banquet in the evening.

Ordinarily we are not to be found at formal gatherings, but we made an (prohibitively expensive) exception this time, and dutifully donned our rented duds and joined the group downstairs for transport. Steve Maffeo and Jim Dargan were in their number one Navy rigs (Jim, though retired, still gets to wear his Commander finery) with medals and authentic gold Annapolis cummerbunds, and the rest of us were in various stages of monkeysuitedness; the ladies were of course ravishing, with Sharon's striking scarlet gown making the best statement of all. The event was somewhere between the convivial and the surreal - 500 plus people in formal clothing put into a setting of high ceremony in demonstrably medieval surroundings tends to have this effect - and yet it was easy to handle. I was never asked for my ticket or identification, which suggested that I looked like I belonged there, making small talk and sipping champagne while the Royal Marine Band played in the courtyard, and we were kept waiting for some time while the Lord Mayor got first shot at the drinks. After awhile we were sent (by liveried staff) into the dining room, our assigned seats at our assigned tables amid the monuments and Victorian-Gothic setting, admiring the gifts set out (Trafalgar medals for the gents, Trafalgar pillboxes for the ladies), the profusion of wineglasses and cutlery, the polished ceremonial of fanfares and formal announcements and introductions and such, the priceless Official Grace: "God Bless the Royal Family. God Bless these victuals. Amen." and the military parading of the Baron of Beef, the perpetual renewal of the excellent wine(s), the great conversation all round, the swell meal, the parade of the chocolate ships of the line, the excellent port for the toasts (culminating in the silent Immortal Memory)...Prince Philip, the Patron of the Seafarers UK Fund, made a brief but effective speech, the First Sea Lord (Admiral Sir Alan West, GCB DSC ADC) told the Iraqi Viagra story, the three Tenors Un Limited entertained us while the better sort made their escape, the stirrup cup of brandy in the Crypt, the wandering around as a group looking for taxis after midnight in London (this is not New York, not by a long chalk); and of course the wonderful warm feeling associated with snappy apparel and large quantities of astonishingly expensive wine, made it all an evening to remember. And saving the menus and every other piece of paper from the table made it easier the next day, too. I am vaguely astonished to relate that Maffeo made off with the flowers from the centerpiece. But! I am relieved to have been reminded that, in fact, he was handed said florals by Susie Smith-Petersen (at far left of the group photo above, next to Leslie Carroll, Justin Reay, Jim Dargan, Richard Bailey, Self, and the Good Captain) to take back to his lovely wife Rhonda.

We went to bed far, far too late. We could have drank all night...

We should have slept all night instead, because it was another long, long day, which took us in usual cab-formation, into a fairly rainy morning at 0915 to St. Paul's Cathedral, that enormous Christopher Wren masterpiece, and a guided tour by Mirella Adams; we began (backwards, tour-wise) in the crypt, and a long view of Nelson's tomb, a plain granite plinth surmounted by a modestly ornate black marble sarcophagus, that surmounted by an oversized purple cushion and baron's crown, the last done in painted and gilded marble and metal. The sarcophagus was a handy thing, as it had belonged to Cardinal Wolsey before his fall, and as he never got the chance to use it, it had been in storage for 250 years or so. Down the crypt a bit was Wellington's equally large monument: like Nelson's, his took some time to complete, and in fact his coffin hung suspended above Nelson's tomb for some eleven years before being moved to its final resting place, a situation that made viewing of Nelson's grave rather an awkward thing for some time.

St. Paul's survived the Blitz - Churchill had ordered that it be so, and the St. Paul's fire watch (and the happily bad aim of the Luftwaffe) kept damage to a minimum, so that the glory of Queen Anne's munificence is pretty much the same as when Wren got it built, save for the stained glass, various side-chapels and assorted effigies and such (John Donne's was the sole survival of Old St. Paul's, and the divine in his marble winding-sheet still bears the scorch marks of the Great Fire of 1666), and mid-Victorian mosaic work that  adorns much of the dome's interior; and of course the baldaccio over the high altar, erected in 1958 after a 1940 bomb took out the fussy Victorian screen. The third and largest version of Holman Hunt's "The Light of the World" has a place of honor in the North Transept. The organ, installed in 1695 above (!) the Quire Screen, now sits to one side of the Quire aisle (the Screen was removed some time ago), its Grinling Gibbons case a delight to the eye. The whole cathedral has been recently cleaned, and its magnificence brings to London a smaller, but equally impressive version of St. Peter's in Rome; Londoners will for all time be thankful that Wren lived so long, and was for so long persistent on getting his design fully realized.

By the time we emerged the rain had given way to a fine afternoon, and so following our tour we walked further into the City and were joined by our next guide, Robin Michaelson, late of Lloyd's, who took us to the current, ultra-modern version (see: Frank Gehry) of that venerable insurance institution, not quite an insurer per se but a sort of mega-brokerage, with hundreds of syndicates working together with Lloyd's underwriters to take on various proposals: business is good, and the free lunch in the cafeteria was just fine as well. After a quick look-round we got back on the sidewalk and ambled over to the Guildhall, looking different by daylight, and a visit to the Guildhall Gallery to view a fine exhibition of Nelsoniana, including much presentation silver that is normally kept in the vault at Lloyd's.

While sitting in the Lloyd's Starbucks (lo, even there) waiting to take Robin's tour, I idly picked up a Sports section of some local daily and found to my utter and deep seated delight that the day before, in St. Louis, in the last game to be played in Busch Stadium, that by a score of 5 -1 that

THE ASTROS WIN THE PENNANT!

THE ASTROS WIN THE PENNANT!

THE ASTROS WIN THE PENNANT!

After viewing the Nelson exhibit, and the remains of the Roman amphitheatre that underlies much of the Guildhall area, we scurried back to the hotel to get our rentals and return them: for Sharon this meant a lengthy cab ride; for me, a five-block walk to Moss Bros and an estimate-bill for £200 (!!). I don't want to know the rest. After a quick bit of Cornwall pasty take-away, a brief, brisk walk down the Strand brought us to the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and a Musical Celebration of Nelson "by candlelight" put on by the Locrian Ensemble of London, an entertaining group who interspersed a dramatic narration of the death and glory of Nelson with a period string trio arrangement of Beethoven's "Pathetique" Sonata, Haydn's setting of some lines from "The Battle of the Nile," a particularly dreadful Pindaric Ode done by Emma Hamilton's friend Cornelia Knight, part of a concert done at Eisenstadt in 1800 when the Hamilton-Nelson menage paid a visit (and heard the Nelson Mass as well). After the interval, a pleasant setting of A Sailor Song, again by Haydn, followed by the world premiere of Paul Honey's "Nelson Suite" - a setting of traditional Irish tunes featuring the stunning work of violinist Dermot Crehan - then some traditional sailor tunes, and of course "Rule Britannia". It was all quite fun even if I was falling asleep in the semi-darkness, rock hard pews or no. It was a pleasure to finally fall into bed for the short time available, since we were slated to get up (gasp!) a half hour early next morning for the Portsmouth Excursion.

Saturday evening, October 22 - Trafalgar Day Plus One -

Early, early, down to the usual and then to our nice red tour bus for the journey down (or over, or out) to Portsmouth. Our guide was a stout older gentleman whose name I did not get, with a fine Cockney accent and dry wit who pointed out various landmarks and factoids as we threaded our way south, over the Thames and through south London and environs until we were well on the A3 and on our way roughly west-southwest, through the rolling South Downs, passing through Surrey (now mostly London) and Hampshire to our seaside goal, about 120 miles away. Rain and slightly cooler temperatures were forecast, and the agenda suggested things like a tour of HMS Victory, a ride round the harbor, a look at the Mary Rose, things like that.

In the event, we reached Portsmouth without incident, passing the George on the way (Bar Closed), noting the existence of the large Spinnaker Tower - a Millennium project, just opened, with its manager stuck in the outside lift halfway up, to the delight of the press - and disembarked at the station we knew already, just by the Gun wharf, outside the gates of the Dockyard, towards the Warrior, the RNM, the Mary Rose, the Victory...and lots and lots of other people, whose presence inspired a number of tacky carnival rides and food purveyors and tacky sideshow games, all littering the historic grounds around the Victory and giving a decided funfair touch to something most of us saw as a distinctly hallowed place; but we were reminded, if forcefully, that this was a monument for all Britons and everyone else with an appreciation of the moment, however small that feeling might be.

We arrived a little before noon, and were to depart at four, so after picking up a ticket entitling us to visiting any number of things we were on our own; most of us decided that visiting Victory was the first priority, and we dutifully joined the queue snaking round and round from the entrance on her starboard bow, hard by the smash-the-china booth, the wandering costumed characters from various eras, the annoying water-spraying clowns (!)...time passed, and passed, as the line slowly crept forward. Victory was hung with the hoists of Nelson's great "England Expects" signal, the skies were mostly fair, the crowd good-natured. More time passed, and at last we were let up the gangway and into the ship at the level of the second gun deck, from there moving slowly aloft to the quarterdeck after passing by the Admiral's Great Cabin, noting the spot where Nelson fell (the brass plaque crowned by a wreath) and trying to imagine what it may have been like on that day two hundred years ago as Victory lay hard by La Redoutable, the broadsides hammering and the grenades and muskets firing at all points in the swirling smoke and deafening noise, gently rolling on the gray Atlantic in a light breeze as the great ships fought all around that early afternoon somewhere to the west of Cadiz and Cape Trafalgar; a moment to pause, indeed. Then below again by steeper and steeper stages to the lower decks, the headroom growing ever less, down to the level of the hold, past the galley and grand magazine forward, the surgery in the Orlop, the trifling space in the Cockpit where Nelson died (magnified to huge proportions in most of contemporary illustrations of the scene so as to fit in every person who may have been there at one time or another), then by circuitous routes back to the lower gun deck and out in the open air again, walking more or less upright after some time spent crouched over, dodging great low heavy beams.

This exercise had lasted something over two hours, and we decided to get some lunch, which we finally did at Benjy's across from the Royal Naval Museum, another hour gone. After determining that there was no time for harbor tours or much else we took in the exhibition of the last surviving sail from the battle, the Victory's fore topsail, rediscovered in storage in 1961 after many years of display in various places and carefully conserved and on view in a special space on the museum building's third storey (a specially edited version of the "Master and Commander" trailer playing on a screen to one side giving life to an otherwise dark and dimly lit area), two-thirds laid out, the many shot holes and tears quite visible. A small and highly informative display on the origin of sailcloth and the construction and maintenance of sails was adjacent. After this, a quick trip down to the packed museum gift shop for a few bits of clothing and whatnot, and then the stroll back to the bus for the journey back to London through the pleasant countryside and reasonably quiet city to the hotel as night began to fall.

A scratch supper - more Cornish pasties - and the knowledge that we can sleep later, as the only things on the list for the morrow are the Sea Cadets Parade to Trafalgar Square at 1100, and the farewell dinner in the evening. Time, then, to relax a little.

Sunday evening, October 23 - Trafalgar Day Plus Two -

A reasonably fair morning found us pressed against a railing on the east (?) side of Trafalgar Square along with a number of other spectators to see the Sea Cadets parade, or at least a portion of it. There was music by at least two bands, Royal Marine and Other - and a march-in ot the Cadets, some sort of wreath-laying ceremony at the base of Nelson's Column, the appearance or rather presence of Prince Andrew (his flag was raised, then hurriedly lowered and raised again, as a hapless cadet had put it upside down the first go), a great deal of inspecting, a blessing and prayer by some high churchman in his surplice, the singing of "Almighty Father, Strong to Save" by those who knew the verses as the Royal Marines played the tune, and then a march-out of various units of Cadets towards Admiralty Arch and away.

Pomp and Circumstance, from start to finish.

Free to do as we pleased the rest of the afternoon, we walked over to the British Museum, which I had never seen, and much jaw dropping on my part commenced. The Man-Bulls of Nineveh! The great bronze temple monument of Tel el-'Ubaid! The Elgin Marbles! The glories of Sutton Hoo! The bookstore! Also a Rosetta Stone t-shirt and Standard of Ur necktie. We were among the last out of the place, as you might imagine.

A change of clothing, then down with the group to the Covent Garden Grill, basement thereof, for our farewell dinner. A lovely occasion, much fine food and good wine consumed, more wonderful conversation; sadly, the night had to end, and we went back to our rooms, most for the last time. Unfortunately He Who Will Not Be Named omitted to have lunch and then drank a great deal more good wine than was really necessary, and by bedtime it was just a little more vertigo than an exhausted body needed, and so the poor devil fell asleep sitting up. He got better, though.

Monday evening, October 24, no longer in London -

This was the day that had to come, the one where we packed all that stuff that we dragged out of all those bags, checked out of the Strand Palace, and so final goodbyes to those of the group to be seen in the morning (Leslie, Captain Richard, Owen, and finally, as we were putting luggage into a taxi, the Maffeos, our favorite companions of the week), took a cab full of luggage to Victoria Station, thence on the Gatwick Express to the Airport, where we picked up our car from Hertz.

We had been upgraded, it would seem, and are now driving a Land Rover Freelander (sort of like a Jeep Highlander), blue, powered by diesel fuel and quite comfortable if not large enough to put all the damned luggage in the back. Sharon drove through continual rain up the M23 to the M25 round the east side of London to pick up the A12 past Chemsford to Colchester and then down the B1025 (with certain backtracking and asking for directions in Colchester), over the causeway - ahead of the tide - to Mersea Island, across it to East Mersea, and our present stop, Bromans Farm, a marvelous old place erected in 1330, with Georgian additions and refurbishments, home to the Dences, Ruth and Martin, splendid hosts. We had tea/coffee in the drawing room, fire crackling in the grate, and are slowly but surely fading, fading.

The wind blows in the trees outside our window, and a careful ear can make out the sound of the North Sea surf not so very far away. An atmospheric evening, a good night in store, and who knows what tomorrow: Colchester, perhaps, then on to Cambridge and The Brambles.

Tuesday evening, October 25, late - up for that Full English Breakfast, fried egg, bacon, sausage, tomato, mushrooms, preceded by cereal and fruit and juice and such, then settle the bill and walk up the lane to the seaside park in the driving wind (no rain); a quick observation of the mud and shingle at low tide, the North Sea a gray suggestion off to the southeast, then back to the vehicle and steps retraced to Colchester. After some driving about we went into a parking garage - what is known here as a car park, whether open or garage - left said vehicle and walked out onto St. John's Street, across it, and into the large shopping precincts that make up much of the city center, older streets made mostly pedestrian-only with lots of quaint little shops or not so quaint but certainly little; a sort of Westbury Square writ large, to make an inexact simile. From there a few steps to the High Street, and on to the Colchester Castle Park, and the great large heap therein: the largest Norman castle of them all, built by the Conqueror at the same time as the Tower, sited on the foundations of the Temple of Claudius that dominated the town when it was the principal Roman city in Britain, its first capital, and a place full of history.

This was where the outraged Queen Boudica (or Boadicea, or what you will) led the Iceni and their allies to the total destruction of the colonia and slaughter of all 30,000 inhabitants in 60 AD; as you might expect, after the initial shock of this (and the loss of Londinium as well) the legions marched on the rebellious tribes and destroyed them, annihilating the Iceni in their turn.

Not that the Normans cared, they mined the Roman remains for building stone and brick and built the enormously-thick-walled pile whose remains are here, much built upon by subsequent owners and now serving as an excellent museum, principally bringing the Roman Colchester to life. It was here we spent much of the afternoon - Sharon took a tour of the Roman vaults underlying the whole business - and we emerged into rush-hour traffic with a certain sense of where we were going, if not the absolute route. We got lost of course, and had to ask directions on getting out of the place and on towards Bury and the Brambles, who had been forewarned of our impending though late arrival and gave specific road instructions, which we took, more or less, as night fell and the traffic piled up on the A12/A14; eventually we got on the road to Worlington and after a few reverses and direction-seeking ended up at this marvelous large house of fairly recent vintage, one surrounded by acres of lovely gardens and lawns kept by Genny and Terry Jakobson. We went down the road for a very late supper at the Walnut Tree pub down the road in the village and were more than happy to bed down, knowing that we would be here one more night (and not have to put all the luggage back); tomorrow, Cambridge.

Wednesday, October 26, early evening (before supper, amazingly enough) - After another one of those fine breakfasts we made the half-hour drive toward Cambridge and stopped at a park and ride on the city's eastern edge, there being no sane driving in the city itself. We got off at a stop in the city center and wandered towards the University precincts nearby, observing streets teeming with people, scholars and otherwise, and lots of fine old architecture mixed in with lots of tacky new architecture, nearly a mirror-image of Oxford, which is, I believe, the arrangement. We first visited the Church of Great St. Mary, officially the church of the University, and for a small fee climbed the spiral staircase to the roof it its flat tower for a panoramic view of the area; we descended without mishap and walked over to King's Row and the imposing façade of King's College itself, not the only college of Cambridge by far but perhaps the more distinctive, with its landmark Chapel. After wandering into the precincts and admiring the river and the Great Lawn (no walking on the grass!) we entered the Chapel - Sharon for the second time - and were generally awed by this masterpiece of mainly Tudor construction, mostly completed by Henry VIII after its founding by Henry VI in 1441 - most of the great windows and organ-screen date from his time, the fan-vaulting from his father's, the choir is later work, the West Window 19th century and the Rubens altarpiece a fairly recent gift - and the largest of the several chapels attached to the various colleges. Had we the time we would have punted down the river or seen the Fitzwilliam Museum or the other colleges but were constrained in that matter since we had to get back to Worlington in time to get another fine pub supper and a decent bedtime. It is fairly obvious that doing a place like Cambridge requires days and days, and we, alas, do not have that many of them left.

Tomorrow, Ely and its cathedral, then back to the east of Bury, and Haughley House to meet the Lord of the Manor, who will be serving us a meal if all goes well.

Thursday, 28 October, from a two days' distance -

a splendid day for Ely and its magnificent cathedral, octagon and all. There is not much else in Ely, but the place is reminiscent of Salisbury, sans spire, with its extensive close and wealth of surrounding monastic buildings, all done up nicely over the years. The cathedral itself is mainly Victorian and Georgian work done over Norman work built over the remnants of an abbey of Saxon origin itself built on the site of the shrine of St. Etheldreda, a seventh-century divine and former queen of Northumbria (among other places); the effect is stunning, even if the Gothic Revivalists truly outdid themselves. Despite the statue-smashing zeal of the Reformation and Puritan eras the fabric of the place is impressive in its Norman feel.

One must remind oneself that Ely - named after the thriving fishing industry - was once an island in the midst of the Fens, at least until great fat Harry Tudor decided to put the eelmen out of work by his drainage projects.

From there it was a reasonably quick drive down past Bury St. Edmunds to Haughley and our room at Haughley House, guests of Caroline and Jeffrey Bowden, he the current Lord of the Manor, gentleman farmer and former officer of an old cavalry regiment, and both keen cooks. The house was a combination of 15th and 18th century with mod cons, and quite the proper British household, lair of the Aristocracy. Jeffrey's library was heavy on the militaria and, happily, the nautical as well, O'Brian, Pope, Kent, Reeman, Parkinson, Woodman and the rest all in evidence: top-hole! Supper, shared with another family of means, was delicious: medallions of pork and much else served in a dining room straight from Country Life. Bed was a four-poster whose headboard bore the Bowden crest, and cavalry boots were part of the decor, the smoothbore muskets and rifles and sabres being for the most part downstairs.

After breakfast, a peek at a volume of the manorial survey done for Bloody Mary and her tax-collectors in 1549, and excerpts from some mid-18th century manorial court records; the manorial court is still held once a year, to keep up appearances. Before we left, we were shown Jeffrey's dress uniforms, heavy wool and certainly resplendent, if prone to causing apoplexy in some of the wearers.

Friday, October 28, still at some remove -

West on the A14, then, to Bury St. Edmunds and a look at the remains of the great abbey that once stood here on the reputed site of the martyrdom of Edmund of East Anglia at the hands of the Danes; what is left is the ruins, as the Dissolution stripped the place of everything, including the stones that faced the rubble wall and column interiors, leaving bits of the latter behind. The whole is set in a pleasant park, which is really all there is to see in the place apart from a nearby late-Tudor church, which became a cathedral in 1914.

Leaving Bury we turned east on the A14 and sped back toward the coast, round Ipswich and over to the A12 up to Woodbridge and across the river Deben to Sutton Hoo, site of the great ship-burial discovered, unplundered, in 1939, and plausibly the tomb of the great Rædwald, King of East Anglia (d. abt. 625), and much else in the seventh and eighth centuries. We had seen a great deal of the fabulous treasure in the British Museum, and most of the remainder is here. The place was likely a royal cemetery for some time - there are numerous other burial-mounds - and thereafter was an execution-ground for a time until the power of the local rulers was subsumed by the Danes and later authorities. The museum is a gem in the crown of the National Trust, who have kept the site in splendid order.

From Sutton it was a quick hop up the A12 again, this time going north, then onto the A1094 over to the coast, and Aldeburgh, our stop for the night and official point on the M.R. James tour, such as it was. The town has come a long way since James used it as the setting for "A Warning to the Curious," though most of the landmarks are still there; Benjamin Britten lived and was buried here and with Peter Pears started the Aldeburgh Festival. The place today has a decidedly posh air, full of nice restaurants, art galleries, better hotels, the works. We stayed at Eaton House, on the third floor of a convent of what looked like the Georgian age, converted into a hotel in the Victorian times and refurbished; it was comfortable and serviceable if not quite the Wolsey Lodge listing, and we had a quiet night of it after an enormous supper at the Light House and a stroll round the darkened High Street.

Saturday, October 29, still a day's writing away -

After breakfast we strolled the Aldeburgh seafront, going down to the shingle beach past the old Tudor moot-hall (once in the town's center, now nearly at the shoreline) to watch the gray North Sea waves lap, without much conviction, at the edge, under a cloudy sky. Sharon collected a handful of pebbles, which I suppose must be labeled "Aldeburgh" and set in a special place so as not to get them confused with the virtually identical rocks at home. We then went down to the southern extremity of the town to look at the Martello Tower (a remnant of the anti-Boney works that dot the coast), and then got on the road towards the north, and Norwich, which we reached early in the afternoon, and went into, with some misgivings, it being Saturday, and a day with a football match at that; the traffic was heavy, but we found a place to park and wandered into the city center looking for if not the cathedral itself then the church of St. Julian of Norwich, the fourteenth-century anchorite nun who transcribed the interpretation of her visions into the first book written in English by a woman, the "Revelations of Divine Love". The site of her cell is now a small chapel attached to a minute Tudor church with a round tower.

We left Norwich via the A47 and soon fetched up via some narrow Norfolk paths to the edge of Honingham and The Buttery, a converted dairy back of a larger farm, the only self-contained lodgings on our trip, and a delight, with its full kitchen, Jacuzzi bath and loft bed up a set of ladder-cum-stairs, the whole set in pleasant green countryside, a Christmas tree farm to be seen out the north windows, with sheep and cattle to be had at no great distance.

We were to have had a pub supper but, alas, made the fatal mistake of taking our hostess' suggestion to walk there - in the dark - which left us wandering about lost in the fields and roadways for some time until at last we drove down into some village and got some chicken-pie-with-chips takeaway and ate at our pleasant little table. Perhaps some sightseeing tomorrow, but with time on our hands we'll probably just sleep in and do Sweet Fanny Adams on Sunday.

Sunday, October 30 - still a day away, dammit -

As might be expected, we slept late, had a scratch breakfast, and spent the morning doing absolutely nothing; the day was lovely, clear and mild, and we could not have cared less, preferring to gambol in our wanton ease or something like that. It was only some time in the middle of the afternoon that we abandoned our swinish lethargy to emerge and stroll about. I met Deborah's husband Tony, the both of them working on their vegetables (such rich soil here in middle Norfolk, almost as fertile as that in the drained fenland all round), and went to take a few photos outside, Sharon have done her bit for the interior. A bit later we both went out walking and encountered Tony and his father Richard: they pointed out where some young idiot had missed his turn going too fast the previous night and had spun round and into a ditch from which he had to be hauled out - unhurt, the young hound, he picked a soft spot to land in - probably not long after we had wandered down the same lane. Tony had been out checking his mole traps, with some success, and as we walked down to the Hall we were surprised by Richard and his wife Teresa's invitation to tea, which we accepted (I with some trepidation, not wanting to impose) and what a wonderful hour we spent in the refined elegance of Berry Hall, a warm and lived-in Georgian country house of the more restrained style, filled with wonderful portraits of family - Mr. Meynell counts among his antecedents Lord Halifax and the second and third Earl Greys, and has a Willem van de Velde II ship-scene above an upstairs mantel, among other gems. The real pleasure came with the taking of tea and easy conversation with two warm and welcoming hosts; for once my knowledge of British history (and naval parlance) came in handy, and my ability to identify a mufti-clad Lord Roberts in a photograph was something of a wonder.

It was hard to leave this quintessentially civilized English scene, but leave we must and go into Honingham for a supper at the pub we has missed earlier. Our thanks to Tony who reminded us that the time had changed and our clocks needed setting back an hour! We arrived at the (name forgotten here) in plenty of time and had a delicious repast - another upscale sort of place with astonishing variety of menu - and came back more than full, nodding out quite early under the effects of all that feeding, and intending to finally cook breakfast next morning.

Monday, October 31, more or less on time -

We slept late (again), but not so late as to miss the chance to cook. It was a rainy day for once, or at least drizzly, which was fine with me, and after a spell of lazing about we set to the task of grilling bacon and sausage and scrambling some eggs; Sharon managed the former while I whipped up the latter, which I flatter myself was up to my usual high standards despite the strange surroundings and unusual eggs, brown with stamping on them - how did they manage that? - and by the time we ate everything it was time to bathe and stuff things back into suitcases and such and be ready to emerge, as our drive into Lincolnshire was to be longer than previous excursions.

This proved to be an understatement, to say the least. Rain was no help to driving, nor was unfortunate fact that the chosen route (A17-A16-A158-A157, Honingham, Norfolk to East Barkham, Lincolnshire) was under construction at various points and assorted detours, badly signed, added at least an hour to our travel time. And the Freelander chose this moment to repeat its little trick of the engine suddenly cutting out while the car was in motion, and this with more and more frequency until it was determined that we should make our way, however thwarted, to our next stop, Bodkin Lodge, and call Hertz to get some relief. O faint hopes! The car finally downed tools in Horncastle, fifteen miles from our goal. We managed, as darkness fell, to pull up onto the pavement opposite the elegant Admiral Rodney Hotel (three stars from the Hospitality Council), where we were treated most kindly indeed (thank you, Haley at the front desk) and were able to call Hertz for help.

We had sandwiches while waiting for the nice young fellow from the RAC, who after following us about on an aborted attempt to drive the last leg of the journey, arranged for a recovery truck; the latter arrived at the appointed moment, we were ushered into the back seat while the genial young driver (yes, they are all young) maneuvered the Devil Vehicle onto the flatbed, fed our destination into his GPS computer, and sped away into the night. To my astonishment we were, in an oversized vehicle by British standards, able to navigate a series of narrow country roads in the usual rural pitch darkness and without incident pull up into the drive of Bodkin Lodge, and the warm welcome of our hosts, the Stamps, who led us into their splendid, tastefully decorated contemporary home, gave us brandy, and made us quite at home. All the luggage and everything else was removed from the car and now resides scattered about a delightful bedroom in which we hope to take our rest this (finally!) chilly night, with the hopes of sorting things out with Hertz in the morning and getting a replacement vehicle - and some charges knocked off our bill - and taking same into Lincoln to do some looking about, starting with the Cathedral and then something else, or not much else, we shall see what happens.

The evening of Tuesday, November 1, still at Bodkin Lodge but at least sort of up to date - up for breakfast with fellow-guests Ann and Philip (Something), a call, or rather series of calls to the Hertz office in Lincoln, which led to the appearance around noon of another retrieval lorry which was to pick up the balky Freelander and take us up to Grimsby to exchange for a Volvo of some sort. Bill, our driver, was from Newark out of Fife, a former jockey turned driver and keen to go to Texas to see real cowboys. He had Scots accent you could cut with a knife and had been given no address in Grimsby to go to; we got to that Humberside port in due time, through the gorgeous Lincolnshire Wolds, and after some difficulty and asking for directions on more than one occasion found the Hertz office tucked away in an industrial estate. We signed up for the Volvo, and poor Bill found out he had to take the Freelander back to Market Rasen - 30 miles back the way we came - and so if we ever see him in Texas we owe him a good meal.

We decided to go into Lincoln and see the cathedral, a journey of a little less than an hour; by the time we arrived the light was fading and we found ourselves in a chilly and spacious building whose large array of (mostly modern) stained glass increased the shadowy effect and rendered the place more forbidding than sacred; though the shrine of England's second most venerated saint, Hugh of Lincoln, and boasting a fine set of towers and decorative stonework it was less than the sum of all its parts and seemed strangely lacking in the aura of sanctity usually encountered in English cathedrals. It may have been the low-light situation, of course, but we declined Evening Prayers and went in search of supper in one of the spots in the quite upscale precinct surrounding the cathedral and nearby castle. The place was the Cafe Zoot (oh dear), and the food and wine superb, and relatively cheap compared to our recent pub suppers. The key word is "relatively".

After some wandering about in the dark we located the A158 to Wragby, successfully made the A157 to East Barkwith, and Bodkin Lodge once more. And lo! The load of laundry the kind Betty let us wash and hang out to dry was waiting neatly folded for us. Such nice people, and such a lovely dog, too - we took pictures, of course.

Tomorrow, down to Bourne, still in Lincolnshire, to go to ground at Cawthorpe Hall, and Chantal and Ozric's Famous Rose Water.

Wednesday, November 2, night fallen over Lincolnshire -

we duly arose for breakfast, which was a long one, quite conversational, and it wasn't until nearly noon that we were able to say farewell to our most excellent hosts and be on our down to Bourne and a stay at Cawthorpe Hall, wherever that might turn out to be. We were treated to several sightings of the Red Arrows, the RAF precision flying team in their signature red Hawks, based not far away, zipping along at low altitudes, performing intricate aerobatic manoeuvres - thrilling stuff! With time in such short supply, along with daylight, it was determined that just one sight along the way might be admitted, and that sight was the church of St. Mary in Stow-in-Lindsey, about 15 miles northwest of Lincoln, in a small and quiet village, as so many of them are. The place is significant due to its age and its large amount of Saxon work still to be seen: it was established in 975 as a large church with associations, or imagined associations, with that St. Etheldreda whose shrine we'd seen earlier at Ely.

The church survived a fire set by Vikings not long after its completion, major Norman rebuilding, medieval rearrangements, Reformation and Puritan upheavals, dereliction and Victorian restorations, and it still retains much of its original fabric after nearly a thousand years of use. The peal still functions, the organist still sits behind a curtain in the north transept, observing the choir in the nave with a pair of mirrors, the 14th-century pews are still in use, a bit of a wall painting of the martyrdom of Becket still survives. There is also a piece of Viking graffiti, a crude sketch of a longboat scratched into the stonework of a wall on the north aisle, no doubt by some bored Dane around 1000, and still there, the earliest such depiction known in England.

It was an interesting visit, to say the least.

From there it was on down to the A1, and a speedy passage to the A151 to Bourne then a short drive to Cawthorpe Hall, a fine Regency era house with extensive gardens and a studio added on late in the 19th century by the noted artist Gardner; the current owners, Chantal and Ozric Armstrong, are genial hosts and their home is full of art and general good cheer. There is some great number of rosebushes in an adjacent field and from these is extracted rose oil to make rosewater, the cash crop aside from the B&B income. Our fellow guests, Cristina and Edward and their two little girls, are Swedish and due to be gone about the time we have breakfast in the morning. Meantime we enjoy the wood-burning stove in our spacious room, digesting the ample and delicious supper from the Hare and Hounds in Hacconby, and consider the morrow, which will bring us again to Neighbrook Manor, and familiar or semi-familiar scenes.

Thursday, November 3, a day away from reality -

a day gray and threatening rain (just another day in the UK), and the road from Bourne to Aston Magna, a circuitous route running roughly down the A15 to the A16 towards Stamford, thence the A43 and A47 to Leicester, round and round to the M69 to Coventry, on to the A46 to Warwick and Stratford, and the day not nearly done up enough to report to Neighbrook at the appointed hour, and therefore hey ho and nonny nonny into Shakespeare World to find the shop that had the Abbey Road t-shirt not gotten for Matt the last time.

It was there, it was gotten, along with some other stuff of the souvenir variety, and then with the rising wind in our faces we headed south, onto the A429 and the familiar outlines of Moreton-in-Marsh, where we duly noted the locations of the Post Office and laundrette - doors from each other - and then with deliberate speed we went back of the 429 to the equally familiar turnoff onto the windy little road to Aston Magna, and the even windier and more narrow little road that led to Neighbrook Manor, where we arrived just after 5 PM to find nobody at home. A few minutes nosing about, and then back into the car to go up the now-dark lane, where we met Camilla Playfair on her way back to the house, and so turned around and resumed our spot, got our luggage, or some of it, up the well-known stairs to the Pink Room and its lumpy little bed and enormous bathtub. John Playfair soon made his appearance and was kind enough to start a fire in the drawing room and pour us a sherry; the intervening years melted away, and in a short while we were on the road again down through Moreton to Lower Oddington (via side roads) and our table at The Fox for the usual delicious pub meal in pleasant surroundings. Two hours later, stuffed, we returned to our lodgings and just plain crashed.

Friday, November 4, evening - happily, the day was a pleasant one, and more to my requirements, showing signs of the chill that had marked the previous day, with a little less blustery conditions (we found that there had been terrific winds and flooding on the south coast the day before); after breakfast we were back in Moreton cashing traveler's cheques at the Post Office before turning onto the A44 towards Oxford and eventually via the A40/M40 to Slough, where we turned off towards the Thames and Eton/Windsor. We somehow got to Windsor first but soon made our way back to Eton, that quaint college town where one saw the young scholars in their modified gowns - black suits with tailcoats, white ties - and the various old buildings that together constitute Britain's oldest prep school, founded in 1440 and looking like a scaled-down version of Oxford or Cambridge. The population is all male, and the current age range appears to be 13 - 18: this is the 99th percentile in action. Sadly the place closes to visitors early in October so we were unable to see the Provost's Lodge, but the nice lady at the gift shop had the archivist's phone number, and that nice lady just happened to be there that day, and knew not only who M.R. James was (the Porter did not) but where he was interred, and gave us directions. A short walk later found us in the graveyard of a small chapel, and at the edge of this, nestled among lush vegetation, stood the modest tombstone of Montague Rhodes James, O.M., Provost of King's College, Cambridge, Provost of Eton College, 1862 - 1936. A quiet corner, a pilgrimage rewarded. Leaving this, a walk down the high street to the bridge over the Thames and a view of Windsor Castle, where according to the flag some Royal was in residence, though it was difficult to say which one.

The return journey was much longer, as late-afternoon traffic found its way onto the roads, but it must be said coming through the Chiltern Hills and seeing the Cotswolds in the distance as the day grew short more than made up for whatever annoyances the M40 provided.

As planned, we stopped in Moreton to do a load of laundry, then decided to forego the pub supper in favor of something lighter, and cheaper, and had a pizza apiece at a High Street restaurant called Ask. Then it was back to Neighbrook on those dark windy little roads, and an evening of rearranging the contents of the luggage in an effort to see what can be packed and what must be boxed and packed for shipment and taken to the Post Office before lunchtime tomorrow. Good luck to us on that, and asking John for a box and a tape dispenser at breakfast. Ah well, this is what vacations are sometimes about.

Saturday, November 5 (this done long after the fact, from no doubt faulty recollection) -

after breakfast it became clear that we would not have the time to do any shipping, since we had little to ship in the first place and the Post Office closed at half noon, so we just loafed a trifle before getting on the road - and out of the house - and with no particular notion of what to see beyond the Rollright Stones, a smallish stone circle near the village of that name (John, after hearing earlier that we had planned a visit, asked, “Did you bring your spliff?” - this is a hippie site, among other things) and so we did, walking some distance around damp pasturage in a chill wind and admiring this pre-Stonehenge site. From there it was back to familiar ground, and after buying an antique pill-bottle for the Murrays in one of the antique shops in Moreton, we did a little Cotswold-cruising, or as well as we could with the road construction on the A44, the presence of the first fox hunt of the season, or whatever sort of hunt was being done, and went down through Chipping Norton to that devilish tourist trap, Bourton-on-the-Water, with the express purpose of finding a place to get a lot of small and cheap souvenirs. In this we weren't disappointed, finding the right sort of shop (we took a pass on the obscene teddy bears) and the right sort of cheesy items for my coworkers, mostly pencil sharpeners shaped like phone booths and pillar-boxes.

From there it was a thankful escape to Lower Slaughter of fond memory, and the Old Mill, where sure enough the shop was still in operation - the same extravagant fellow wearing an ascot was in charge - and so more little animals were gotten, hedgehogs and badgers and sheep and such, and night was falling, so we decided to forego the obligatory pub supper, opting instead for cold sandwiches from the Budgins (once Tesco) supermarket in Moreton, eaten somewhat guiltily in the Pink Room, and more packing, and bed, with departure slated for the morrow. In the darkness, fireworks as Guy Fawkes night was celebrated, and on the 400th anniversary at that.

Sunday, November 6 (still further after the fact) - after an earlier arising (6:30 !!) and hurried breakfast, final packing and luggage stowing, we bid farewell to our hosts and the loveliness around us, and in a desultory rain sped roughly south to the M40 and its intersection with the dread M25 - which we somehow missed and had to backtrack to - thence to the M23 and the North Terminal of Gatwick, there to return the car, pile the bags on carts, and find the correct airline counter, get through security, who were briefly foxed by all the little boxes of suspicious-looking metal objects in my carryon, and eventually board our homeward-bound plane, which in good time we did, settling in for the lovely nine hour flight to DFW, one taken without bother once again, and with a good view of the southern tip of Greenland on the way.

For once there was no difficulty getting through customs, the Department of Agriculture had no interest in our shoes, and despite an uncommon long ride to the correct terminal we made our connection - just as the last call was being made! Lots of cheerful looks from the full aircraft as we scrambled for our seats, yes indeed. Not to be outdone by my cheerful look as the temperature at San Antonio was announced - 81º F at 9PM - and I contemplated my nice wool suit, and tie, and useless raincoat; but there was nothing for it but to trudge off the plane at last, claim the luggage (nothing left behind this time!), locate a taxi of suitable dimensions, i.e. a van, and go home, which is where, at 10 PM CST we and bags found ourselves. The house was still there, undamaged, a large box of mail that had been delivered to the door the previous day was miraculously unplundered, and the pile of papers outside had aroused no suspicions. And so we unpacked to an extent and somewhere near midnight, or rather 6AM our internal time we went finally to bed.

Poor Sharon! She had to be at work next day, while I could sleep a little later, and so she did, and I did, and the Vacation came officially to an end, though at this writing (November 21) the British Detritus wants sorting, but give us time, give us time. So much to remember, so much to go back to, so many photographs and so much video - at the moment Galveston doesn't seem so far away at all.

 

January 15, 2006

Copyright 2006 by Mark W. Fowler. All rights reserved.

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