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Art & Culture

various essays on, well, art and culture

Bookbinding & Conservation

lessons learned from this profession

Humor

ok, I'm not the guy from SNL,
but I still have a sense of humor

'Jim Downey' Stories

mostly true stories from my
adolescence

Personal Essays

more "it's all about me"

Politics

I’m at -7.13/-7.33 on The Political Compass.  Where
are you?

Society

observations on the human condition

Travel

Europe 1994

Wales 1998
      London
      Saturday
      Sunday
      Monday
      Tuesday
      Wednesday
      Thursday
      Final Friday

Wales 2003
Wales 2006
CCGA Vignettes

Final Days


We woke to rain, enjoyed a nice breakfast, and loaded into the coach for one last day's travels.  Down to the M4, then over past Cardiff, east to Newport.  Just north of the city we got off and went up to Caerleon, for a brief stop at the Roman ruins there.  With the rain coming down light and cold, only a few of us felt like getting off the bus.  But it was worth it.

There, in the middle of a new-shorn field, grass clippings sticking to our wet shoes, we came to the amphitheatre.  A circular pit, an earthen berm around the lip, with several ramps cutting down to the floor of the amphitheatre.  Still a fair amount of solid stonework, allowing you to see how the thing must have once looked.  This was a major Roman settlement, and the amphitheatre functioned as both military reviewing area and site for entertainment for the troops.  Gladiatorial games, naval battles, various performances all occurred there.  It would have been nice to have had a chance to explore it a bit, see some of the other ruins and museums in the area, but we had a schedule to keep.  So, we got back into the coach, and hit the highway.  To Chepstow, across the Severn, and out of Wales.  Shortly thereafter, we left the rain behind, too.

The south of England is open rolling hills, slow-moving rivers, and a sense of history that runs deep and quiet.   Not all of that history is old, and every so often there is turbulence on the surface from some recent event.  About halfway to London, we stopped for lunch in a quiet little town south of the M4.  Hungerford.  To Americans this name means little or nothing.  But it still sends a chill up the spine of the British.  A couple of years ago a young man with an obsession for Rambo movies killed 16 people there.  And the town hasn't recovered from it.  People avoid going there.  Several national businesses moved offices out of there.  They've had a depression in the local economy, and aren't sure what to do about it.,P. But it is a sweet little town, with a small river and a largish creek feeding it that run through the heart of the town.  Nice little bridges, buildings on the banks, water garden and lots of ducks and geese.  We had lunch in a little teashop there, the 'Tutti Pole' at the foot of one of the bridges on the main street.  Did a little shopping.  Met back at the bus, where Jan reminded us of the history of the place.  Smart guide, to mention it afterward, when we'd had a chance to enjoy the place, to know it on it's own terms.

Then it was back up to the highway, and on to Heathrow outside of London, where we dropped off the two members of our party who were going on to other adventures with Lord Addison.  As Jan made sure that their bags were handled and they found their gates, Alix and I talked with Eddie, who was havin' a smoke outside the coach.  Mostly just chatting, since this would be our last stop of any length together.  Found out about the license-plate system used in Britain, where a car is issued a tag that stays with it pretty much forever, regardless of who owns it.  And how if you wanted to get personalized plates, they'd be something like $15,000.  Yeesh.

From Heathrow to our hotel (the Radisson Kenilworth . . . the same we stayed in when we arrived in London from the States) was a relatively short drive, and uneventful.  Eddie and Jan conducted a bit of a driving tour of the city on our way in, going past a few of the more notable sights.  Arriving at the Kenilworth, we got the bags and everything unloaded, said farewell to Eddie, and went in to see about our rooms.  As Jan was getting the details worked out, Eddie popped in again for a final goodbye, and to wish us well.  Helluva nice guy, and I'm going to send him a copy of these travelogues as a way of saying thanks, to let him know how much he added to the enjoyment of our trip.

We got our things up to the room, and tried to figure out what to do next.  It was early afternoon, and if Alix hurried she could still make it to an Early Music festival being held at the Royal Academy of Music in time to enjoy some of the scheduled activities.  I wasn't so interested in this, and decided that I'd just walk the half dozen blocks down to Trafalgar Square, perhaps go in the National Gallery.  We split up.

I don't like big cities, as a general rule.  Crowds annoy me at best, frighten me at worst, giving me a sense of claustrophobia even though I may be outdoors.  And there were crowds aplenty on this Friday afternoon in the heart of London.  But it was a friendly feeling, busy without being rushed, an aural tapestry of languages, music and traffic sounds.  London is a city I could live in.  Even the sun was shining.

I wandered.  Stopping to look in a music store here, following a pedestrian mall there.  Past theatres, restaurants and sex shops, galleries and used booksellers.  Dodging taxis with the locals giving me my cue when it was safe to dart out into the traffic.  In the shadows of the very Victorian architecture that dominates the area, occasionally blinded by the mirrored windows of more modern atrocities.  Enough cool neon and eurodesign to mesmerize any tourist, me included.  I entered an almost trance state, just let it all wash over me.

I turned a corner and came to the northern boundary of Trafalgar Square.  Decided to spend a few minutes in the National Gallery.  On the thin strip of grass between the sidewalk and the building a man in biking leathers, his backpack and bedroll at his feet, leaned against the waist-high sign for the Gallery, alternating between pulling at a bottle and vomiting behind the sign.  No one seemed to pay him any mind, and he didn't bother anyone who passed.  Diving into the river of people, it was up the stairs and into the building, past the security station, grab a Gallery map and up more stairs.  I made my way to the edge of the moving flow, settled in an eddy behind a column, and decided what I wanted to see.  With this press of flesh, I wouldn't be able to stay here for very long, no matter how wonderful the art treasures.

I decided on making a pass through the late medieval northern Europeans, work my way through time and wind up with Van Gogh.  Through the series of rooms, polished-marble floors and walls so prevalent that they became common, lost in the background along with the security guards.  Small medieval works in oil on oak, so heavily varnished that they almost seemed to be under smoked glass.  Then into the Renaissance, the colors becoming brighter and the canvasses larger, even as the crowds around them increased.  Hugh portraits in massive gilt frames, natural skylights supplemented with spotlights so high up that they just added to the glow, not casting any shadows or leaving any hot-spots on the work.  Finally, into the room with Van Gogh's work, a gaggle of American college kids, half of whom were wearing audio tour headsets and telling the others what they heard, too loudly, making the room not only crowded but noisy.  I decided it was time to flee.  Making only a brief stop in the third-floor gift shop to pick up some cards and gift items, I joined the waterfall heading out of the building.

Landing on the street about where I had gone in, I looked around for the biker.  Gone.  I crossed over to the Square itself, and admired the fountains in the center.  Someone had added not only some sort of detergent, but also some sort of dye to the water, and the bright green foam that covered the pool and cascaded over the lips of the basins was a little surreal.  The oriental students who stood along the railing with me seemed most amused, and took turns taking one another's picture with the fountains in the background.  The locals didn't seem to notice either the fountains or the students, just chatted on their cell phones and smoked their cigarettes, leaning on the railing, looking back at the traffic around the square.

I went over to St. Martin-in-the-Fields, down around to the side and into the cafe they have in the undercroft, where the Brass Rubbing Center is also located.  Looked around, enjoying the designs, decided that it would take too long and cost too much to do any of the larger brasses, and that the smaller ones didn’t appeal.  Up and around behind the cathedral, where there was a flea-market in progress.  A weird mix of street-vendor T-shirts and 'London' trinkets, bootleg CDs, Indian soap-stone carvings, and cut-rate jewelry.  There was a surprising number of Bobbies in the area, but not much of a crowd.  I decided to leave, too. A block or two up and I stopped into a pub for a pint and something light to eat.  Read through some of the publications I picked up at the National, and looked through a paper left in the booth where I was sitting.  Then I slowly wound my way back toward the hotel, pausing in a shop now and again, watching the interactions of the people on the street, reading the headlines on the papers, at least those in languages I could understand.  Got into the hotel and up to the room.  Alix wasn’t back yet, so I went through my luggage and repacked everything for the flight home, making sure that the various gifts and treasures were safe from the tender mercies of the baggage handlers.

Shortly after I finished up with this chore, Alix got back.  Her trip had also been enjoyable, and she had resisted the temptation to pick up an instrument that she wanted.  But she had sheet music, some books, and flyers for some of the artisans.  She re-arranged her luggage and it was time for dinner.

Over a rich and very filling dinner at the Edwardian Carvery in the hotel, we chatted, talked about our respective plans after this trip.  After dinner Jan made arrangements for a light breakfast for Martha, Alix and myself, since we would have to be on the road an hour or so before the kitchens would be serving.  The concierge assured her that they would have juice, fresh croissants, and coffee/tea ready for us at 6.  We went up to crash, even though it was early yet, since our Saturday would be extra long due to crossing time zones.

After a good night's rest, we were up, and got the bags downstairs at 6.  Of course, the promised breakfast wasn't ready, and there was no information about it for the concierge who was there.  After a little confusion, he saw to it that a tray of fresh rolls and jellies, juice and coffee were all brought out into the lobby of the hotel for us.  Jan appeared to make sure everything was going well, and to see us off with the taxi.  She was a gem.  We were lucky to have her for the trip.

The drive to the airport was quick, with very little traffic to get in the way of our driver.  Along the way he told me all about his love of American television, particularly professional 'wrestling,' which he thought was the best thing since Jerry Springer.  And I don't think he was joking.

Then the usual airport stuff, though the folks at British Airways were even more friendly than I thought possible at that hour of the morning.  Got our bags checked, and went in to the duty-free area to wait for our flight to board.  Spent a little time hunting through the duty free shops, trying to find things that we could spend the last of our Sterling on.  Some candy.  And a bottle of the Scotch I had tried at Ruthin Castle and liked so much.  Not so bad.

The flight home was relatively painless, just long.  Changed planes in Dallas, arrived in KC on schedule.  Got our bags, got the car, and headed home.  Had a blowout just south of the airport, and was able to find a Firestone dealer still open, persuaded him to sell us a new tire and mount it, even though it was a half hour after they were supposed to be closed.  Fast-food on the way out of KC, and home to collapse just a couple of hours later.  It was over, except for organizing the slides, and writing these stories, to save the trip and keep it fresh for the rest of our lives.

Thanks for allowing me to share it with you.
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all work © James T. Downey, 1993-2006
photos © Martha K. John, 1994-2006
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