London: Tourists, Various and Sundry

Monday was our final day. This trip, so planned for and thought about and dreamed about was nearly over. I asked Dave to take my photo (and I took his) so we could have a photo where we looked slightly awake and perky, not in the middle of dragging about and sightseeing. Here we are outside our hotel.

We look so fresh and alive!

After the Tate Museum, we boarded a double-decker bus and saw the sights from above ground. We jumped off at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament to play tourist.

I believe that when we brought our children in 1999/2000 (yes, it was the Millenium) Big Ben was all wrapped up getting spruced up. Nice to see his face.

It only took three tourist-tries, but I finally got someone who could take a photograph of us.

House of Parliament

Note the Churchill statue to the right.


We liked the gilt flags on the building across the street–which must be the backside of Westminster Abbey.

Britain’s Home Office, or their version of the State Department.


We hit Harrod’s–this is the ceiling in one of their rooms. We finally bought something at Harrods: chocolates to save for August 11th, our anniversary.

I had wanted to buy some earrings, or some other souvenir of London but the conversion rate of 2 dollars to 1 pound made it next to impossible. It wasn’t so much about the money–I had savings and could have purchased things. But it became about the value of the item. I saw a silver charm for my charm bracelet. I could have purchased it for 39 pounds, but I didn’t think it was worth 80 bucks, so I passed. In conversations I began saying to people: “Come to America–we’re having a sale. Everything half off!”

Cool ornamentaion on the tops of these more modern buildings–crowns.


Back home to our hotel for dinner. I liked the multi-culturalism of these eating places. We chose the one to the left (out of camera range) and had pizza.

So that’s it. Just like the gates of the British Museum, our time here was closing.

Dave had good conferences, we saw a lot (and missed a lot–next time).

But, we’re ready. And like Dorothy knew, as she chanted it to the crowded square in Oz: “There’s no place like home.”

London’s Museums

We began the day with a ride on the tube, entering from the tube station near our hotel.

He wasn’t at our tube station, but somewhere in our day of traveling London’s mass transit.

We started at the Tate.

We headed for the Singer-Sargeants and enjoyed seeing Lily, Lily, Carnation, Rose once again, navigating groups of school children.

All of a sudden Dave says, “There’s someone running through there.”
I looked, didn’t see anyone. “Someone running?”
“Yes, right through here.”
Still didn’t see anyone, so we went to an exhibit by Alan Michael who’s realism really captured Dave’s interest. If we were independently wealthy, I would have bought him a painting for his birthday right then.
Then I saw the person running. They began at the far end of the Great Hall, dressed in running clothes and ran for everything they were worth to the other end of the hall where they turned a corner and disappeared.

It turns out we were “participating” or seeing Martin Creed’s Work No. 850. The guard at the hallway entrance and chatted about the runners. There were six runners, who seemed to come out of nowhere, and disappeared after their run.

The artist’s statement on the wall provided reasons for its genesis:
In Palermo we went to see the catacombs of the Capuchin monks. We were very late and only had five minutes to see it all before closing time. To do it we had to run. I remember running at top speed with my friends through the catacombs looking desperately left and right at all of the dead people hanging on the walls in their best clothes, trying our best to see it all… it was a good way to see it. It was that kind of delirious running which makes you laugh uncontrollably when you’re doing it. I think it’s good to see museums at high speed. It leaves time for other things.

Living in Riverside, I don’t get out to mainstream museums very much. But it’s this exhilaration at seeing something that stimulates, that tweaks your ideas of things that provides wonderful reason to brave the traffic, time constraints, weather, and my own inertia to take in different views of the world.

Outside the Tate.
We took a bus around town (see next post for our tourist tramping around) and headed to Liberty, another museum as my sister Christine refers to it. Good description.

This photo is for my mother.
We had tea in Liberty’s once, she and I, after shopping.

The store has an interior courtyard with carved woods, fine plaster motifs, elegant clothing and furnishings. I bought a half-meter of one of Kaffe Fasset’s prints.

I grew up on aphorisms, so am attracted to them when I see them. This is on the catwalk between Liberty’s and another building.


Liberty’s side view

We took the tube then to the British Museum and Dave again found his bliss among the ancient stones and ruins.

A younger thing between two older things.

I liked the super-imposed writing atop the bas relief hand.

The museum courtyard has an undulating glass ceiling, with the reading room in the middle. This view reminded me of a pueblo-styled building.

I sipped a coke while waiting for Dave. A storm front had moved in and the thunder rattled the panes with rain washing over it in a muffled drumming sound. We were late in the day, and the galleries started closing.

Dave’s take on the ceiling.

After, we stepped outside and called Chad from a phone booth. He’d called us from London the last time he was here and we wanted to return the favor.

Arriving in London

Sunday morning we left Yorkshire, turned in the car at York and after one canceled train and another train delay, close to noon we finally boarded a train to London. We visited Harry Potter’s train platform, bought an Oyster Pass (Chad had lent us one already from his last trip) and headed down into the tube to ride to our hotel.

We headed to St. Paul’s cathedral; this is a cool bridge near Old Bailey.

Old Bailey–London’s jail/courthouse


We were hoping to catch evensong. We missed it, so after looking quietly at the cathedral from out seats (it was Sunday–no sightseeing) we headed out in the rain. Tired tourists, we were hunting for something to eat that didn’t require us to trade in one of our children as ransom.

We ended up at an Indian restaurant. The sole waiter was listening to Wimbledon on the radio, a nice clash with the wailing Indian tunes in the background. It was a rather skimpy meal for the price. We both balked at one piece of nan bread costing 2 pounds. When we commented that in the States we’d get at least two pieces for that price, he said, “Well, you are in London.”

Traveling Around in Yorkshire

We start the day with rain and drizzle and a fast trip to Wensleydale Creamery in Hawes. Yes, we try five varieties of Wensleydale (some plain, some “mature,” some with cranberries, etc.) and decide not to buy anything but a tea towel. The clerk gives me Wallace and Grommit stickers to give out to my family–we’re fans.

Hawes is a small town that is bisected by a stream, complete with stoney bridge. Very picturesque.

And did I mention it was raining?


The B&B host had mapped out a ride on the white roads of death, up over a rock formation called Buttertubs, through the Yorkshire Dales park, but when we couldn’t see out of our windshield, we decided on a more forthright course of action: drive the other direction on red-roads. We headed through Swinithwaite, West Witton and Wensley to Leyburn. I don’t know what we were expecting, but it was still raining and the town (that we were willing to explore with umbrellas) ringed the paved-over town greens. Lunch was from a grocery store, where I’m sure the clerk was snickering to her pal about those strange Americans. I tried to be polite, asking for “chips” to go with our sandwich and she said “they’re in the freezer.”

She meant fish and chips. I meant potato chips, what they call “crisps.” Snicker, snicker.

Back in the car at the car park we ate our sandwiches while watching the rain. We retraced our route to take another daring step: home for naps.

Later on the sky had cleared enough that we decided to venture out for a drive and head to dinner.

We arrived at Swinithwaite just in time to see the cows moved into another pasture.


This pastoral view was replicated in many turns of the road.

We headed south, detouring into a small town, West Burton, where I finally saw a proper village green. I’d heard about village greens in storybooks, but had never seen one. Basically it’s a Central Park for small towns–a large open grassy area where people meet and greet and play.

The Methodist Church on the village green–we were suprised at how many Methodist churches we saw.

Near Thoralby, a tiny town in the Dales.

Near Newbiggin, another tiny town in the Yorkshire Dales.

We stopped here for dinner–taking the brilliant suggestion of our B&B host.

The Street Head Inn. I think the lamb I had for dinner was frolicking in the pastures behind them last week–it was like no other lamb I’ve ever had.


View into the dining room, from the entryway. We were the first diners–we like an early dinner.

Roasted vegetables in a vol-a-vent was my appetizer. I could have stopped right there.

Dave had the butternut squash soup.

His dinner was three different types of sausage, I think–yes–they were the local award winners, or so it said on the chalkboard where the day’s menu was written. This time we didn’t look like idiots when they said head to the bar to order. We knew the drill.

I had stuffed lamb rolls, presented like this. The sides (in upper R corner) were green salad and vegetables. The lamb, like I said, was amazing.

We drove past Aysgarth Falls, Caperby, heading for Castle Bolton. I also wanted to get a video clip of lambs and friends bleating in the fields. It was so quiet there, that this was a common sound. Dave waited patiently for the sun to hit the castle.

Heather Cottage, Aysgarth, Wensleydale

We drove along a red road now–the A684–heading for Hawes. Where are we staying? asks Dave? I consult my travel book and look up. There! I say. Heather Cottage in Aysgarth. And so we arrive at our B&B.

Heather Cottage from the other side, at the bend in the road.

Our gracious and kind hosts for the weekend, Peter & Angela Jauneika.

She raised chickens (for our English country breakfast–which included eggs) with a proper hen-house out back. And no, we didn’t hear the roosters at all. This was a terrific place to stay. (More on the Victorian Rock Garden in another post.)

The City of York

The Grand old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men.
He marched them up the hill,
And marched them down again.

And when you’re up, you’re up;
And when you’re down, you’re down.
And when you’re only halfway up,
You’re neither up nor down!

This old song kept running through my head as we went up and down the walls. It refers to the wars over York that apparently took years and years to settle out. I’m a little fuzzy on my history, but when you show up in York, you know they had some.

Maybe it’s because this pub has the year it began–1454–on the front window?

Or this gate was built ages and ages before George Washington ever crossed the Delaware? Oh yes, said one British tourist to a fellow American traveler (they were teen-aged), American history only takes one day to cover in our schools.

You can also tell the age of something (someone) by how much they’re sagging in the midsection. I like how the window has kept right up with the leaning.
The half-timbered buildings were quite common–obviously this one’s been restored.

And when you’re up, you’re up. . . Yes, on our tour arranged by the local tourist office (free!) we went up these stairs to the wall surrounding York. This bar (or gate) is called Bootham Bar.

Our guide had great stories. I did want to see ruined castles, and was happy to note that York had a ruined building right in their main park: St. Mary’s Abbey. They’re big on ghosts around here, with ghost tours of all the gruesome things that have happened over the ages. I guess America’s ghosts, by comparison, would be toddlers.

Some local sights: an ice cream trailer. It’s only here in the day.

These school boys posed for me in their feather boas–I don’t know why they had them, but shortly after this, they all took them off.

After school games on the green in the back of the York Minster.

Morris Dancers.

This group of women dresses all up in official bell-adorned knee socks, green skirts, sashes, kerchiefs, white blouses and black athletic shoes to dance in the little square across from Barnett’s Hardware store, by the sagging building shown above. This happens every Wednesday evening, and according to the flyer, you are invited to join. There used to be a church on this square, and the steps up to the high altar remain. They danced down in what used to be the nave.

The accordion player was nimble on the keyboards, and the violinist, spritely. Unfortunately for them, York is a weird tourist town: bustling by day, ghost town by evening. Later on, we found out why: the buses that carry the tourists to the car parks on the outside of the city stop running at 8 p.m. Yes, that would be OUR bus. Because of this, the audience for these energetic, middle-aged women was limited. We put some money in their hat.

The insignia of the crossed keys were everywhere. The tour guide said later it was a key to the Gates of Heaven and the Gates of Hell. After Evensong that night, I asked the kindly man in York Minster (who was sporting a badge with the same design) if he thought that’s what they represented. He said the design represents the keys given to St. Peter. He had a sly smile on his face and mused aloud: “I can see why one might want the keys to heaven. But the other place? No, I think it means keys–plural–to heaven.”

After dinner, Dave and I meandered to the main touristy street: Shambles. Apparently it used to be a street where the butchers plied their trades. It takes its name from the Saxon word shamel, meaning “slaughterhouse.” Only one butcher remains.

Mostly it’s (and to quote from our Lonely Planet travel guide): “. . . the quaintly cobbled Shambles, complete with overhanging Tudor buildings, hints at what a medieval street might have looked like if it was overrun with people told they have to buy something silly and superfluous and be back on the tour bus in 15 minutes.”

Obviously all the tourists have cleared out. The upper buildings do lean in toward each other.

We’re still trying to perfect that photo-by-arm business.

This is taken the next day. We were walking around after our museum visits and decided to go walk the other side of the wall. Storm clouds were gathering, but Dave paused to snap the photo of the River Ouse, which divides the town, plus this elegant light post.

York Minster from the other side of the city walls (near Lendal Bridge).
See next post for more York Minster.

Elizabeth on Lendal Bridge. Before storm hit.

When the street lights started to flicker on, we knew it was time to go home to our B & B.

I don’t know what this tower was–maybe to a church? The dark one in front is now a bank.

So we head to our bus stop and discover that we had purchased roundtrip tickets on a park-and-ride bus, which stops running at 8 p.m. It was now 8:40. So we decide to take a city bus and head to the other side of the street, where one was supposed to come at 9:08. The chef for the local cafe was hanging out there talking to a friend, and they offered to help us. We showed them where we needed to go. “Oh, that’s a 15 minute walk, easy.”

Because this was the first time I’d gotten an estimate from a Brit about how long a walk something was, I believed him, and set out on our tired tourist feet towards home.

We pass some locals on their way to a frat party, singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

After about a half-an hour, I sat down to rest at a bus stop. When is that bus coming to this stop? Shortly, it turned out. However, it was a city bus, but the kindly female bus driver with a deep gravelly male voice let us on, as lost as we were. Then she took a turn off the main street. The lady Dave was sitting by said “not to worry,” and the man I was sitting by said “It’ll be back on the main road. Don’t you worry.” So after a detour around the edges of Fulham and back, we were dropped off at our bus stop in front of our B&B close to 10 p.m. It was still dusk, however, so it didn’t feel that late.

Of course, if you’d asked our feet, they would have said something different. I learned to double whatever time someone would give for an estimate for distances or walking. And to check the time of the last running bus.

York on the Sly

Some little tidbits and sly adornments and items of interest from York:

Part of the wall around the city, that is to say, the wall around the city is in parts.


The York Castle Museum had a series of exhibits on how people’s lives were lived in York through the ages. I loved the iron’s cord dangling from the light fixture, as well as the girdles hanging up to dry.

I read Kristen’s blog about Andrew and then saw this baby, rowing in the washbasin.

I looked in vain for a Keagangate, a Rileygate, a Megangate, an Alexandergate or an Emileegate, but this is the only grandchild I could find up on a signpost. “Gate” means street in this town.

After our bus stopped running, and we realized it was long walk home and we’d better get going (we eventually caught a bus about a mile away), Dave caught the local girl scouts having a night out at the firehouse.

The York emblems and the York rose, on a bridge railing.

When you get discouraged, remember to. . .

They used to refer to the young apprentices in the printing trade as little devils (or so the guide said). This building used to house a printing shop.

A cast-iron cat crawling up the Barnitt’s Hardware Store building.

This is what I look like at the end of the day of touristing.
(And at least one of my children had a street named after them!)

Saltaire

June 30
Saltaire

Mr. Titus Salt had a windfall for his woolen mill when he cornered the London market on alpaca and wool and put it into production. Secure now in his business, he turned his attention to finding a place for a new factory that would have adequate water, a breeze to carry off pollution and other sundry requirements. He chose a place about 5 miles outside of Bradford, building his factory near the river Aire. He came to Bradford in 1822, and in 1853 his mill opened.


But what made him famous today, as well as getting a World Heritage Site designation, was the fact that he provided housing—good housing—for his workers. He didn’t allow “public houses,” or pubs, but instead encouraged home industry, sports, schooling and of course, a church. The building of the village was completed in 1872.

These houses are small, but according to one man who invited us to see his garden, delightful to live in.

The defunct factory has been converted into shops, a gallery, and and a lunch place. I was enamored of the enamel pots—in vivid shades.


I was intrigued with the gallery, named “1853” in honor of the year Salt opened his factory and featured works by David Hockney, a Bradford-born boy made good. Hockney’s fabrics are the curtains, and his works are displayed throughout Saltaire.


The church is interesting-looking from the outside—a sort of classical column—albeit with different proportions. This church–the Saltaire United Reformed Church–opened in 1859.

Inside: a harmonious blue with brown woodwork and a large organ. The shortest pipe is 3/4 of an inch and the largest is 16 feet.

A medallion lamp hanging from the decorative ceiling. (As always, click to enlarge.)

This was the resting place of the Salt family, with a terrific marble angel. (Sorry about the reflection–it was all glassed in.

Although his eyes are closed, the man on the left with the gripmarks in his coke can and a wild belt, rebuilt the organ in its last incarnation. With him is his helper, and to the far right, the lady who opens up the church in the afternoons for the visitors.

Snack for the Day

I collect potato chip bags that are visually interesting. And Volvic is my favorite water bottle because the opening is large enough that you don’t have to do that sucking business to get the water out. This is good for the classroom, especially if you are teaching Freshman Comp.