Trip to England
October, 2000
Monday, October 9, 2000
Flew to England, leaving Atlanta 1841, arriving Philadelphia, then departing for
London. The flight was relatively uneventful. Isabella and Christopher Peter slept ok,
Isabella at one point popping up like a chicken, her hair all mussed up, then falling back
to sleep.
Tuesday, October 10, 2000
Slept, walked around Mariann's neighborhood in North Clapham, in southeast
London.
Wednesday, October 11, 2000
The first thing about England that struck me as curious was the ubiquitous
admonition to "Mind the Gap" piped overhead at every railroad and underground
(subway) station and printed in yellow on a line drawn about 2 feet from the edge of the
platform. I imagine there must be some gory story behind this command which is simply
a reminder not to get sucked into the path of or hit by a train racing past.
Other distinctly British signs advised one to "Mind the Doors" and "Mind Your
Head." (Well, which is it?)
Took the tube to central London, where we dismounted. Very noisy, much traffic
whizzing past. Saw Buckingham Palace - not very impressive, a drab rectangle of stone
with two guards in blue-gray uniforms (not the traditional brilliant red with black fuzzy
hat) at a strange modified position of attention (with legs shoulder width). Once they
moved and did some sort of goose-stepping thing. Frankly not worth the walk.
Walked through St. James Park, which was cold but at least it wasn't raining (yet).
Isabella and Christopher Peter played in a small playground.
Visited the Royal Mews, where the royal horses and carriages are kept. Saw the
various carriages, all requiring several gray mares to pull. Asked the staff about who
pays for it all (visitors, they say) and whether there is much of an anti-monarchy
movement (no, but they have to inspect bags, etc., to insure there is no demonstration or
sabotage). Seemed extraordinarily wasteful. Each of the several horses required to pull a
carriage must be escorted by 2-3 people positioned strategically behind, in front of, or on
the horse. In addition, separate riders provide security. Some of the carriages weigh over
two tons. Very flashy, much gold on the harnesses and bits, not to mention the carriages
themselves. "If you want pageantry, no one can beat us at putting on a show," one of the
staff boasted. OK.
We then saw Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the statue of Churchill glaring across
the Thames, a less menacing statue of Cromwell in front of Parliament. The rush of
traffic detracted from the majesty of the place, all the layers of history. Then we ate
under the Eye of London, a huge ferris wheel constructed for the Millennium celebration.
It began to drizzle, so we headed back to Marrian's place.
Thursday, October 12, 2000
Rode the Eye of London. Not a ride, but a "flight" technically, sponsored by
British Airways. The wheel is on the edge of the River Thames, and was actually
constructed horizontally over the river, then raised perpendicular to the ground. After a
20-30" wait, you get into a cable-car-like contraption, shaped like an egg with plexiglass
all around. We could see all of London, although Christopher Peter was most fascinated
with the trains coming and going across the bridge leading into Charing Cross station.
Isabella swung like a monkey from the railing lining the pod, at times making it seem she
was swinging with nothing below her but several hundred feet of air. We could see Big
Ben, Parliament, the Royal Air Force Memorial, the barges going up and down river,
even a floating advertisement ("Absolut Citron" - a barge shaped like a vodka bottle).
One of the men in our pod said he was in Britain during the Blitz and pointed out St.
Paul's cathedral for us in the distance (not even scathed although everything around it
was destroyed). The weather cleared for a bit and we had a good view of London.
Between us, we ate three overpriced hotdogs sold by a man who was complaining
quite loudly to anyone who would listen about how bloody unfair it was that he couldn't
collect more unemployment (he said he worked and was on the dole but "everyone does
it"). He said he just didn't really want to work, didn't see the point to it.
Then we took a boat to the Tower of London, sliding down the Thames past
London Bridge (or its replacement since it was sold to a US oil company for 1 million
pounds in 1973 and now rests in Arizona apparently spanning a river there) to the
foreboding Tower Bridge. Walked around the Tower, a medieval fortress begun by
William the Conqueror, then expanded by subsequent kings. Never intended as a prison,
but used as one, especially in the 1500's when Henry VIII made it quite famous. Didn't
have enough time to go inside, but the next day Susan gave me permission to return.
Friday, October 13, 2000
The Tower Of London
Returned alone to see the Tower of London while Susan took Christopher Peter
and Isabella with Aunt Mariann to the Transportation Museum. This time, I took a tour,
guided by one of the "Beefeaters" in the bright red Elizabethan costumes. He sang out
his guide in a sing-song voice, taking apparent delight in outlining the gore that was seen
just within and without the Tower walls.
He asked us all to look to the hill overlooking the Tower and imagine what it must
have been like to have been led out the gate for the last time after arriving the night prior
through Traitor's Gate, on the river itself, then going up the hill for the execution. A
crowd, most given the day off for the event, may have numbered in the thousands.
Stands erected for the crowd sometimes collapsed from the weight.
The prisoner would usually say a few words to the crowd, asking forgiveness,
then give a few gold pieces to the executioner in the hope he would do a quick job.
"Severance pay." The crowd - with women, children, whole families having a picnic would be jeering, then would burst into cheers when the executioner held up the head and
declared: "Behold the head of a traitor! So die all traitors! Long live the King!" The
head would then be impaled on a spike and displayed on the London Bridge - then the
only bridge across the River Thames - as a warning to other traitors; the headless body
would be carted down to the tower and dumped in the river or stacked in the "Corpse
Hole" for hasty burial in a shallow grave.
The hill was for commoners; nobility would be executed privately within the
Tower.
He then led us under an ancient portcullis - "be careful because the portcullis
weighs 2 tons, is several hundred years old, and most importantly is supported by a rope
that is also several hundred years old."
He nodded to a woman with red hair, telling her that all women executed at the
Tower had red hair - after the executioner's axe fell, they were all streaked with red.
He showed us the tower where Sir Walter Ralegh was imprisoned for 13 years
"with the most unimaginably cruel conditions because he was imprisoned for 13 years
with his wife."
After asking the children to gather close, he told of a dungeon where people were
tortured with 15 foot thick walls through which no one could hear your cries of agony,
and where the only light would have been from your torturer's candle or your inquisitor's
lantern.
He showed us a scaffold used only 6 times within the grounds, a peaceful green
place surrounded by the buildings now housing the regiment that guards the place. Ann
Boleyn, Catherine Howard and Jane Gray were all executed there. We filed into a small
cathedral under which they discovered thousands of bodies during a recent renovation, all
of which were given a Christian burial and interred in the walls. Memorials to all those
who were killed were also found there.
I then saw the Queen's jewels, not very inspiring for a regiphobe, but I imagine
they would have been impressive for someone who took the idea of monarchy a bit more
seriously than I do. The guards outside the tower in which the jewels were stored had
locked and loaded modern assault rifles with bayonets fixed. One of the guards told me
an IRA bomb had recently been discovered nearby and threats are received all the time.
The Imperial War Museum
I then took the Tube and a bus over to the Imperial War Museum, an impressive
display of aircraft, weapons, and various collections about the First and Second World
Wars.
The V1 bomb was on display, first used in June, 1944, which had an engine that
would cut off after a certain predetermined number of miles had been flown.
A V2, first used in September, 1944, was on display. During the peak month of
December, 1944, 100 rockets were landing a week in London. Unlike the V1, you
couldn't hear the V2 coming and there was no real adequate defense short of bombing the
production and launching facilities. They could deliver nearly a ton of high explosives at
a range of 186 miles.
The Holocaust Display on the third floor was also very impressive:
- During the first Crusades in 1096, a third of the Jews in Europe were killed.
-
-
-
-
In 1290, Jews were expelled from England and not readmitted until the
1600's.
In July, 1938, at the Evian Conference, most Western countries decided to
limit the number of Jewish refugees they would accept, citing overcrowding,
unemployment, and antisemitism. On 3 June, 1939, the United States turned
away 139 Jews seeking refuge aboard the St. Louis.
In October, 1939, Operation T4 was launched in Nazi Germany which
lebensunwert - mainly the mentally ill and retarded - were euthanized.
On 31 July, 1941, Goering gave the order to draw up the final plans for the
"final solution to the Jewish question"; although no known written order was
ever given by Hitler, it was no doubt given verbally.
In December, 1941, the Nazis built the first dedicated Death Camp
(Vernichtungslager) at Chelmno.
Although initial reports of 4 million dead at Auschwitz were discounted
(correctly) as Soviet exaggeration, and the camp commandant's boast of
having killed 2 million was also excessive, the final estimate of 1.1 million
dead of 1.3 million arrivals was horrifying.
To show the irony of war, 7,500 concentration camp prisoners drowned when
British planes sank the Carpaco and the Thielbek on 2 May 1945. This was
the second greatest sea disaster in history.
As if any additional reminder were needed, the cost of war in the 20th Century
was staggering: a counter displayed in the War Museum stopped counting at
100,749,132 on December 31, 1999.
I also entered a reenactment of the Blitz, complete with bomb shelter, surround
sound stereo effects, the smell of coal dust, a bench that lurched forward after a
particularly hard bomb blast. After the last blast, you emerge from the shelter onto a
darkened street with damage, fires glowing in the distance, etc.
60,000 civilians died in Britain as a result of the German air war. Much less than a
single day in Dresden.
Hurried home to join Susan to see a play with Kevin Chang, the Guardsman, a
rather dark period piece translated from its original Hungarian. Ice cream at intermission,
a London theater tradition apparently. Dinner at an Australian restaurant.
Saturday-Sunday, October 14-15, 2000
Visited Bath after a 2.5 hour drive. Driving on the left is frustrating, particularly
through the endless "roundabouts" or traffic circles. Determining who is going where
and who has the right of way is very strange for an American driver.
Bath, where Jane Austen lived for several years, is very pretty. The Baths,
resurrected from their Roman glory by the Victorians, are very interesting, reminiscent of
Pompeii in the sense that you see this extremely advanced society that subsequently
crumbled. The baths bubble up from 4,000 meters below the earth, then were channeled
into an elaborate series of pools by the Romans, whose handiwork could still be seen.
The mosaics, central heating, hollowed heated brick arches, and sculptures all give pause.
Britain was part of the Roman empire for about 400 years, after which it degenerated into
tribal warfare and was invaded by the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.
The streets of Bath had quaint names such as "Quiet," "Queen," and "Cheap."
Isabella insisted on being carried most of the time and Christopher Peter insisted on
riding in the stroller intended for Isabella (stating he had no "energy") so covering any
amount of distance was difficult although we managed.
Mike and Mariann joined us through most of our time at Bath but departed today
on a train for London.
We are staying at a guest house in the countryside overlooking the green hills
outside Bath. It is quite pretty but unfortunately quite gray and dark. The British all
seem very pale, in desperate need of a good blast of tropical sunlight.
Monday, October 16, 2000
Today was a day off for the kids; took Christopher Peter and Isabella to a
playground (Victoria Park) in Bath where they played most of the morning and into the
afternoon after enjoying a large "English style" (artery clogging) breakfast at the bed and
breakfast. Christopher Peter tried Maramite but didn't like it (nor did I); very salty, black,
nasty stuff.
The weather was a bit clearer. Drove to the border with Wales then decided to
turn back to stay with Aunt Mariann when Isabella woke from a nightmare and I realized
I didn't have enough clean underwear.
Isabella knows and can sing the following song:
The moral of
The story is clear
Instead of bourbon
Stick to beer!
Drove through London at night on way back; the theater district, Trafalgar
Square, Parliament, Big Ben, all lit up. Christopher Peter had to stop to go to the
bathroom - no he couldn't wait - so we stopped on Baker Street and Christopher Peter
took a leak at Charing Cross Station. Apparently it cost 20 pence or whatever to use the
bathroom and while Susan was fumbling for the change, Christopher Peter said he
couldn't wait, so he ducked under the barrier and went into the latrine. The stationmaster
came along just as Susan was advising him to do this and wordlessly let them into the
bathroom.
Tuesday, October 17, 2000
Arundel Castle
Drove to Arundel Castle, a place south of London recommended by the cabbie
who drove us from the airport to Mariann's apartment. The drive, like any involving
London traffic with their inexplicably cryptic signs (no street names, no exit numbers,
just these damned "turnabouts" with their signs pointing to this destination or that), was
frustrating and took 2.5 hours but was well worth it.
Once out of the London suburban sprawl, the road became winding with views of
green rolling hills covered with sheep and crisscrossed by hedgerows. The castle was
almost on the coast and one could see the English Channel from the main keep or tower.
Sticker shock when we refilled the gas tank: 40 pounds or about $60. It worked out to
about $6 a gallon.
Since Isabella was asleep, Christopher Peter and I went walking along a raised
path near the river, our first country walk in England. Christopher Peter while pretending
to be a train told me he liked England but thought it was a little boring and wondered why
it rained so much. I also asked him why trucks were called lorries and french fries were
called chips and he shrugged his shoulders and said, "that's just the way the world is"
(something I think I told him).
We passed a woman with a dog who asked, "is he nervous of the dog?" and
immediately put it on a leash. There are these idiomatic differences, (nervous of v.
nervous about) that make British England so different from ours but in subtle ways.
The castle itself towered over the medieval town and seemed to gain in size as
you walked up the winding approach. The main building was only about a century old,
built in Victorian times by the Duke of Norfolk who, although Catholic, had managed to
survive not only modern times but remarkably those of Henry VIII. The church
associated with the castle is Catholic and quite large and fully lit at night (as we saw
later). The descendants of the Duke of Norfolk (including the current Duke) apparently
live in a wing of the castle to this day and move into the entire castle when the tourist
season ends (the last Friday of October until April).
The castle looks - unlike so many other disappointingly medieval castles we've
seen elsewhere - as an American expects a castle should look complete with crenalation,
a draw bridge, portcullises, both rounded and square norman towers, and a main keep
overlooking a central quadrangle. We climbed the main keep through claustrophobically
narrow stone stairs spiralling up to the top, then looked out and could see the Channel in
the distance. The day was one of the few sunny ones we had since we've been in this
godforsaken country, so we could see quite far. Christopher Peter was very impressed.
The keep itself was older than most of the castle, dating back to Norman times; it
was built in the late 11th century. We saw the holes in the wall where the guards passed
their feces and piss. We also descended into a central cellar area where food was stored
no doubt for long sieges. It was damp, cold, and our voices echoed as we descended.
Christopher Peter said he was afraid, and I told him there was nothing to be afraid of, but
then Isabella informed me Christopher Peter was afraid of nothing. (That is that the
entity nothing made him scared.) I made a scary voice that echoed off the walls and told
Christopher Peter that ghosts might be down there.
"Are you telling the truth?" he asked.
"No, not really. But they might have kept dead people down here."
"Is that true or are you just saying that?"
"Well, they very well might have."
We walked through a very impressive array of gothic banquet halls lined with
portraits of the various dukes and duchesses, as well as kings and queens of England. We
also saw full suits of armor, various pikes, sabers, swords, muskets, rifles, and
blunderbusses. The heraldry of the family and of other related families was displayed
and explained. We saw a bed made especially for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert
when they visited the castle and spent 3 days there.
There was a portrait of a Catholic saint, canonized in the 1980's, who was raised
Protestant in the time of Henry VIII, then renounced his religion for Catholicism. He
was locked in the Tower of London and was told that he would never see his son or wife
again if he didn't renounce Catholicism. He refused and died, probably poisoned. I
wanted to say that people took those differences so damnably serious back then (Sir
Thomas More in characteristic rigidity denounced William Tyndale, the man who made
the first English translation of the Bible in 1534 as a heretic, for example) but instead I
just said, It was a brutal time. "Oh, just awful," said the guide, an elderly woman who
along with about a dozen others was available at 20 meter intervals to answer questions
about the exhibits.
The guides were tremendously helpful, much better than static displays at the
bottom. They told us about a man who was kept at the dungeon of the castle, managed to
escape, then grabbed hold of a brass ring in the Catholic church, claiming sanctuary. It
was apparently some papal tradition that the local constable didn't want to honor at first,
so the man was plunged back into the dungeon. However when his error was discovered,
the constable had to do penance himself (crawling around the grounds on his hands and
knees a certain number of times) whereas the prisoner was granted his freedom. "This
illustrates that papal law is higher than man's law," the guide intoned without a hint of
sarcasm. The prisoner was given 24 hours to leave the country by any port; after that he
would be declared an outlaw which meant that anyone could kill him without being guilty
of murder. A savage little island this.
Speaking of savagery, there was also a death warrant signed by Elizabeth I for
one of the Dukes of Norfolk I believe - the wordy document first stated that the man
would be "hanged until half dead" then his bowels be burnt then he should be pulled apart
into four quarters to be disposed of in any way fit. However in her mercy and wisdom,
she changed the sentence to a simple beheading followed by a display of the traitor's head
on a spike.
I bought a few books on the history of England including one of the wives of
Henry VIII - I never could keep them straight - and another on the English civil war.
The interior of the original castle was apparently ransacked and destroyed by Cromwell
during the civil war.
We saw a necklace of pearls worn by Mary, Queen of Scots, who nowhere in this
Catholic enclave was referred to as Bloody Mary despite her brutal reign and her
penchant for burning alive those who had newly converted to the religion created by her
father (or the variant of Christianity known as the Anglican church) for heresy. I imagine
that if your mother was ostracized and divorced by your father, if the marriage was
annulled (in effect making you a bastard), and all of this led to a break with Rome that
you would harbor some violent revenge fantasies that Mary unfortunately was able to
carry out with sadistic relish. Not that her father's actions were any more mature or less
savage (although beheading was a far more merciful way of killing someone than burning
them alive).
It is such an irony that a man who was so intent on having a son to rule England
had two strong daughters rule whereas his son was weak and ineffective with a short
reign.
After the castle, we walked the grounds some, then walked through the medieval
town with winding streets and bookshops, shops selling sweets and coffee, ale houses,
arts and crafts shops, antique shops, etc. I found that "quintessential British" pub I was
looking for for an authentic British meal, but alas it wouldn't open until 7, so we settled
for that traditional English dish - pizza. It was quite good, though and we ended up
ordering 3 with ice cream to top it off.
When we drove out of town it was dark. The few lights in the black hulk of the
castle made you think that's what it must have looked like a century ago, and the brightly
lit cathedral was impressive.
On impulse, we decided to drive to Brighton, which we saw in all its lit up
gaudiness, a sort of cold, damp, wind-torn Atlantic beach of England. We went out on
the Palace Pier - a pier that extended perhaps half a mile into the ocean, which was
whipped up by a cold wind. Christopher Peter pretended he was a plane taking off from
an aircraft carrier.
We saw the elaborate, brightly lit Royal Pavilion, looking like a beached Indian
monstrosity in the middle of this strange British town. Apparently it was built by the
Prince of Wales in the 19th Century; the queen was not amused by his outburst of
archeological mania and moved the official royal summer residence or whatever
elsewhere. It's very difficult for an American to take these silly royalty types seriously.
Thoroughly exhausted, the children slept the hour drive back to London
(mercifully shorter than the leg out).
Wednesday, October 18, 2000
Visited East Dulwich Village, which is where by report I grew up. Mariann said
it was an "up and coming" neighborhood, but it seemed somewhat run down and working
class, about the sort of place a physician in training (my father) could afford. We took
the obligatory photos of all of us arrayed in front of the house where I was supposed to
have lived, then walked to the local park where I reportedly played. God knows how
much of the place, the equipment, the vegetation, even the paths are still the same as they
were over thirty years ago, but I felt obliged to see them anyway. I was hoping for some
sort of twinge of something close to nostalgia, maybe a buried memory just below
consciousness, but … nothing. To make things worse, it was a dark and gloomy day.
The children did have a good time playing in the park however.
Thursday, October 19, 2000
Drove with Mariann and Susan to Oxford, a pretty university town, stopped at a
playground and let the kids play. Then drove on to Wales, watching the countryside
change from flat and somewhat dreary to rolling hills covered with impossibly green
grass, cut by rivulets and sprinkled with white dots (sheep and occasional rams). We
ended up at Llandudno (pronounced "Glan DEHD neh") where we found a relatively
inexpensive bed and breakfast overlooking the Victorian promenade and waterfront.
Apparently the town flourished during the slate mining boom of the late 19th Century and
still retains its charm as a tourist destination. We ate at a restaurant called "Home
Cooking" which was both cheap (especially compared with London) and good. The
server was a young lass with a singsong Welsh accent. We then walked about town at
night and along the promenade saw the stars out. We climbed over the barricade, over
the rocks, and walked along the wet sand to the ice cold ocean (it was low tide). The
sight of the town from the pitch black ocean, lit only by the lights of a distant ship, was
impressive: a crescent of white Victorian lit facades in a semicircle stretching for what
must have been 2-3 miles of water front. In the distance, the massive black rock of the
Welsh mountains lit by spotlights as though for our entertainment.
Friday, October 20, 2000
The next morning, we took a train up Snowdonia, although we could only ascend
to 5/8 of the way to the summit because of high winds. We were allowed to dismount for
10 minutes when the train stopped, enough to convince us to get back into the train. The
wind was whipping right through us, ice cold, and although Isabella had enough warm
clothing, she clearly was uncomfortable, not quite sure what had hit her. Christopher
Peter was also cold and a little scared (we had been warned not to venture too far from
the train because there was a 2,000 foot drop off just up the bend) but his spirits lifted
when he and I pretended to be Welsh repelling a British invasion, climbing about 20 feet
of the slick, barren, windswept mountain.
We returned to the bottom, watching the vegetation turn from grass only to scrub
to small trees, watching the waterfalls appear as the water cascaded off the mountains,
and the ubiquitous clumps of sheep, always grazing, sometimes huddled together for
warmth. Isabella fell asleep against me and I held her for about an hour or so while I
quizzed the locals about their customs, etc. Apparently Welsh is very much alive and
well as a language (they told me it was their first language and that they didn't learn
English until they were 5 years old in school) and you can hear it in the shops and on the
streets. It has a lilting, sing song quality to it and an impossible combination of
consonants and vowel-less words. "Dym" apparently means "no" or "not" and "ll" is
pronounced "gl" or technically "khl." All signs are bilingual including the printed
warnings on the road: "ARAF" then below: "SLOW." Susan seemed to have a facility
with the language (or at least her tongue could wrap itself easiest around our best guess at
how the words should be pronounced), so she would read out the town names and
whatever her guide book had to say about them as we passed through.
We then drove to one of the many castles erected by King Edward the First in the
th
late 13 century as part of his ring of iron, a series of fortifications all within a day's
march of the other. The objective was to impose English military might on the locals,
who were not allowed to live or trade in the towns that were created for French and
English settlers only. King Edward apparently defeated the Welsh leader Lluellyn by
burning the enemy's grain thereby forcing surrender, but an uprising midway through his
castle-building spree made him speed up the construction of the others. They survive as
magnificent examples of medieval castles, complete with multiple towers often in a
figure eight pattern, central courtyards, "murder holes" (to shoot arrows down at invaders
unlucky enough to get past the first portcullis (which would be lowered) and trapped
between the next portcullis (which would also be lowered).
Isabella was quite fascinated with the stairs and rubble of the walls of the
innermost buildings, which she insisted on climbing. It was no climb for acrophobics;
alone later I ascended to the highest point and looked down sheer manmade cliffs that
must have dropped hundreds of feet into the water or the bordering streets of the town
(which was itself surrounded by a medieval wall). Christopher Peter was also a good
climber, able to ascend the spiral stone staircases, gripping the ancient rope along the
inner wall.
We walked around town and Isabella at one point asked for some gum. I gave her
some but urged her not to swallow it. She was more or less obedient, surprisingly,
chewing for about a quarter of an hour before it disappeared (I like to think she spat it out
but know better). An elderly couple passing by, overhearing me, grabbed me by the
elbow and said, "The last time Americans were in our town, when I was growing up, they
were GI's. They would offer us gum and our parents would tell us not to swallow it or it
would kill us. Maybe some things never change."
We stopped for "high tea" in this medieval town and were waited on by a young
woman who told me when I asked her her recommendation of tea, "Oh, I like only
ordinary [OH d'nary] tea but maybe that's because I'm fussy [FOOO see]." So I ordered
regular tea which was quite good.
We then asked a man on the street where a playground could be found. "You
know," he said. "There's one just out of town but it looks just like a church. In fact it
used to be a church but they converted it into a play house for the kids."
Sure enough, there it was a church by all appearances, an ancient, gothic anglican
church by exterior, but with a "Fun House Park Here" sign out front. We parked and
went inside. The pews were stripped out, all vestiges of any type of holiness were gone,
and instead there was this loud, romping, elaborate obstacle course complete with several
ceiling high slides (that began as a straight vertical and swooshed downward for a few
terrifying seconds before ending either in a sea of plastic balls or a barrier of blue pads)
and a toddler area with a "house" that Isabella loved to climb in and out of for half an
hour before we ate some dinner (served on the premises). It was a great idea, but I
wondered if we weren't violating some ancient taboo; the area where the altar had been
was clearly visible by one of the sea of balls. A little six year old girl befriended
Christopher Peter and told me with great authority that one of the slides (the one I had
just gone down) was not polished, so it wasn't nearly as fast or scary as the other - would
I like to go down it with her? I eventually did, egged on by Susan (who was the next
victim) and Mariann, who had already gone down. Instinctively, I braced myself with
my elbows, skinning them a bit. It was quite a plunge. Only Isabella wasn't scared,
although she went down only halfway, sinking into the balls, her head bobbing up,
laughing as though it was the funniest thing she could imagine.
Saturday, October 21, 2000
We drove to Castle Conwy, another King Edward the First castle. I was growing
somewhat weary of castles by this point, having had my fill, but felt obligated to climb
the by now familiar spiraling stone stairs to the highest summits to look down upon the
bay and try to imagine what it must have been like to have been a soldier on guard on this
eminence. Did they feel triumphant or vulnerable perched so high, knowing that it would
be such a plunge if they were overtaken, and such a terrifying, slow, laborious descent
down the claustrophobic stairs and passageways to make their egress if necessary.
Although their lot was no doubt infinitely better than the poor sons of bitches who had to
withstand their withering fire of crossbows, boiling water, and other random missiles.
There was even one set of holes, abreast of the main (and only) entrance through which
three archers could fire simultaneously, tripling the apparent fire power.
I wondered that there was not more resentment toward the conquering English
with their arrogant symbols of brutal subjugation and domination or perhaps it was the
lure of tourist money that made ancient history go down easier. Was there some Welsh
equivalent of the IRA? I asked, but everywhere was told no. Were there some who
wanted to separate from Britain? Sure, but they didn't seem as large or vocal as their
Irish (or more recently Scottish) counterparts. Anecdotal, yes, and limited to the main
tourist areas, but interesting. The interpretations of history given on the castle walls told
of the exploits of the great Welsh leaders in their battle against Edward and his
successors but it was all sort of wrapped up in a fairy tale of the official "investing" of the
Prince of Wales (King Edward's son, who was to be Edward II, was the first "Prince of
Wales" as named by his father (he apparently was born in one of the castles in Wales)),
Prince Charles, in Wales. There was film of this event, complete with music and the
cheers of the crowd and hard as I looked I could find no revisionist sneering or cynicism.
Very strange how history works. Identification with the aggressor? One could only
wonder.
Susan and Mariann ate some excellent meat pies, then we drove to Bournoth
where we stayed overnight at a bed and breakfast / bar that was more the latter than the
former. The propieter, a scruffy bearded man with bad skin, ran into us later as we
walked the streets in our perennial quest for a playground and held up his hands
"porridge!" Apparently he had made a special trip for the kids, who had for some reason
been quite enamored of the idea of eating porridge in Llandudno (Christopher Peter ate
his with relish) and so had requested porridge at our newest stopping point.
Unfortunately, the porridge produced was a major disappointment. That's an
understatement: it was inedible.
We spoke with some local kids at the playground. I asked what their parents did.
"Sit around in pubs mostly."
"For work, I mean."
"Oh, mine paints white lines in the center of the road."
The slate industry that had produced so much wealth was dead and it was hard to
see what remained. The towns we passed couldn't thrive on tourism alone, could they?
Perhaps they could.
Wales seemed underdeveloped economically which was very pleasing to the eye
since it left vast expanses of grassy hills naked to the sweep of the eye but no doubt
lowered the standard of living of those who made their living on the rocky land.
Sunday, October 22, 2000
Drove back to London via Stratford upon Avon, Shakespeare's home town. Very
touristy, very tramped upon, very uninspiring. Also the home of John Harvard, the
founder of Harvard University. We saw only the outsides of each of these residents. The
most impressive thing to me was a large memorial to the poet and playwright with four
characters sculpted including a rather arresting one of Lady Macbeth, washing her hands.
True to Elizabethan custom, "she" had a very masculine face (since she would have been
played by a male or a boy). The monument was erected in 1888 or thereabouts; it was
funny how many of these grandiose monuments were created in that period, the zenith of
the British empire and optimism about its future. They must have been so full of hope
and optimism and arrogance that they no doubt erected monuments to past heroes to
glorify themselves, to mirror their own triumphs. Who could have foreseen the horrors of
World War I, the rise of fascism and communism, World War II, the camps, the
experiments, the tremendous disillusionment with Reason and western ideals of
individual self-determination?
(Later I got into a number of late night discussions with Mike about whether this
was really self-determination or simply the imposition of the values of the elite on a
series of subjugated peoples but I believe regardless of its hypocrisy, brutality, sexism,
racism, etc., that they were on the right track, certainly light years ahead of where many
cultures are today. There is this apology for all things British, even a vilification of the
Dead White Males (as though one's race and gender should discount your contributions to
society) like Billy Shakespeare, but the point is they had this belief in themselves that did
lead to a flourishing of the arts, of political and economic philosophy, of all the tenets of
Western civilization we now take for granted. I think we ignore what they contributed at
our own peril. On the other hand, the British illustrate that you can excel in the arts and
literature and still end up losing your empire in half a century. The current American
empire, which seems one of ideas and ideals rather than gunboats and mercantilism, of
voluntary embracing of the principles of free markets for goods, services, and ideas, is
perhaps no less arrogant but less overt and hopefully less fragile.)
We then drove home, getting caught in horrible Sunday returning from holiday
traffic around London.
Monday, October 23, 2000
Today we visited several places in London, including Little Venice, which we
reached via an hour long boat ride through a canal past the mansions of Saudi princes
who were absent most of the year by report of the boat driver (you could tell they were in
town by the presence of security men patrolling the grounds). It was a pleasant ride
through which Isabella slept. We then walked around a bit until we found our way to
Kensington Park, which had an elaborate playground complete with a guard who checked
that all adults were indeed accompanied by children (you could not be admitted
otherwise), a pirate ship with rigging, cargo holds, and crow's nests, and a shovel that
kids (including Isabella) could operate, digging up sand and dumping it elsewhere. The
entire complex/playground was created in memory of Princess Diana in June, 2000.
There were memorial benches made from wood from a furniture factory in Croatia, a
factory destroyed during the war. Apparently, she had visited there to assist landmine
victims.
At quarter to six they cleared us out, whistling that the park was about to close.
We filed to the street, checked out some of the tourist shops on the main thoroughfare
then took two overcrowded, stuffy, sauna-like subways back to Mariann's apartment.
(Interesting, at times heated discussion with Mike about free markets and
empiricism (my point of view) versus the various forms of conspiracism (racism, sexism,
classism/Marxism, colonialism, etc.). The kids were quite amused and burst into laughter
when Mike and I put napkins on our heads for no apparent reason and continued our
discourse.)
Tuesday, October 24, 2000
Visited Hampton Court, the home of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, and of course
the home of his chief advisor before he fell from favor. A knight in Tudor dress,
complete with sword, escorted us through the Great Hall where Henry VIII dined with his
guests, a cavernous rectangular hall with timber archways and beams high overhead.
Christopher Peter tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to an image of Henry VIII in the
middle of huge stain glass window; it was amazing he was able to pick it out. If there is
one monarch he can recognize, it's Henry VIII. We then saw the hall in which Catherine
Howard's ghost was reportedly seen – it was the spot where she called out for Henry's
mercy after she was arrested for treason. She was dragged away and later beheaded at
the Tower.
We toured the Tudor kitchens, where feasts were prepared for sittings of several
hundred people at a time. One specialty was peacock royal – a peacock that was skinned,
baked, then given back its skin, feathers and all before serving.
The tour guides were all very knowledgeable; they informed me that Henry VIII
could speak 9 languages and held court in Spanish in honor of Catherine of Aragon
(before Henry VIII, the official court language had been French). It wasn't until King
James I (who commissioned the King James bible, the first official English translation)
that the official court language was changed to English.
In the end, the children got to make "cavalier costumes," the hats and frilly
collars/cuffs of the "roundheads" or Parliamentarians.
Christopher Peter liked the train ride probably most of all, about 30" in either
direction.
Wednesday, October 25, 2000
Our last full day in England was spent seeing Westminster Abbey in the morning,
followed by lunch at Covent Gardens, and a bizarre interaction with a street performer.
Westminster Abbey was very impressive, but very stuffed with grandiose statues
and tombs dedicated to public servants who although rich and perhaps famous at the time
of their deaths, have since passed into obscurity. It was annoying and cluttered up the
view of the tombs people came to see, such as Queen Elizabeth I, or the busts of the poets
and writers. Interestingly, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters got only a plaque on the
wall whereas lesser-known men got enormous statues. We also saw the burial place of
Chaucer and a plaque commemorating Dickens (not all are buried here). Graham Green,
I was told by a man who had to consult a book of dead people, was buried in Switzerland.
Somerset Maugham had his ashes spread elsewhere.
It was interesting to see the tomb of Elizabeth I, her half-sister Mary buried with
her, a plaque commemorating those killed by the religious lunacy of the times (politely
referred to as "victims of conscience"). (Mary, a Catholic murdered many of the
adherents to her father's church as heretics, burning them at the stake. The burnings
stopped when Elizabeth took the throne after Mary's death, and a new age of relative
religious tolerance flourished.
Many memorials to dead colonialists, effusively praised by their surviving Brits,
no doubt less loved by the subjects, such as the first Viceroy of India, and several British
generals and admirals who died trying to suppress the American Revolution.
An interesting plaque on a rear wall was to the Halley of Halley's comet, which he
correctly predicted would return at the time it did based on its elliptical path.
There was a plaque in the floor to the monks who died of the Black Death and
another memorial to the unknown soldier, ringed by a rectangle of red flowers. A plaque
to the civilian war dead, none to the civilian war dead killed by the British.
Christopher was most curious about the ornamental headpieces above the knights'
armor at each setting of the Order of the Bath. I saw the spot where Nelson sat and
Wellington too.
A bust to FDR inside; a statue to Lincoln outside. One thing the Brits did have
the moral upper hand in was their ending the slave trade and abolishing slavery
domestically a few years before the United States did.
We ate lunch at Covent Gardens, where Isabella slept against my chest.
Christopher Peter and Susan went shopping around. When they returned, we watched a
street performer who said he had chosen his volunteer from the audience and promptly
plucked me out. I had to do some kind of silly dance, then wrap him in saran wrap (he
called it cling film). Then, covered entirely except for his face, he instructed me to cover
his face, punching a hole for him to breathe within 30 seconds of his doing it. Before I
began, he asked, "By the way, what line of work are you in?"
"I'm a psychiatrist."
He looked chagrined and said, "Well, I'm bloody dead."
He wasn't; I wrapped his head, poked the hole and his trick was to break out in a
minute, which he did. He was very funny. Christopher Peter and Isabella, seated on the
cobblestones were laughing very hard. Christopher Peter asked me after: "why did you
have to wrap him in plastic?"
Good question.
We then headed back to Aunt Mariann's and Uncle Michael's, then packed for our
journey out the next day. Kevin Chang, a friend of Susan's, popped in and the kids were
all over him, asking the next morning where he was.
Thursday, October 26, 2000
With sadness, we left Mariann bright and early for the taxi ride to the airport, then
the flights home. The kids were pretty good overall on the flight. It was good to see the
wide, undeveloped tracts of land, the trees, the big streets, etc. of the United States again.
England was obviously very rich in history but disappointingly expensive and
cold and wet. Everyone there seemed in dire need of a blast of tropical sun, which we got
when we returned – the temperatures climbed into the 70s and it was sunny.
Overall, a good trip, but there's no place like home.
The kids woke up at 2 in the morning, thinking it was 7, but that's another story…