April 19 - April 21
19 April 1999
Up early (8-ish) – sitting at dining room table while Peter types on his laptop – hopefully this is going to result in a budget and a course description for me to take back. Peter is off on more of his travels, I’m going to Brighton, then tomorrow I’m going to Norwich and kitties! I must be on English time now, since morning seems to come so early!
Yesterday I spent the day here – I was just too tired to try to negotiate the bus to Hatfield. If I come back early from Norwich, I can go to Hatfield Friday. And if not, well, next time. Instead of touristing, I read the London Times, napped, watched television. Peter came home quite late from taking Fran back to Bristol – the house had been pure chaos as the kids ran round, collecting things, packing them up, forgetting, remembering – the boys tossed a football (rugby ball?) in the street. They’d had lunch at their mother’s (Julia) and Peter said they were always like that afterwards. Fran’s theater group has the sponsorship of the Times for a 4-week run at the Edinburgh Festival, resulting from their good showing in Scarborough – she was delighted and Peter was beaming. They had a review in the Sunday Times as well – should check it out on the web when I get back.
So we had a late dinner and I went off to bed – now, if I can just wake up, there’s a new week ahead.
(Peter couldn’t get the printer to print off his laptop, but while he was out, I copied the description of Jean’s course into my little notebook. Will have to wait for the budget information, though – he could fax it to Bill, but I really want to have everything in hand when I leave the UK – will make settling next year’s program so much easier.)
Later that morning; 10:30 a.m.
On the train to Brighton – as we pulled up to the City Blackfriars station, the dome of St. Paul’s loomed over the buildings – went by too fast to get a photo – but so London! Then – while writing this – we crossed over the Thames and the Tower Bridge also loomed – foggy day,, boats on the river, familiar yet exotic bridge crossing the water, again, no time for a photo – perhaps on the way back?
Even in the countryside, the train often runs below ground level, in ditches – or above street level on mounds – sometimes a good view, sometimes nothing at all.
Afternoon, 4:00 p.m.
I hope this is the right thing to do – I just opened the door and got on an essentially empty train that I think goes to St. Albans. Well, at least one other person has come on now, so hopefully we’ll all get where we want to. It’s a little disconcerting, just walking onto a train without giving anyone a ticket or being directed somehow. Of course the conductor comes through later to check tickets – what would they do if you had the wrong one? How would you end up where you really wanted to be? Would you have to pay all kinds of fines or buy a ticket to the place you didn’t want to go? Ride the train forever, like the MTA?
Brighton has been lovely – I’ve never seen a more turquoise sea – when I exited the train station, I found both city busses and Guide Friday bus stops right in front. I crossed the street and had a pint and lunch in a pub there – then went back and caught a Guide Friday bus (L6) to see the town. Saw the Pavilion from the outside, gardens, Regency houses, narrow lanes, chalk cliffs – piers and seagulls and wonderful things. Bought Brighton Rock for everyone back home. Mailed postcards. Strolled. Bought cheesy souvenirs. And am now – I’m quite sure – on my way home (!) to St. Albans. Norfolk and Norwich and Wendling tomorrow.
20 April 1999
Yes, I’d done the right thing. The train carried me on to St. Albans (though it did make a detour through a different part of London – including Herne Hill where I think Peter used to live—before crossing the Thames). I tried for a couple shots of St. Paul’s again – then missed the best one of all – looming big as you please right outside the train window. I do hope something comes out of all those photos, though. The impression of London as a tangible, living presence is unavoidable when you look out the window, up at that Dome, overwhelming all the other buildings and roofs around it. A grungy, dirty, down-at-the-heels area, and then St. Paul’s – amazing.
I felt quite at home returning to 10 Oswald Road – wrote out a couple postcards to Denise and Kathleen, then mailed them at the post office around the corner. I’m still trying to decide whether to pack up some more books and mail them or not. Right now I think I’ll wait till I get back from Norwich. It’s raining this morning, and I still have to walk to the train – want to leave in a half hour or so.
I watched TV last night, ate Indian takeaway I got on my way back from the post office, went to bed – didn’t sleep as well – the room (or was it just me?) was warmer than usual – and the things I spread over the heater to dry were dry so I know it was on. There seems to be no rhyme nor reason to when heat is on or off in this room – the other night was freezing, but not in the rest of the house; last night was warm. Go figger. (Peter has said I’m in a truly sybaritic homestay – they keep the heat on all the time – but it doesn’t always happen in the little “granny flat” I’m in – at first I thought it was just when I closed the door that the heat from the rest of the house didn’t get in, but that doesn’t always seem to be the case. As I said, go figger.)
I did pick the right day for Brighton however – there won’t be any turquoise sea today. Did I mention that lilacs are in bloom here? And . . . wisteria (?) Pinkish-white single-petaled flowers hanging in great masses over back walls and fences – and a wonderful tree/shrub with what looks like tiny blue lilacs in huge masses – a kind of ceanothus? (Actually, it is – Helen confirmed this later in Norwich. I’ve seen it in shrubs here, but these are as large as, and trimmed like, trees – some in St. James’ Park as I rode in the taxi toward Harrod’s, others in people’s back gardens as the train passes by.) I should have looked at the TV schedule last night, and caught that garden show the papers have been going on about – it was on at 8:30, but I was watching a documentary on Asian mummies and didn’t check. (Wonder if that’s what John emerged from his den for about then – it’s evidently all the rage, mostly because the young woman presenter [host] doesn’t wear a bra!)
11:00 a.m.
Unlike the tube stops and the little Thameslink stations, Liverpool Street Station is large, light, airy – full of shops and partially open to the air, so pigeons help themselves to crumbs left on the floor. I began this trip by getting the wrong tube at Farringdon, though – as it was the Circle Line – it may well have ended up here eventually. Still, I got off after two stops in the wrong direction, asked directions, and got the Metropolitan line from the opposite platform. I could have sworn I followed the signs correctly, but there I was, fresh off the Thameslink train, sitting happily in the yellow-trimmed Circle Line car, watching the wrong stops go by, and noting that, even when I’m not driving, I still end up taking the wrong road.
Now, however, I’m at Liverpool Street Station, where I’m supposed to be, waiting for the platform number for the Norwich train to be announced on the big departure board. Good thing I gave myself extra time.
Later
And here I am on what I hope is the 11:30 train to Norwich – facing seats with a little table between – there’s “buffet service” so I suppose I could eat, but I doubt I will – could be very comfortable if it doesn’t get crowded. I can’t get over the columns and latticework supports of this station – painted white and cream and dark blue and dark red.
This is a journey to a whole different part of England – Brighton yesterday, Norwich today. Kewl!! (“Calling at Colchester, Ipswich, Stowmarket, Diss and Norwich” – don’t you just love the sound of those names?)
That night at Willow House
This is a posh house indeed! Much larger than Peter’s, more like Janet and Joe Dunlop’s – different style, of course, and all the fields stretching out in back, the hedged country lane in front.
Helen met me at the train station, holding a sign with my name printed on it. I waved my arms and we met – she’s medium height, long dark hair, buxom (not nearly as fluffy as I, but not anorexic either). We did some errands in Norwich (there was a shop in the mall beneath the castle that had tons of beanies – I didn’t buy any though – they were all current, though not all had made their appearance at the HUB bookstore) and had a cup of tea (and I had a decadently delicious chocolate cheesecake) before we left. I hope I get some time in Norwich proper – Thursday I should think – then picked up Nathan the hoomin kitten from school. He’s remarkably bright and clever. Nine years old, and plays a very good alto sax.
The house by the trout stream is grand, and the kitties are gorgeous, sleek and regal. Waffles is black, Francis a tuxedo, and Marble a brown classic tabby. When you walk in the laundry room off the kitchen, the first thing you see is a place setting for each kitty – nice white mat for each, with the kitty’s name prominently displayed, and a nice full bowl of catfud on each. No question that Waffles, Francis and Marble are treated right in this house. I took lots of pictures – hope to get more tomorrow.
It poured rain – lashed at the windows – we had curry and bread pudding for dinner, watched tv, and I went up to bed. A real shower! and bath! A posh house here or in Seattle. (Huge computer room where they have matching pooters and carry on the various businesses they seem to run from home. Kitchen, dining room, living room, library, half-bath, and the pooter room on the main floor; several bedrooms, including my large guest room, and a full bath on the second floor. Two cars. They are very well-off, very down to earth.)
Sandringham – or Blixley – tomorrow, Helen says.
21 April 1999
It’s a beautiful morning—the sky is blue, sun is shining, birds are twittering – wind is blowing, but it’s a perfect April morning in the English countryside.
Last night when I came in to bed, Waffles was asleep in the middle of the bed curled up next to the pillows. My entry and fussing around disturbed her enough for her to make an exit, but after I got into bed, she must have returned, because I felt her down by my knees (as best I could tell, it was a solid black cat there) – after I tossed and turned one too many times, she’d had enough and left again. According to Helen, the rpcc cats are planning a jailbreak for Skye and Tally – now they will be put out: I spent the night with another kitty.
Waffles waiting on my bed.
22 April 1999
Well, the sun came, the sun went, the rains came (hard!), the rains went – it was a day of hourly contrasts. After Vernon, Justin, and Nathan left (Justin is Vernon’s son by his first wife, staying with them while he gets internship-like experience at an airfield nearby – is thinking of becoming an air traffic controller), Helen and I took off for Sandringham. The Norfolk countryside is quite beautiful – green, lovely hedgerows and verges, quiet – and, for the moment, sunny. On our way, Helen stopped to use a “hole-in-the-wall” – that’s a Norfolk ATM. Love it!
Sandringham is set in great woodlands – the public can visit the grounds, camp, run their dogs – except when the Queen is in residence. We saw only a small portion of the house, of course, and the little museum attached in what were the stables was not exactly world-beating – interesting for the kinds of things that have been given to the Royal Family over the years, and various historical photographs, etc. – but not well described or marked. And lots of cars, exhibiting an interest I find quite baffling.
Here I am, at Sandringham!
As we waited for the little train to take us back to the car park and gift shop, we discussed the Royals and British attitudes thereto (Helen is not exactly a fan, though she’s not quite ready to dump the whole thing) – and the skies opened up. “Royal rain,” Helen said.
Sandringham. Pheasants in the grass. Swaffam – Norman church – graveyard – Nathan going on about Buffy the Vampire Slayer – Wendling – ostriches in the farmyard – Willow House and pheasants in the grass (and Waffles stalking them). Roast pork chops and potatoes for dinner, mushroom and walnut soup (which Vernon did not like – he went in the kitchen and strained out all the walnuts), pear crumble. Crazy tv show: “Changing Rooms” where two sets of neighbors, each helped by an interior designer, redecorate a room in each other’s house! Crazy! Who thought this up? And who would think it would have an audience. But it does – the whole Simmons household (and I) sat down to watch! Then ER. Then bed – Waffles jumped up on bed with me and spent the night curled up at the foot outside the covers. Marble (named for marble cake) spent part of the night too.
Pink sky in the morning. A hare bounding across uncultivated fields outside the garden boundary.
And Vernon, Nathan and Justin go off, Helen shows me her bits and pieces of china, crystal, Japanese lacquer, a watercolor of Bamburgh castle by her art teacher – and we go off to Norwich. The cathedral – Norman arches, peace globe, spoken Eucharist service – cloisters – cherry blossoms – into the city after tea and sausage roll and cake to Bridewell Alley – the Mustard Shop – Jarrold’s department store – narrow cobbled streets – medieval buildings redone – to the car park, the station and on the train, waiting to leave for London, St. Albans, home.
Then tomorrow – Friday – at leisure – and Saturday home to Seattle and Skye and Tally. I have to call and confirm the flight, might call Janet. Once home, must write Janet, Peter, Helen. Believe it or not, I’m really getting ready to go home.
