Tag: london

London calling

Before I start getting into our European winter holiday, a word about London.

We absolutely hands down, no questions asked, no correspondence entered into, public transport shenanigans aside, love London. Love.

London was my first city on my very first overseas holiday with my family. Together Don and I have been to London six times. Twice we stayed for over a year. We found ourselves jobs, somewhere to live, and settled in like so many Australians before us. We caught buses instead of the underground in order to soak up the streets of London and learn how places connected. We had our local pubs, meeting after work for pints of lager and cider. We even dabbled in amateur theatre – at least to go and watch Tim and Ruth in plays and pantos. We bought winter coats and leant how to survive January when the Christmas sparkle was gone but the cold weather remained. During spring I sat in every patch of daffodils I could find. In autumn we marvelled at the colours.

We connected with people and made wonderful English friends, but we also gathered our Aussie friends close. John and Nicole, travelling the UK to play music, Lucy living and working and building a family.

When people ask us New York or London, there is no question. It will always be London.

London is familiar yet different. The double decker buses, the tube, the black cabs. Don grew up on British radio comedy, my early years were all Mary Poppins, Enid Blyton and anything Roald Dahl. Our Monopoly board was always the London version. We knew The Goodies, Dr Who, Yes Minister and The Young Ones. Too many musicians and bands to name. Live Aid. Harry Potter. Oliver, Paddington Bear.

London has The Globe, and Shakespeare in the park, and crazy arsed local pantomimes. London has the astonishing Kew Gardens, and markets filled with antiques and local designers and food and craft. London has an abundance of charity shops filled with cheap hidden treasures.

London has a gritty charm, and a majesty beyond Buckingham Palace. Tube stations are old school ornate, and everywhere there are arches and towers and old brick walls. There is Westminster Abbey, and the Thames with its multiple bridges.

In London you can get about in thrown together winter colours that imply you don’t care, or bedazzle yourself in boots and sequins to take on Abba Voyage with your girlfriends. You can go high fashion or you can rug up in rarely worn hiking boots and sturdy jackets and walk for miles through the suburbs and parks. There are squirrels and robins and hedgehogs.

Every trip we make to London we walk forever. Every visit we’ll go to the Natural History Museum, the lions in Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery, Windsor and Eton, Tower Bridge, Hyde Park and Leicester Square. We’ll check out Forbidden Planet for comics, Waterstones for books, Marks and Spencer just because it’s Marks and Spencer. We’ll buy a Radio Times from W H Smith, a Christmas teddy bear from Harrods and something random from Boots. We’ll have a full English breakfast more than once. We’ll talk football with our friends, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. This visit has been no different.

Yep, we bloody love London.

Anyway, I write this post from a whole other European city where we’ve been for the past two days. We absolutely hands down love European cities.

London transport

London transport. Sigh.

When we arrived at St Pancras from Brussels, it should have been a simple case of hopping a tube home, with only one change of station. However as we navigated the tunnels of St Pancras, it became apparent that there were some issues with the westbound lines. Not one train was leaving from or arriving into Paddington. Not one. Something about power, or leaves, or snow or something. It didn’t matter the reason, Paddington was crucial to our journey. It just mattered that we couldn’t get home.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We brainstormed our options – hire a car? Book a hotel room? Go back to Brussels? In the end we just tried to head west as best we could until we couldn’t head west any further.

We went from St. Pancras to Farringdon to Paddington to Oxford Circus to Piccadilly Circus to Heathrow. We used five different lines and somehow went through Edgeware Road and Baker Street three times each.

It had taken us only two hours to get from Brussels to London, but three and a half hours to get from the centre of London to the edge of London.

Yesterday we were to head to Richmond to visit our friend Lucy – one tube ride plus one bus ride. Until our tube was delayed, sitting a tantalising one stop away from us, and then cancelled altogether. And then the next one was cancelled. And then the whole line into Paddington was cancelled.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We went home to regroup and to consult with Tim, the oracle of London public transport. He suggested the 702, a coach, doesn’t come very often but should do the job.

‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he said, ‘but it’ll get you into the heart of London.’

And off we went again.

‘There might be a few people on this bus if all of the trains are cancelled,’ I said, about 30 seconds before said bus sailed past us, a sign on the windscreen proclaiming ‘Bus full.’

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We started back home but then had a thought – the 81, Don’s most hated bus. Stops constantly, takes forever, but should get us to a working tube line. And there was one in six minutes. So back we headed to the bus stop.

As we turned the corner, we saw the back end of the 81 as it departed the bus stop. We stood and watched in disbelief as it disappeared.

And then it started raining.

We really were screwed. We abandoned all hope and trudged back home in the rain.

London transport. Sigh.

Party in the backyard

We’re back in England at Tim and Ruth’s place, it’s 11am and there’s a party going on in the backyard.

Right now there are about 20 starlings, a couple of pigeons and two squirrels – in the bird bath, balanced on the feeders, fighting each other on the grass. One squirrel is hanging from the fat block by one leg, back legs stretched apart as far as they’ll go, guzzling fat as though he’s been deprived of food since last autumn.

We invited them all to the party yesterday by wandering around the yard adding seed to the various feeders, filling a container with peanuts, adding the fat block to its holder and then scattering further bits and pieces across the yard.

I’ve been watching them come and go all morning through the kitchen window. I’ve been cooking while watching the party – breakfast omelets, roasted swede soup, shortbread. We’re in no rush to go anywhere today; Don will eventually pop in to London to look at comic books and musical instruments, and I’m going to the Guy Fawkes bonfire night this evening, but otherwise we’re on a down day.

And it’s fabulous.

We’re on day 51 now, and on almost every day we’ve been away there have been things to see and do. We’ve walked for miles, eaten out for most meals, sat on planes, trains and buses, consulted maps, read guide books, taken photos, talked to locals, climbed towers, browsed galleries. It’s a great adventure and we’re loving every single second, but when you’re travelling for this long you really need some time to just sit on a couch and watch tv, read, do nothing.

We’re lucky because we’re staying with friends and can do just that. I honestly think I could sit in Tim and Ruth’s conservatory and watch the birds and squirrels all day. They’re different birds to those in Australia and we certainly don’t have squirrels, so I’m going to count it as sightseeing.

Although I don’t often spend the whole day sightseeing in my pyjamas.

So I did some exercise

As most people know, at home in Australia I go to the gym a lot – perhaps four times a week. I lift weights, do some classes, some PT. I also run at least once a week – more if there’s a run we’re training for. But since leaving Australia I’ve done nothing. Sure, I’ve walked a bit, and I made an attempt at going to one of the hotel gyms. But in truth I’ve spent the better part of five weeks eating, drinking and sitting on my arse people watching.

Which is why when Ruth suggested I join her for Saturday morning fitness class I thought that would be a mighty fine idea.

What Ruth failed to mention was that this was a dance fitness class, where each song is a ‘routine’ – ballroom, Latin, jazz, swing and more.

I met the instructor Vicki when we walked in. She seemed extremely happy, perhaps because she knew she was about to be considerably entertained.

“Good luck,” she said to me, “just have some fun, and perhaps don’t use your arms so much. It’s easier to just concentrate on the steps without getting the arms involved.”

Now people who know me know that I hate being the beginner; I like to be an expert immediately. So despite Vicki’s warning, I would be using both my arms and my legs thank-you, and I would be all over this FitSteps dancing caper by the end of the warm up.

This was partially true; the warm-up was slow and steady and I managed to keep up and on top of arms and legs. Sorted.

And then we began.

“They’ll be doing this one on Strictly tonight,” said Happy Vicki, breaking into some sort of a waltz samba grapevine movement that quite frankly should have been left back in the 80s where it belongs. And all around me women and men also broke into the waltz samba grapevine movement, dancing around and over and on top of me as I step-touched in mild panic. Once I pulled myself together it was all good – except that my legs were half a beat behind and heading the wrong way, my grapevine was more wine than vine and my arms were circling my head more sprinkler than swan.

Next to me Ruth was dancing away gracefully, in time and on step, not a care in the world other than making sure she steered clear of the dangerous Australian.

“And step turn cha-cha-cha, rumba to the rhythm jump. Left foot turn cha-cha-cha keep it up you’re doing great.”

This was a lie. I was not doing great. And I’m not used to not doing great, so I would try harder and damn it I would be a FitSteps expert and amaze everybody with how quickly I picked it up.

“To the left,” Vicki called as she sashayed across the stage, and I sashayed to the right and crashed into a woman in a purple leotard.

“And turn, and turn, and arms and turn,” she called, and I found myself facing the back of the room arms up and everybody else facing the front, arms down.

“Box step!” she yelled at one point.

“Got this already,” I thought, only to find myself running into the woman in purple again. Apparently a rumba box step is completely different to a waltz box step.

The only one where I managed to barely hang on was the jazz number, because there were jazz hands. And if you can master jazz hands it doesn’t matter where your feet go.

“This next one’s a country number, let’s have some fun with it,” she said as the class neared the finish. Yes, let’s, I thought as I gave up all hope and just walked in the general direction that everybody else was heel digging and cow poking.

As we left the hall, I gave Vicki the thumbs up to indicate yes, great fun, thanks.

Ruth was very kind.

“You did ok,” she told me, “considering it was your first time.” Very kind.

Tomorrow I might go for a run. In a straight line along a path, turn around, come back again.

I can always throw in some jazz hands when I’m coming down the street on the home stretch.