Final Day in London

It's our final day in London and we spend it with my in-laws, walking to the Tate Britain Gallery first thing in the morning, which turns out to be quite a nice stroll for my father and his walker.

The rest of the Wallace clan has gone to go to Paris for a few days and are due to come back to the London apartment this afternoon.

Rich and I are delighted to discover more of John Constable's paintings at the Tate, which are scattered throughout the Gallery,

and of course, plenty of works by Turner, who donated his paintings to the Tate. Of, course, all of this is free for anyone to enjoy, which still amazes me.

Except for having to give the staff your passport in order to purchase an audio guide (which we decided not to do), the Tate is a terrific, spacious gallery in which to roam and the walk there is so pleasant, too.

After the Tate, we find a really beautiful-looking pub nearby named the White Swan and order fish & chips.

We really wanted a Sunday roast dinner, but they don't serve that here, and we're all starving and not wanting to walk much further. On the way home there are plenty of people enjoying an afternoon pint, many with dogs on their laps.

When we get back to our apartment, the rest of the Wallace crew are there. Cheyenne models the Paris skirt she brought for the trip, complete an Eiffel Tower painted on its hem.

Ben can't wait to show us the pet worm he got from a street performer-- it's a red felt charmer you operate from a string in your pocket and he keeps making it crawl all over my shoulder.

Evie wore her beret all weekend, and bought a pillow with the word,"Paris" on it.

For our last meal, Rich really wants dim sum. The kids and Lynda already had their joyous fill at Harrods a few days before,

so Rich and I head to Chinatown again, to get some even more authentic and for a fraction of the price at New China. We have no idea what we're ordering and eye the tables all around us, then settle on spinach dumplings with prawns (the actual dough is made with spinach and these were really tasty), as well as a barbeque pork buns, Hunan chicken buns and sweet corn and chicken soup which is so flavorful.

I save room for a custard bun (my second favorite dessert next to scones), and this time, I know to peel the wax paper off the bottom instead of eating it.

When we arrive at the London home, I have my final tea in the courtyard of our town house and think how wonderful this trip has been.

Rich says we're going to come back within five years, sometime in August, when the Fringe Festival is on in Edinburgh. The next time, we hope we can bring Rich's grown sons and who knows, maybe their future spouses. It could turn out to be a Wallace trip for 14 people and that would be just fine.

We'll have gained a lot of nous by then. I'll remind Ben about the worm he bought in Paris and the first time we had pizzas with smoked salmon on them before downing salted caramel ice cream. And that we all cried for joy when that street painter finished his imaginary planets, creating them for all to see on the cobblestone streets.

I'll remind Rich of Saint Paul's Cathedral, and how, with the help of a guide named Chris, we learned of its beauty-- those heavenly frescos glistening in the sun during Evensong on an afternoon when it was utterly unexpected, and where Rich's kindred spirit, Sir Albert Sullivan is buried.

I feel a little guilty not expecting that a trip could be this wondrous when there's a whole building carrying a sign that says, Take Courage,

one that's been left unblemished and giving hope since World War 2. Or a towering window next to Westminster Abbey's Choir School For Boys with the last name of MILNE on the door. Staring at us through the window, are some of my favorite childhood friends,

Pooh and Piglet. How could a trip not be wonderful with the two of them around?

Royal Day in London

First thing in the morning we head out in the glorious sunshine to begin our Royal Day-- Rich in his new regal gold jacket and me in my red silk flapper dress. The first stop is the Royal Mews, where the Queen's stables are kept. We're a bit early so we shop at the Palace gift store, where I purchase royal mugs for my mum and sister(the official ones with the gold initials of Catherine & William painted on them that cost 4 times as much as the other mugs). I also grab a tea towel for me with the Buckingham Palace unicorn and lion logo, along with some quilted bags in the official Victoria & Albert floral pattern since they're now my favorite royals. (Did you know all royals have their own patterns? I didn't.)

At the Royal Mews, after getting our bags searched, which is protocol at all royal venues, we opt for the guided tour. We pass two lonely-looking horses-- the only horses of the Queen's we'll see for the rest of the excursion. An eager tourist puts out his hand to touch one of the steeds and gets royally scolded and practically admonished by a curt-lipped employee in a long navy skirt and blazer. We all bristle at the verbal lashing from the woman, who turns out to be our tour guide.

Now, if you like seeing gilded carriages in their garages without the glory of witnessing them in a parade led by Windsor Greys and filled with smiling Royalty, then you'll like the Royal Mews.

But even though I'm an avid horse lover, seeing a bunch of carriages cordoned off in their stalls without animals or people, made them appear like empty hulks, however shiny, and it was disappointing. What brightened our tour, though, was the rare chance that we'd picked the one day of the year when a carriage club rides through Hyde Park.

With the permission of the Queen, the club uses the square in the Mews to prepare, so we did see plenty of beautiful horses (and Windsor greys!) along with lots of wide-brimmed hats and morning suits as the club of wealthy Brits sipped on champagne before setting off on their journey.

We time our tour to finish just before the Changing of the Guard and head outside to the Palace Gates. The throngs of people are more than I'd imagined for the daily guard-changing. "Must be at least 5,000 out here," Rich says to me, holding my hand tighter. We work our way across the street in a mad dash before clambering behind the barricade in front of Victoria's Monument, which is the best vantage-point to catch the band. From what I've read,it's also the most enjoyable part of the ceremony anyhow. And I can't imagine hiking onto Rich's shoulders to peek through the Palace gates in order to catch a glimpse of the guard change. While we wait for the band a friendly Canadian-- a man from Ottawa here with his daughter, takes our picture.

I hear the sound of the musicians approaching and am happy when it crescendos as it gets nearer, drowning out the frantic chatter from the lady beside me, who is trying to block my shot with her camera.

Once the crowd clears, we walk to the Queen's Gallery. I thought I'd love the Mews and just feel sort of tepid about the Gallery, but it turns out to be quite the opposite.

"Make sure you visit the loos," the young lady checking my purse tells us. "They're the nicest in all of London." And I think she must be right. After dabbing some lovely lotion onto my hands in the marble and mahogany-paneled loo, Rich and I head up to the Gallery to view, "Treasures From The Royal Collection," a menagerie of art forms acquired by British kings and queens over the last 500 years.

The domed ceilings and massively-tall hunter green walls of the Royal salons are enough to intrigue me, and make a stunning backdrop for the Sevre porcelain, the Rembrandts and Flemish oil paintings. Some six-foot tall themselves, the pieces are all priceless and owned by the British Monarchy-- the dowry, I suppose of the newest Princess, Catherine.

It's the most manageable and enjoyable collection in a Gallery I've seen-- just 4 rooms joined by glass doors and the British Royal lineage.

I love the collections. In particular, the ones of the Prince Regent, who became George IV, and the most prolific collector of important works in British Royal history. He's filled his salons with paintings by Stubbs, Van Dyck and Rembrandt,and I'm so delighted to discover them through the audio tour, which is included in admission and you must take it if you go. They don't just read what appears on the plaque beneath each painting; Royal curators and art critics literally transport you into the world of King George-to-be: serenading us with music from the century of the paintings we gaze upon, whilst (I couldn't wait for a reason to use that word)listening to the explanation of what makes the pictures so grand, or important.

It's an hour of blissful time-travel-- and a kind of cultural-revolution for me--discovering some startling stories behind the paintings that give me plenty of story ideas. But we must be heading to Rubens, which is across the street from the Royal Mews, where we're booked to have the afternoon tea I've been waiting to enjoy for the past three months.

You have to reserve months ahead to get the window seat for tea at Rubens in the Palace Hotel Lounge, and we sink into the plush cushions of the settee, peering out at the Mews.

"You sure I won't be the only guy doing this?" Rich asks me. "Of course not," I assure him, even though there are two women beside us enjoying the champagne tea and no men in sight. Rich's interest perks up when he eyes the tiered cake stand on display in the window, laden with sweets and scones dripping of chocolate.

"Are those ours or display?" he asks. We wait to find out as our server welcomes us to tea and asks us which pots of tea we'll be having. Since you can have as many as you like, I go for the Earl Grey to start and the pot is about a 5-cupper,poured gingerly into my porcelain teacup through a sterling silver strainer by a smiling young man who says it's their custom blend. It's so fragrant and delicious, I get Rich to try it. He agrees it's the best traditional tea he's ever had, even better than his Rooibos red bush.

We order the Afternoon Tea, which starts off with finger sandwiches. (If you go, make sure to try the chicken salad in the shiny buns they call rolls. They are delicious). Rich kindly asks if he can have some more and eats about four. We raise our teacups to the many sightseers on double-decker buses that stop in front of the Mews and eyeing us with envy, as a pianist entertains the room with show tunes from a baby grand.

I go for the Oriental Sencha tea when the scones arrive, little mini-versions of the ubiquitous fist-sized ones served at all the bakeries--some raisin, others chocolate or plain. I love any dessert that's dense and doughy and these are really special. Almost as good as the Henderson's cherry scones in Edinburgh and much lighter-tasting. We have them with clotted cream, house-made strawberry jam,(which I wish they'd sell. They would make a fortune),and a kind of chocolate-hazelnut butter that Rich slathers his entire scone with.

I nibble on a smoked salmon finger sandwich, my second favorite of the sandwiches, as well as a tomato avocado.Finally, I go back to Earl Grey for the top tier of the cake stand.(We get our own, by the way. Turns out the one in the window is the display.)

The top of our cake stand is devoted entirely to sweets like peanut butter milk chocolate mousse, pineapple custard they call a financier, vanilla cheesecake and what becomes the crowning dessert of the trip-- a red velvet-colored macaroon stuffed with fresh raspberries and infused with rosewater and lychee. It's topped with a single petal from a red rose.

A leisurely two hours later and we're absolutely stuffed and tea-logged but surprisingly, we're the first to leave the lounge. So it is true when they say, "Expect to spend the afternoon when you're at tea in London."

On our way home, a London Bobby on horseback stops traffic. The carriage club is just returning to the Royal Mews from its afternoon in Hyde Park.

But I can't imagine them having a more enjoyable time than Rich and I had at Rubens.

Night At The Museum

July 8

It's a beautiful afternoon in London so we walk to the Victoria & Albert Museum.

They're open late on Fridays, and it seems like its quite the posh thing to do, with a DJ rocking out tunes in the foyer and strobe lights pulsating outside.

After looking at a few of the displays on the main floor

(we really loved the golden Buddha's from 550 AD),we make our way up to the Norfolk Music Room,

where a quartet of musicians playing wind instruments will be performing, courtesy of the Royal College of Music.

It's really exciting seeing a display of Yohji Yamamoto dresses on mannequins next to Emma Vallender, who is playing the oboe in a raw silk brown gown. And all the while, the performances itself is in a stunning music room that once graced St. James palace in the 1750's, channeling the time of Mozart and the salons he played in.

In fact, the first piece the quartet plays is Mozart. Emma is so into it, her toes start peeking out of her full length dress and they're painted blue, just like the dresses of so many royals we see in portraits here in the Museum. The free concert transports us through the ages from Mozart, to French modern composer Jean Rivier.

Even though we're sitting in an 18th century palatial room, it all seems modern somehow, and the musicians themselves are so hip and passionate, working themselves into a pink-cheeked hour of classical music that's so good, it should be recorded.

After a standing ovation, we spot the saxophonist on the elevator dressed head -to-toe in leather as he heads home on his motorcycle.

We don't want to leave just yet, so we walk around the museum, past courtly costumes

and a cluster of gigantic foo dogs.

Then we discover another artist that we like quite by accident, while viewing some botanicals. His name is John Constable.

A colleague of J.W. Turner's, Constable, who never traveled outside of England, found all he needed in his home in the Stour Valley.

We are mesmerized by the pastoral scenes of his home region, which he painted in the mid 1800's.

We walk back home passing the Harrod's doormen, then onto Sloane Street where Peugots and Bentleys are parked along tree-lined townhomes as big as our entire street at home in New Hampshire, then finally, into our neighborhood where a local Thai restaurant is still open.

We order pad see ew and prawns with red peppers in garlic sauce along with jasmine rice, which is served in a copper bowl. We polish off the delicious entrees chatting about our cultural evening.I can't imagine an excursion going any better than this one, and yet tomorrow we have an entire day of royalty planned, and the weather calls for nothing but sunshine.

LONDON DAY 9, July 8th

Our first Friday in London was a bit of a wet one, as the showers lingered from the night before. But we're determined to visit Westminster Abbey with my in-laws. My father-in-law needs a walker to get around, so we take a taxi to the Abbey first thing in the morning.

There are two long cues on either side of the entranceway, which is a bit confusing, but after 20 minutes in line, a guard spots us with my father-in-law and ushers us in. I must say, the Abbey's pretty crowded so it's difficult to get a good look. With very little light inside on a gloomy day, even the Waterford crystal chandeliers gifted by the Guinness family, however wonderful, don't provide much illumination.

"It's over two thousand years old," Rich reminds me,"don't expect it to have the kind of lighting that we're used to." I know he's right, but after the mystical experience at St. Paul's, which was so unexpected, I've set my sights quite high for the Abbey, which some say is even more exciting to tour than St. Paul's.

At first a Catholic monastery until the fifteen century, the monks were soon banished and sent to France.

Recently, incredible Catholic murals that resemble icons have been discovered on the walls near Poet's & Writer's Corner and are being restored.

We wait to take a guided tour, and of course, I'm anticipating another Chris to enlighten us with lots of tidbits and behind-the-scene gems like in St. Paul's, but it doesn't happen. The many little chapels where paintings and tombs are kept are so crowded, we're ushered in single file and told to keep moving, with no time to linger.

Regardless, seeing the Abbey and being surrounded by such history up-close is worthwhile, even if the Italian tour group races to get to a chapel before we do. Having been a royal wedding watcher since I was a child, it's thrilling to follow the same checkered-tiled path that the former Kate Middleton took toward the altar, and walking around the Victoria Cross where she left her royal bouquet to the unknown soldier.

Then our guide unhooks a rope around the altar, the high altar where Kate and Prince William were married and tells us to follow him. Follow him? Up to the hallowed altar we all saw on TV and where only Prince Harry and the Bishop or whoever it was that married them, were allowed to be on?

This is amazing. Then our guide opens the door on the screen behind the altar, where Kate and Prince William and the Queen and Prince Charles stepped through after the ceremony. "Come on!" he tells us. So now we're not only traipsing across the floor of the high altar,(no wonder Kate was a bit nervous, I would have been terrified, as the only bright light in the entire Abbey is shining down on us), but we're going through the doorway and into the shrine.

"It's like we're behind-the-scenes in a museum where only the curators go," I whisper to Rich. In this shrine, kings from the past 10 centuries are buried and it's here where princes are signed into kings, just a few feet from where they might be buried. We walk along the rugged chapel floor set in 1268, careful not to crumble up too much dust. Being amongst these royal tombs where the bones of such kings as Edward I lie,(he had his coronation here, too, in 1296), is both exhilarating and eerie and certainly brings history into the present moment. It's as if the last thousand years of British life are literally at your feet.

"All the royal tombs are full," our guide informs us. "The last one buried here was King George in 1760." But I'm still stuck on King Edward I and his massive gilded bronze tomb; he was said to be six foot four. I can't really describe it, but the shrine actually smells like history- a mixture of moss and marble that's weathered thousands of years of living, coupled with musty cobwebs, bones and incense. And all around are ancient tapestries and the scent of burlap and really old dust. It's not a place I'd like to get locked into over night, but it's hard to tear myself away. I've never been beside bones this old-- or surrounded by such a long and consecutive line of humanity--in this case, the British Royal family.

The number of Royals and well-known British icons buried in the Abbey is astounding, from Mary Queen of Scots (she's in the South Chapel and you must go and see her), to Charles Darwin, Charles Dickens and the Bronte sisters, each with marble busts or tombs to mark their importance. I'll always remember the likeness that Mary's son King James I made of her on the tomb, with her long and regal marble fingers, Elizabethan collar and wavy locks-- erasing any image of her beheading-- how she appears to be sleeping peacefully when her life was such a tortured one.

Part of the Abbey is "open air" on the way to the gardens, which were closed,

and also en route to the gift shop, which leads to the display of the Royal Wedding. The little exhibit has many stunning photographs that are nearly life-size.

By the time our tour ends we're starving and just a short walk from The Albert, where my father-in-law can have roast beef.

Rich and I enjoy a second round of carvery bliss then decide that tonight, we'll head to the Victoria & Albert Museum, for their late night Friday, and see the concert performed by the Royal Conservatory.

LONDON DAY 8, July 7th

Thursday morning and it's time for our London Pass to kick in. We'll start with a visit to Shakespeare's Globe. It's on the other side of the Thames River, so we take the tube to London Bridge station and walk the Southbank area, barely ahead of the rain. We take a short cut through the Borough market area, where signs still left from the second World War give us inspiration.

The Globe Theatre is a replica of Shakespeare's original theatre, which stood just a few hundred yards from here, and the circular shape of the pale building studded with wood below a thatched roof is a pleasure to see.

We opt for the behind-the-scenes tour and walk through the displays while waiting for the next tour to begin. I pick up an audio guide for a few extra pounds and enjoy hearing about bawdy London at this time period. I had no idea Londoners once lived in huts atop the frozen river. I peer at the glassed-in artifacts such as bowling balls, bottles and ticket boxes found during excavation of the original site to determine what shape and size to build the replica.I stay to watch a quick film about costuming and makeup and how the young actors who depicted women in Shakespeare's plays were literally poisoning themselves to death by applying lead paint to their faces for every performance.

The guides at the Globe are what you might expect from Shakespearean folk-- snooty and easily perturbed; barely tolerating us colloquial speakers of modern English. But they do (only just barely), because tourists help keep the theatre going. Despite the attitude, however, the Globe is certainly a worthwhile visit and I like to think that the Bard himself wasn't at all stuffy. In fact, his plays were considered for the common man and quite bawdy for their time, too. It says so on the displays.

We catch a rehearsal of Anne Boleyn, which is very exciting and we decide to stay on, until we're ushered out by the skittish tour guide.

Make sure to visit the gift shop, too. I'm told it's one of the best in London, filled with great T-shirts, mugs and quirky gifts imprinted with Shakespearean sayings.

When we're ready to leave, it's still pouring out. Luckily, the restaurant I have earmarked for lunch is across the street from the Globe. It's a Turkish restaurant I'd read about, called TAS PIDE and one of several Tas restaurants sprinkled over south London. We're welcomed into the white stucco building and ushered past a wood-fired oven where a man hauls out a loaf of bread with sear marks across it.
Next to us, a group of men are sipping peppermint tea and munching on cookies.

Since we've never had Turkish food before, we decide to go for the fixed menu-- a three course meal for under 10 pounds each. Right off, we're served a hummus dip and a yogurt dip called cacik with cucumber and mint and that delicious warm bread the man hauled out from the oven. Both are really tasty-- I love all the fresh herbs sprinkled on top. For our mains, we order the tavuklu without the cheddar cheese. It's a dish with chicken,red peppers and basil along with a tomato puree, all wrapped in dough then baked in that wood-fired oven.I'm not a big bread person, but the dough has so much flavor and the chicken must have been marinated and simmered in with the red peppers, because it's really moist. I would describe the food as clean, simple and so flavorful because of all the fresh herbs and spices used.

But the best turns out to be the dessert-- an apricot stuffed with homemade cream and an almond, all rolled in pistachios and honey. I love every bite and can't wait to have Turkish food at home.

It's time to go to St. Paul's, which Rich isn't too excited about, but I figure if it's incredibly boring, we'll slip out of the tour early.

We walk over the Millennium Bridge, trying hard not to slip from the rain as the surface is a kind of stainless steel. It's quite a juxtaposition being on this modern bridge with wiring for railings and seeing the dome of St. Paul's looming on the other side of the Thames. But we need to hurry in order to make it to the Cathedral for the super-tour. We arrive a few minutes before it starts and are told it's full, but the guide, Chris, looks at us and smiles, saying he'll take two more.

The tour is an hour and a half and Chris turns out to be an amazing guide. Think of the most inspirational teacher you could possibly have and that would be Chris. He leads us into places not usually explored by visitors like the Bell Tower-- down a cluster of stone steps and tells us not to look up until we get to the bottom, upon which we should close our eyes until he tells us to open them. When we do, we're gazing up to the Dean's staircase-- a spiraling wonder of stone steps jutting out of the walls on one side, suspended in the air on the other.

Chris calls for silence and stabs a finger in the air, then another and the bells start ringing. Hearing them echo is quite magical. Chris tells us that the staircase was filmed for the Harry Potter movies. "When the bells were wrung with human hands by the sweat of one man's brow there was never an issue," Chris says, "but now that its automated, we do get slip ups."

He ushers us into a private chapel and we sit in the ornately carved stalls where knights once worshiped and get drawn into the world of Christopher Wren-- who built this current church-- the fourth church on this property-- after the great fire. Started in 1675, it took 33 years to complete and the project was considered extremely daring-- a dome as grand as the Roman Catholic churches for a Presbyterian church?

It was difficult to raise money for such a project, no matter how much of a favorite Wren was of the King's, but through a coal tax, Londoners raised 750,000 pounds to build it, which is why it is considered England's church.

All the stained glass windows were destroyed during the blitz of the second World War,(there's a wonderful chapel called the U.S Memorial chapel dedicated to America as a thank-you for liberating Britain), but Chris points out that while the stained glass was never replaced, we are seeing the church exactly as Wren built it, also thanks to a decades-long renovation removing much grit, grime and painting restoration. The project was completed this spring.

"Just in time for the Royal Wedding" Chris smiles. "We would have given them a wonderful day, but of course, the Abbey is the church of the monarchy. We are the church of all of England."

We descend below the cathedral to the Crypt, and stop to hear about who is buried on this floor, or beneath it. Rich gasps when he looks down and realizes where he's standing. "There's your guy!" I tell him when I read the inscription:

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN
Born May 13 1842
Died Nov 22 1900

So Rich has gotten as close as he possibly could to Gilbert & Sullivan, just a foot away from Arthur himself. If we do nothing else on this trip, it will have been worthwhile.

Being in the Crypt is quite a surreal experience. The ceilings are high, the walkways arched, the walls are stone and the whole thing gives off a pale yellow light. Weirdly enough, it's kind of like being in an ancient wine cellar. Walking around the massive-sized stone replicas of famous Brits lying above their tombs or looking down at the ground at the stones where the bones of so many famous people lay, is humbling. You really do see how important it is to enjoy every moment, how in the end, you might just end up next to a church restaurant where they serve scones--but how horrible would that be?(Especially is you love scones the way I do.)

Along the corridor to Wellington's tomb are the ceremonial flags used during his burial in 1858.They're tattered and frayed at the ends, but it's incredible that they are left as they were, for us to witness. The mosaics on the floor were layed-out by women prisoners and you can see how over time, the work gets more intricate and beautiful.

Lord Nelson's tomb is right under the Dome. His tomb was meant for Henry the 8ths Chancellor who died on the way to the gallows at the Tower of London. So Nelson is in the granite block instead, inside three coffins as his body was pickled in a barrel of brandy on the sea voyage home for his funeral.

We end our tour at the most fitting of epitaphs; Christopher Wren's. It says:

"Reader if you seek a monument-look around you." Christopher Wren,who died at age 91, came to worship at St. Paul's weekly, and saw it as his true home.

"Are you ready to venture back into the outside world?" Chris asks us. We all pause, not wanting to. Then he tells us, "Evensong is at 5 o'clock and you can sit in the stalls along with the choir if you're there a few minutes before five."

"Let's do it" Rich whispers to me. We're a bit early. There's just enough time to get scones and tea at the restaurant outside the crypt.

So here we are, amongst the choir of cherubic faces and angelic voices at St. Paul's cathedral, just beyond the dome, under Creation, the ornate fresco depicting the Earth. To the left of it is the Sea and then the Heavens, where light is streaming through the newly refurbished windows. "Give us peace in our time, O God," we all recite along with the choir, "for you are the only one looking over us."

The woman beside me is crying as she recites the lines. "So sorry," she whispers,"but it's good to be back in St. Paul's. It's a long way from Istanbul."

Then Evensong is over, but we linger. We're not in much of hurry to join the outside world. "Another place I'd love to get locked into," I whisper to Rich. After I'd climb the hundreds of steps up to the Dome past the whispering gallery, I'd head for the Dean's staircase, up to his library with a gorgeous cup of tea, and sniff all the books from the past centuries as the light streams through the window, onto the stone floor.