Day 24: Adieu, farewell, sayonara, hooroo

Our last day in the Old Dart.  Sigh.  And what a range of experiences we've had, from the sublime (Westminster Abbey, Dartmoor National Park) to the ridiculous (Satan the campervan, getting bogged in a paddock, endless circuits of London ringroads, inadequate hotel rooms with trouser presses etc) but overall, it's been simply fabulous!  We do love the Old Dart but will not be sorry to say goodbye to the hordes of loud, rude, pushy and obnoxious European tourists who infest London.  (And yes, they are tourists, not residents.  We tripped over their bags often enough to know that.) Nor will we miss the scintillating odour of cigarette smoke that wafted around our faces in every open public place. Everyone in London is a 40 a day a man or woman, it seems. 

We're currently at Heathrow with a mere four hours till our flight departs so we're killing time in a bar and have paid 10 pounds for the privilege of using Heathrow's wifi.  What a bargain!   Geoff is tossing up between ordering a pork pie, a scotch egg or British snacking salami - all available for our dining pleasure.  Oh yum!  Why not all three?

Much as I have (mostly!) enjoyed our trip, I am so looking forward to coming home to my own cubby. I know Susie has a done a splendid job keeping the home fires burning and looking after our pooches.   (Good girl, Susie!  Here's a biscuit!)

Thank you to everyone for reading our blog over the last month.  I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.  Love to all.  A XXXX

PS Geoff has been permitted a short contribution on account of exceptional and consistent good behaviour.  Even though the author takes personal responsibility for her views, I mostly endorse them, although she may have been a little harsh about our inadequate London hotel room.  I personally found the trouser press most useful, and we were actually able to watch the 1980 vintage TV once we spun the bed around 180 degrees.  Why would anyone think that was a problem?  Anyway, with Youngs Bitter in hand, he bids you a fond farewell.  He too is sure that in the weeks and months to come he'll look back wistfully on our English adventure.

Day 23: Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes....

Ah.... snowy London town - how we love it!  We awoke this morning to big chunky snowflakes floating down outside our luxurious hotel room window.  Donning our knife-edge crease pants (thank you, trouser press!) we went out into the elements, intent on visiting the Victoria and Albert museum. 

Leaping nimbly from the No 14 bus, we were greeted by this l-o-n-g queue outside the V and A.  We had forgotten that an exhibition of  40 years of David Bowie's satin lingerie and sparkly pantaloons had recently opened.  Fortunately once we were in the doors, the Bowie freaks went in one direction and we in the other. (I do like Bowie: am just not interested in paying 15 pounds to see his manky old trousers.)

 

We spent some time admiring medieval religious icons, mainly virgins,  and renaissance statuary (pictured), before moving on to iron gates.  There were big gates, small gates, wrought-iron gates, self-locking gates, water gates, pearly gates.  If you're a gateophile, the V & A is your destination.   

 

 

 

Having overdosed on gates, it was time for a refreshing pot of tea and currant bun in the V &A cafeteria.  What an extraordinary space - full Victorian pomp and splendour, 

with sumptuous meals on offer.  Had we wished, at 10.45am, we could have ordered maple-smoked saddle of hare with borage flowers.  Instead, we settled for custart tarts and a cup of Lipton's finest. Delicious!  And we took the opportunity to chat about gates with considerable enthusiasm and new-found knowledge.

  

 

Leaving the V&A,  we trudged through snow and sleet to the bus stop for return to our base at Russell Square, where we had arranged to meet up-and-coming opera diva, Ms Rhia Winchester, (HSC, BA) now a London resident who, among other pursuits, is seeking opportunities to don the horned Brunhilde helmet.    

 

I have no idea who the chubby, red-capped sheila on the left of this pic is, but she has cropped up more than once in this blog, and frankly I wish she would sod off.  And Wilfred Winchester, your daughter looks well, seems very happy and was excellent company.  None of us will eat for a week after our hearty British lunch, which, surprisingly, contained neither cheese nor baked beans.  There were chips though.  

   

 

 I am pleased to report that it is now 3.55pm Saturday, and snow contunues to fall.  Tomorrow will be my last blog post (oh no!) as we are returning home tomorrow night.  

Till tomorrow then, XXXX 

Werewolves of London

Grasshoppers, yesterday was our last day 'on the road' before returning to old London town.  This morning, battling bitter winds and snow flurries, we drove the 45 metres from our Cambridge motorway motel to the handy BP carwash, only to the find it was out of service.  Good-oh, we'd return our Hertz hire car slightly soiled, but relieved it was not slightly damaged.  Or even substantially damaged.  Top work after 1600 miles (these philistines use miles not kms) and several dozen near misses.

Despite our best efforts to avoid the Cambridge CBD, we yet again found ourselves on its Formula One racing track.  But we made it to Hertz Cambridge eventually, and after several deep breaths and a martini, boarded the train for London.

Endsleigh Court, where we spent our first splendid week, would not have us back as we are only here for two nights before flying home. So we took our business to the nearby Tavistock Hotel, thinking its splendid art deco foyer (left) was indicative of the standard of its rooms.  But alas, no. And despite the promise of WiFi (which we assumed meant in each room) it was confined to the foyer and bar, so this post is being typed in the bar, where Geoff and I have already had quite a skinful.     


But back to our room.  Note the position of our telly. 


This boxy 1985-vintage TV  is bolted down (presumably there's a market for them) and will necessitate a neck brace if viewing is undertaken for more than 20 minutes at a stretch.  Of course, this is all academic, as the bastard doesn't work.

But!  There is a god after all. Because we do have a functioning......








trouser press.  Whatever would we do without it?  I particularly like the way it is in the main thoroughfare in our room and you only graze your knee on it once an hour or so. 

And now some news from Mr Geoffy, who has been very slack with his correspondence: 

"London is freezing cold and blowing a southerly buster.  A leisurely stroll didn't seem like a good idea so we did the
 only sensible thing and repaired to a London pub, specifically the Marquis Cornwallis.  It may even be the equal second best pub in the world, but that's a subject for conjecture and vigorous academic debate.  Regardless, it's out of the elements and passably convivial."

Thanks for that, Geoffy.  (He's my man!!)

And finally, look at the warp and weft of these towels:

As my mother, the splendid Nancye Ackroyd (nee Hall) would say: You could shoot peas through them. \

Even the cheapo Travelodge could do better than this!


In high dudgeon,

Great Aunt Adenoid XXXXX

ps Forgot why we called this post 'Werewolves of London' - an otherwise ordinary chap walked by our window dressed as a werewolf.  And we're in London.  ergo...





    

Day 21: the elusive Boudicca

Many thanks to my friends who emailed to let us know about the leadership spill that ultimately wasn't.  No danger of hearing about this stuff here unless Julia Gillard had been deposed, so we appreciated the heads-up and immediately checked the SMH website for the latest.  Must say I was greatly relieved that Rudd would not play Crean's silly game and Crean  is now left eating a big fat shite sandwich.  But it is simply incredible that with the economy going like the clappers, a triple A credit rating, low interest rates and relatively low unemployment, there are government MPs intent on destroying the party.  Wish they would just piss off and take that know-it-all boy union hack, Paul Howes (instrumental in destroying Rudd in the first place) with them.  They could start their own new party and spend their every waking hour plotting against each other, feeding negative stories to the media and organising spills.  After all, it's what they do best.

Taking a chill pill and moving on, the three bunnies that live in the grass adjacent to the motorway (and just outside our window!) were out in their gingham sun-bonnets early this morning so we knew a fine day was in store.  That was good, because we were intent on driving to the outskirts of Norwich and doing a 'park and ride' - getting the bus into the city from an outlying parking lot.  All went well, but it took rather longer than we had estimated - a tad over two hours for us to get to our destination, Norwich Castle, and its Boudicca Gallery.

 

Norwich is quite an attractive city and even its outskirts were very 'refeened' with large mansions and lots of trees on either side of the main road in to the city.  Of course, if we'd come in on the other side of town, we may have encountered a rugged and grimy industrial estate like those oop north.  The pic above is the remnants of the city gates, build in the 1200s.  As in other cities, the city gates seem to be incorporated into the current landscape and the two blokes in fluoro vests were watering the nearby petunias.  We continue to be enchanted by city gates and the fact that every old city has remnants of them - some better preserved than others.     

This pic on the left was taken inside Norwich Castle, built during the Norman period.  Frankly we were a little disappointed in the museum, which is inside the castle.  It was naive of me to think the Boudicca gallery would actually have any artifacts or information of substance relating to Boudicca.  There were a few gold torcs and bibs and bobs from the period (1st century AD) but the Boudicca gallery was mostly fanciful re-creations, and descriptions of her long red hair and 'piercing, defiant eyes' - it seemed to us they were describing that disgraced News Corp hack, Rebekah Brooks, rather than an ancient Briton warrior queen.

 

Our other museum disappointment was two-pronged: first, we hadn't realised that the museum would be so kiddie-focused, so there were hordes and hordes of noisy brats in school uniforms (average age about 7) upsetting our equilibrium. Second, there was a rocking chariot with reins, with a video of galloping horses in front of it, so you could pretend you were racing along in a chariot.  Geoff and I really wanted to have a go on it but all these ankle-biters were hogging it. 

 

We were watching them for a few minutes and Geoff said to me: "How about I push  these little bastards off so we can have a go?"   I giggled, and was about to agree wholeheartedly, when one of the teachers turned to us and said "The chariot is only for children, I'm afraid."   Oh, the embarrassment!    

 

All up, we thought our trip to the Norwich Boudicca gallery was not really worth the four hour drive involved.  If we'd had more time we'd have gone to Flag Fen to see Iron Age digs and replica round houses.  Ah well.  Next trip then!      

.   

This arvo, we were back to the ancestors.  First stop was Ickleton, birthplace of my great great grandmother, Susan Newling born in about 1842.  It's still a small, sleepy village and I'd hazard a guess that the surrounding countryside still looks much as it did then.  This is the local C of E church.

It's enormous, given how small the village is!  I'm pretty sure this is would have been the family's local church.  It's hard to find a monument other than a church to give a connection to an ancient rello, so do forgive my obsession with them!

I took a pic of the Ickleton war memorial because several of the surnames on it appear in Susan Newling's family tree (and yours, cousin Bob.) Carder, Hopwood and Turner.
How fascinating!   














And then it was on to Little Shelford, birthplace of Geoffy's great great great grandfather, Emanuel Thomson.  Emanuel emigrated as an adult, with a reference from the Vicar of Great Shelford.  This is the C of E church in Great Shelford, so we assume Emanuel hung out here.  Great Shelford was quite a large and prosperous town and Little Shelford was still the poor relation - small and quiet.

Littel Shelford and Ickleton were only a few miles apart, so in pre-history Susan's and Emanuel's ancestors may have clubbed each other in battle or exchanged deer antlers in payment for clay pots or bone fish hooks.  Or possibly phone credit.








Tomorrow: back to London for a fond farewell....

Day 20: Cambridge - here a boffin, there an egghead...

As usual this morning, we found the BBC TV weather report completely unfathomable but a quick peak out the window told us it was cold and very wet.  Bracing ourselves, we fired up the Mitsubishi Mirage headed off in the direction of Chesterton and the nearest laundromat.  Of course, it was a mistake to assume Chesterton was a genteel, outer Cambridge suburb - it was actually right in the heart of the CBD and we had yet another teeth-clenching joy ride along narrow streets in peak hour traffic, looking for somewhere to park. Eventually we found a spot, a handy three kilometres from the Clean-O-Rama laundrette, where our smalls were duly laundered and dried.

Then it was off to explore the more civilised part of Cambridge, across the river. Ah, what a feast for the eyes! (she said, and not for the first time).

 This is the Round Church, built in 1130 and described as "the second oldest building in Cambridge".  It had quite a fascinating display inside of the history of Cambridge from the Iron Age to the present.

 

  

     


Then we walked along St Johns Street and Kings Parade, full of beautiful, ornate architecture and many cycling students, and thankfully, car-free.  If not for all the ghastly tourists it would have been perfect, but I can't have everything.

This is the front of Trinity College, and if you're familiar with it you will probably agree it looks more spectacular in the flesh than in this pic.  And look, there's Henry VIII in the dead centre.  He founded (or at least funded) Trinity College.  

 

Then it was off to Kings College Chapel, also funded in part by Henry VIII but actually founded by Henry VI.  It was very ornate and quite beautiful inside.  

 

 

Kings College chapel still carries all the original stained glass windows from the 15th and early 16th centuries - one of the few not destroyed by the warty warmonger Oliver Cromwell(that's what our Lonely Planet guide calls him) during his reign of terror. Apparently, as a former Cambridge student, he was familiar with the stained glass, thought it beautiful,     and decreed it should remain unscathed.                                  I read somewhere today that the original Puritans were actually Presbyterians.  I was raised as a Presbyterian.  It certainly explains why I am so pious, wholesome and God-fearing.  

 

Yes, this pic on the right is shite - I blame the low lighting inside Kings Chapel.  I was trying to capture the beautifully ornate vaulted ceiling.

 

 

 

Pic on the left is the tradesmen's entrance to Kings College Chapel.  It was taken from 'the backs' - the grassy backyard of all the colleges that goes down to the river.

 

One of the treats of Cambridge is a a punt ride down the river, but not my idea of a good time in pouring rain. Still, it didn't stop this couple (near the bridge) with their brolly, galoshes and intrepid gondolier.   

Pic on left: More architecture in Helsinki Cambridge, plus that mysterious sheila in the red cap who pops up periodically in our blog pics.

 

  My reference to Presbyterians earlier reminds me that when we were in Cornwall we drove past a very plain, flinty building with etched signage above its portal: "Primitive Methodist Church. 1870".  I pictured the hell-fire preacher in Cold Comfort Farm - "ye're all doomed, ye worthless bunch of sodomites and fornicators!..." etc etc.  Not sure that people would still be stampeding their way to join the primitive Methodists these days.  I'd consider it myself of course, if only I wasn't a fully-fledged and practising Presbyterian. Dammit.

 

Tomorrow:  Norfolk - to pay homage to Boudicca, the Warrior Queen!

 

    

Day 19: So near and yet so far from Cambridge...

This morning we waved goodbye to our charming bolt hole (and the donkeys) at Uffington, Shropshire and headed first for Wroxeter, a few kms away, to inspect another Roman city before making our away across the midlands to Cambridge.

This pic on the left is probably the most spectacular part of the brief bit of Wroxeter we saw.  I have no idea what it is, alas.  On arrival, we saw that the complex was closed for winter and due to reopen to the teeming multitudes on 1 April.  We decided we'd sneak a look anyway, given it's out in the open, but some old trout suddenly leapt out of the nearby Visitors' Centre, waving her arms about and ordered us to bugger off.  I managed to get this pic as she was attempting to escort us off the premises.

 

I did say to her that we had come a very long way to see Wroxeter and that we had not been informed that it was closed.   She lightened up a bit then and said we could take pictures from the street and view the Roman forum foundations on the other side of the lane if we wished.  Also, if we cared to walk for 10 or 15 minutes up the lane we could see the little church whose builders had pilfered large amounts of Roman rubble for use in its construction.  We passed on that.

 

Not sure what this bit is either but it's adjacent to the whatsit above, a tiny bit of which appears on the left.  It was taken outside in the lane, after we had been frogmarched off the property.

 

This pic on the left is some metres away from the whatsit and the thingummy above.  Who knows what it was - a Fosseys perhaps? I wasn't allowed in to read the signage in the centre right of the pic.  

 

 

I do know what this pic on the right is as this was on the other side of the lane and the signage explaining its function was close by.  It's the remains of a colonnade that formed the front part of a forum and marketplace.

 

So that was it for Wroxeter.  Very disappointing that we were unable to inspect everything at close range.  Still, we saved ourselves the 3.5 pounds entry fee, so moosn't groomble.

 

Then  our long trek across the midlands and down to Cambridge began.  We tried to stick to minor roads but there were a few hair-raising motorway and roundabout negotiations around the Birmingham area.  Must say the midlands is pretty damn horrible - everything seemed grey and sooty and the villages we saw were grim and unappealing.    

 

   Our real ordeal started on the outskirts of Cambridge, which we reached a little before 1pm.  However it was 3 pm before we actually found our digs: the Days Inn motel at Junction 28, Cambridge.  Junction 28 is a just a motorway exit.  It was such a bastard to find and we were really stressed out and cheesed off.  However we did see some very pretty Cambridgeshire villages, some of them two or three times. ;-)

 

Our first priority should really be doing some washing.  Unsurprisingly there is no laundromat at Junction 28, although every variety of Krispy Kreme donut is available - sigh!  But we're too buggered to do anything this arvo apart from veg out, so that is what we shall do!

 

XXXX

Day 18: Croeso Cymru!

Not sure why I am welcoming myself to Wales.  I do have a slightly treasonous theory that there is no actual Welsh language - they just take English words, subtract the vowels and insert double Ls, double Fs double Ds and Ws. eg the Welsh word for 'pardon' is 'pardwn'.  Just joshin' - we love Wales and were sorry to wave goodbye today as we returned to England.  Thank Dog we are now back in our splendid Shropshire pub for the night - it softens the blow to have this view out our tiny window:

That's the River Severn towards the right and in the distance to the left are snowcapped hills.  Truly!  There are also sheep in the brownish field but they seem to be invisible.  There are two delightful donkeys that live in the paddock to the left of the conifers but they had been put to bed when we took this pic at 5pm today (4am Tuesday, EDST).

Continuing our theme of visiting ancient monuments, today we gallivanted to north Wales to see the [insert adjective] Conwy Castle. Warning: history lesson imminent...

Edward 1, king of England from the 1270s, was sick of the Welsh upstarts thumbing their nose at his authority, so clouted them round the head in battle and then quickly built five castles in the north to show them who was running the show.
Conwy was one of these.


Grasshoppers, I know I say this about every place Geoff and I visit, but it was pretty damn special.  We were both gobsmacked by how imposing it still is over 800 years later.

    This pic on the left does not do it justice:  we were about four kilometres away when we first spotted it looming over everything nearby. 










The city walls are also pretty much intact.  Edward 1 (known as Long Shanks) made hordes of English people move to Wales and live inside the city walls.

I always enjoy a pic of an attractive car park and I'm sure you do too, but the point of this photo is actually the city wall, winding round the old city.  You can just see it still, in front of the hill.   

 

 

The pic below is of Geoffy waving from the top of the king's tower.  I only went as far as the level below.  It was a horribly steep, dark, wet, winding, narrow staircase with only a rope to hang on to,  and I have a gammy leg (albeit with a fetching limp) so do forgive my lack of bravado.       

This seagull pic may seem a non sequitur, but honestly north Wales seagulls are enormous - at least twice the size of Australian ones.  We were racking our brains for a size comparison and Geoff came up with "a small Jack Russell".   If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have put a 50 cent piece down beside young Salty here, before snapping this pic.  

En route to the King's Tower (right).  Edward 1 was reputedly 7 feet tall, hence the nick name "Long Shanks".   An elderly Welsh man told us this afternoon that Welsh soldiers in the 1300s averaged 4 feet 8 inches tall (less than 150 cms). Not sure if he was having a lend of us or not.   

 

 

 

I forget what this pic is - a wishing well?  It was a long haul up the stairs anyway!   So that's it for Wales then.  We miss it already.... 

  Tomorrow:  a brisk jog across the Midlands and then south to Cambridge, with some Roman roons on the way!

 

 

Today's badger count: One.  Total to date: 15