wandererwoman

I have been spending time out of London this trip both woth working and with friends intent on sharing the gorgeous countryside with me. I went to the Cotswolds recently with a friend and stayed with her mum on the edge of the are they call the Cotswolds …In Banbury no less …ride a crock horse to Banbury cross to see a fine lady upon a fine horse …..I think …although Banbury like many townships quite close to London is largish and comfortably suburban and relatively modern …it is a gateway to the picture postcard villages that are Burford and Broadway and lower slaughter and Greater Tews and Snowshill. These towns are built of a very lovely golden stone and thatches abound and small panel glasses windows and they are truly extremely pretty. We were there for the harvest festival in the churches and the communities were busy making the great stone churches abundant with produce. They generated to this idle observer a wonderful sense of shared belief and faith. The churches are of course surrounded by quiet graveyards and there is always a seat …always in the right postion to quitely take in the misty views of hills and grazing black faced sheep and an ancient house or two.

Greater Tews which was when my friend was growing up, a village in decay has now been restored and it looks like the manor house has a a madonna or some other such celebrity restoring it. The signs to greater Tews are tiny and unless you knew of it , it would be easily bypassed for the more touristed climes of the better known towns …And what a pity that would be …I thought as I sipped my pale ale in the 17th century pub and watched the real hunting folk trample in in their tweeds and matching accents. ….The derelict cottages are now fully thatched and they have hollyhocks growing up the wall like every postcard of an english cottage ever printed but there is no denying the simple charm of it all ….England is extraordinarily scenic …it is something to do with the light and the shrubbery that has a depth of colour here that has never translated as well in Australia despite us importing all manner of british foliage ….it is the mist and the golden light that does something rather special and makes whimsical magical childlike pictures of the landscape. Such whimsy is now of course worth a gazillion pounds and there is no chance of an everyday soul inhabiting such a dreamscape …I do hope the Kate mosses and the madonna`s of this world enjoy ….envying the ownership of the manor house …quite gorgeous.

We went also to Snowshill which was the home of a collector called Charles wade. The manor itself houses his extraordinary collections of samuria armour and spinning wheels and models he built and items too numerous to recall even although his asian furniture collection was very special. He and his wife lived in a small perfectly restored few rooms at the back of the manor ,,,the priests house and these rooms too were intimate and wonderfully crafted. He was a believer in the arts and crafts movement which had a powerful impact here, linked as it is too the Bloombury set and William Morris. His home and his collection and his gardens are now National trust and they deserve the care taken of them by obviously very passionate custodians of the british heritage. They are special these custodians because they exude a very great enjoyment of the places where you find them and they are excited and knowledgeable about the life and times of the home owners. They make details sing and I always feel delighted to come away from a visit with a sense of the people and their times and their foibles and follies. I think Britain is a magical realist novel peopled by true eccentrics with a plot of whimsy and down right daftness. It still has tribes I think. In the Cotswolds they just wear cashmere and leather riding boots.

I have just spent this Saturday morning at  Alexanda Palace which is this extravagantly ugly public convention centre built in the mid 1800`s  to hold exhibitions and public events. It has had a very colourful history  since it was built having been burnt down and restored as well as housing the original TV tower in London and the offices of the BBC. Gracie Fields was supposed to have called it Ally Pally and Ally Pally it has stayed, for the thousands of North Londoners that use the ice rink in the winter and wander the seven and half acres of lawns that surround it. There are bars and eateries all fairly dreadful and not pretending to any real charm or style and there is a carnival arcade with fairy floss and clowns and lots of little londoners trailing through in their dressup costumes for Peregrines Birthday party, all quite tired and a little emotional. 

I go because there is a boating lake and whilst today the people enjoy the water in great plastic tractors that are pedalled vigorously it is possible, in the early morning watching the boys that own the boat house open up and row across the pond in a wooden boat to get the plastic tractors from the island in the middle, to just glimpse how sedate and romantic it must have been once when gentlemen entertained their ladies to a slow row around the pond and the ladies protected their complexions with a parasol. There is promise in the dawning day of a slower gentler time and it is extraordinarily peaceful here. There are a pair of Swans that own the  park and a squadroon of huge ducks that move into formation behind them when bread is proferred by some wee mite who is invetiably overcome by the huge size of the birds up close and their terrible manners and behaviour. Feeding bread to these ducks is a scrum ! It appears the application of ice cream , the shop placed conveniently close by, does a lot to dispel the tears and tantrums of children not at all impressed with their experience of duckie feeding. The birds and the babies are really what this place is about although there are also little piers which are camoflaged by foliage and from which fishing occurs and people have picnics and snog romantically hidden away in the tall grasses. It is peaceful here and of course it is one of the highest points in London and the view is stupendous. From up here London looks like a collection of little villages  and in may ways it is despite the depressing similarity of the same stores in the high streets. The other thing that strikes is how few high rise buildings there are in the city . I think that is probably deliberate as just in the street at everyday level there are these huge buildings with soaring pediments and fabulous woodwork and marble inside. I got myself lost last wekend and ended up in the Grand lodge masonic hall ….I thought I had died and woken up in a particulalry spooky Harry Potter novel. Dad would have loved it.

New house…garret in top of the roof and big shaggy cat with patch on eye and serious fur ball problem I think. He spends his day camped in the garden periodically hissing at a small and stupid dog who occasionally remembers he is there and runs snarling at the fence. It appears that this is a a game they have played for many years.

As I am interviewing people all over England, I find myself getting on trains and following directions to I know not where. Thank goodeness for the Journey Planner which paces out the steps and transport options for any destination. I recently walked the for 19 minutes to Holbon Station before catching the tube to Mile End. Each underground route appears to have different kinds of trains and they all have different upholstery depending on the line. The Central line has a more garish decor than the Picadilly line which is regally clothed in a muted blue …soothing. The Central line also has very different characters thn the picadilly which takes travellors to heathrow and is therefore a multi nation line. It is hard to say what is different but there are less black people and the faces have a harder demeanour. Mile End feels suburban when I get off there and there are lads hanging around the entrance to the station and blokey banter. My route as defined by Journey Planner has directed me through mile end park. A long walk through a park gives me some cause for concern so I have looked it up on the website and I am anticipating that it will be teaming with people as the website paints a glowing picture of urban renewal. 

When I get to the edge, I do note that there are not actually any people other than an eldely woman walking in the park. Bloody hell. Anxious in the East End and all the stories of the Tower Hamlets area which is a rather legendary poverty to reclamation tale, crowd my brain. It is at these times that I think of the lessons I learnt on the camino and I let my instincts guide me to the path through the par. It is a natural park ..wildflowers and shade trees left to do their own thing ..and it is beautiful. The path takes me to the Regent canal where there is a very long barge being punted and there are joggers and dog walkers. It is delightful and serene. 

When I find my address in a converted grain warehouse they tell me that Canary Wharf the financial district of London after The City is just around the corner and I am struck by how well london does social housing. Part of the conversion of the grain store was into council flats and they have balconies on to the canal and there are very rich folk here also looking across the same canal. 

And this is the biggest Bagladeshi population outside Bangladesh and there are people who have not left the projects , about  3 square miles in all their lives …and don`t want to.

The area was a medieval route from London to the east and is steeped in history including being savaged by bombs in the second world war. It is so easy to forget when confronted by the ubiquitious english High street. Trusting my instincts in East London. It seems here that you are quite defined by the area in which you live. Me, I am a Northerner but I am loving the differences here on the East side.

Its summer here and steamy. Wet and steamy and each morning I sit in Queens Square, which is in Bloomsbury where I work and watch the working men have their breakfast fags and a range of very eclectic folk walk their dogs. I love watching master and hound and the small rituals they observe as they take their morning constitutionals. The dogs, this being a very city square, albeit green, with rose gardens and a very imposing statue of Queen Victoria, are very well behaved. They run , off lead and explore but are obedient to command. There are a very lovely pair of Scotish highland terriers and numerous Jack Russells who I never get tired of watching. They are wiry  curious little creatures. The Square gradually fills up over the day and I watch the people through the huge windows of the georgian terrace where I work on the second floor . There are doctors and therapists crossing the middle of Square to the hospital on the other side and there are always very sick people with drips and chairs and walking frames and often very visible signs of the brain tumors and neurological conditions that bring them to the nearby hospital. There are also very sick children, patients at the nearby Great Ormond street . Should I ever be feeling sorry for myself, I only have to look around and count every one of my blessings. 

At lunch yesterday as I was contemplating the glossy pages of an English country magazine …..they really do garden these brits …there was a continual yelping which I followed the curious faces of passersby too, and there was a large teenage girl from whom issued these very strange sounds accompanied by the occasional *****you when anyone appeared too interested in her. Tourettes would be difficult I think. 

I have just been savouring the bricks of the city and am so glad that I read Earnest Rutherfords ” London “ on the plane over. It is the history of the city and as I walked to Australia house from Covent Garden recently through the west end theatre district with its strange accents and cheerful , loud population, I could just see it a century ago, strpped bare of the 20th century trappings and feel the energy and brashness of the place.

It was  delightful to walk though the markets and the small cobbled laneways and then come to trafalgar Square, by accident almost and there in front of me is the quintessential British Postcard. That extraordinary space with Nelson hugely on his pedestal and the red double deckers fringing the outer circle. I think Trafalgar square is iconic. Down the Strand to Australia House, there is a fork in the road and in the middle of the fork is a very beautiful small church called St Mary Le Strand which was built in the early 1700`s an inside it has identical kneeling pads with the ensign of one of the women`s war leagues. These are all handstiched and on the back is the name of the woman that stitched it and where she was from. I love that. I do seem to spend a lot of time in churchs over here because they are intriuging and they are so much part of the historical fabric. The intrigues and history of religion are spelt out in these places and it makes christianity seem so much a very human story, not necessarily a spiritual one. That said, I love that this little church in the fork of a road with constant black cab traffic streaming down both sides of the fork, is silent inside. The thickness of the walls was deliberate. And there is lavender growing on the steps that is fragrant when crushed. A wee moment with stitched kneelers, silence and lavender does do wonders for the spirit.

I think I must write ” Dear Old London ” every time I come back here. I have been reading a wonderful book called ” London ” by Edward Rutherfurd in the lead up to this trip and because this book has been educating me on the history of the city, all the familiar names have an extra magic. Chancery Lane and Fleet street and St James Park …and it is just as well that I am loving the history and the warm tropical air of the city with all the flowers in bloom because truly the flight from Australia is very very very long.  I sat in front of a young australian girl who did not stop whinging from the minute she sat down. By the end of 24 hrs I could have given her a very big slap. On the last leg she was sitting next to this very tall viking from Iceland who would have been fascinating to talk to because he was returning from China with whom he deals regularly. Such a wasted opportunity.   My only other regret is that the Sex and the city movie was not on the inflight screenings. The perfect plane movie.  Alice in Wonderland was and the very gorgeous Jonney Depp was a fabulous mad hatter.

This is my seventh visit  in about 10 years and this time I have realised what so attracts me other than the speaking of English. It is the vibrancy of the culture ….so many people in such a little space and all sorts doing all sorts of things just to get along and it is also quite staid. That saying keep “calm and carry on”  does sum up the feeling of the place.   

I will be settling in for the next few days …I am a bit jetlagged daft and I have really swollen feet that have not adapted at all well to being on this new paved land. I am as always walking miles here and delighting in the gardens which are  in full bloom even in this area of North London which is not beautiful, however like the camino walk, my feet have felt the change and rebelled.  I will put them up before I need to go to Birmingham next week.

Birmingham, they tell me is a spectacularly unattractive place so I will be interested to see it. I will also be going to Liverpool which I am very excited about ..all those Beatle things …I will do the tour.

It is good to be back

I had an English friend visit me here in Australia, in Tasmania in fact which I feel is the most historically atmospheric of our states and I suggested we go and visit buildings that I though had old world merit.  He scoffed at me, clearly outlining that the attractions of Australia did not lay in its historical buildings.  History after all to the average Englishman tends to encompass more than two centuries! 

Having resided in the Goldfields Area of Victoria and Ballarat in particular since my last sojourn in London, I have come to disagree with him.  I plan to return to Britain for another extended stay shortly and leave Ballarat in the first grip of Winter. From the balcony of my home I have  sweeping views of the city,and as the trees that characterise the city lose their leaves, the bones of grand old buildings are revealed. Ballarat is a Victorian era boomtown, with gold at its heart and whilst the local goldmine recently went through difficult times due to that magic ore being more elusive than expected, the buildings and relatively intact streetscapes of the old town are wonderful.  It is lovely to go into a “high street ” store (as the british would call it) and find that it occupies an old warehouse with  baltic pine ceilings lovingly preserved and has a curved splendour of a roof visible above  the manchester on sale. It is even lovelier to have the shop keeper describe the history of the building with obvious pride. At these moments I get transported to other converstations in other places…in all the major above ground railway stations of Paris which are truly designed for the fantasies of runway fashion , in London below the roof the British museum, in Granada trailing through the Alhambra palace, looking at the downward facing funnels of the palace in Sintra,……all over Venice …. and I realise that I love buildings and that many people like this shop keeper in Ballarat do too. It is good to think of our built places resonating with the passion of people who appreciate them. 

I have time to consider such things because I am waiting on a Visa to the U.k which like the gold of this town is remaining tantilising elusive. I had forgotten how difficult it is to be in the space of “not knowing
 ”as the philosphers call it. For all the enlightenment of the soul that can be gained from finding the resources to remain contentedly in this state, I have to say it is bloody difficult.