London Hotels
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London
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DAY 1 WED As usual on long trips, I found it difficult to come to terms with the time difference between Sydney and London. Coming to terms with any variation from the norm has never been an ability of mine and has become increasingly difficult as I approach senility.
For the first time in more than ten years of globetrotting (!) I flew business class. This was thanks to my brother Christopher whose reward for having been with QANTAS Travel for ten years was two return business class tickets to wherever he liked. My reward for thirty years with Telstra was a tube of plastic with a little medal in it and a framed congratulatory letter signed by Frank Blount's autograph machine.
The flight from London to Bangkok and then onward to London is extremely long (about 23 hours) and even the almost-comfortable business class seats and a cocktail of drugs couldn't put me to sleep for more than an hour. I had hoped that business class would offer an X-rated movie channel but the only films available were uniformly dull and I barely managed to pay attention to "Liar, Liar" and "Murder at 1600". Much to my excitement a large part of the flight was over Afghanistan, Russia and Poland, countries apparently made up entirely of deserts with only the occasional scattered villages to suggest that they were not completely uninhabited.
We arrived at Heathrow at 7.30am only to discover that Christopher's bags had been offloaded at Bangkok. While he trudged off to make enquiries I rang Margaret and reported my safe arrival. The poor girl wept with relief then laughed uproariously when I recounted Christopher's misfortune. Christopher returned confident that his bags would be found and returned to him at the hotel, a confidence that I would not have shared had the bags been mine.
After answering the immigration official's bored inquiry as to whether I had come to England for business or pleasure with a hearty "pleasure!" and a nudge, nudge, wink, wink, I dragged my heavy bag in a stumbling Quasimodo-like half run, half stagger as I tried to catch up with Christopher, who had stridden off without me. There was a queue at the railway ticket office, but we soon passed through the turnstiles and boarded a train for the long ride to the city.
We alighted forty minutes later at Russell Square and made our way through the pedestrian tunnels to a large lift into which a station attendant herded us, along with a score of others. The lift seemed to take several minutes to reach street level, so I assumed that the station was a long way underground. Much to my relief the Royal National Hotel was just up the street, though we were dismayed to find that we couldn't register until 2pm. As it was only 10am we decided to deposit my bags with the concierge and go for a walk.
Oxford Street, famous for its fancy shops, seemed pretty ordinary to me, as did Regent Street. Carnaby Street, heart of swinging London in the mid sixties, was just another narrow lane containing unspectacular dress shops. Unlike Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, no effort has been made to capitalise on its past glory. Carnaby Street borders Soho, an area famed for its seediness. I did notice a little bit of seediness but it seemed mild in comparison with Kings Cross. I was surprised to find that Picadilly Circus was a lot smaller than I had expected, it seemed to be a place which was famous for being famous.
A stroll through Green Park took us to Buckingham Palace which swarmed with tourists waiting for the changing of the Guard. The palace and the Queen Victoria Memorial with its golden angel in the square in front of the gates were immaculately presented, with lots of gilt and black paint and absolutely no graffiti to be seen.
A further long walk took us to the Victoria Coach Station where we boarded a double-decker bus for Covent Garden. The driver was a former Bangkok tuk-tuk driver and drove the bus as if he was in a hurry to get us to the Government Gem Store. The Covent Garden Market was a bit larger than its colonial counterpart in Eastwood (my hometown) but lacked any record dealers and was thus of little interest to me.
By now my feet were killing me and as soon as Christopher had left to look for clothes I bought a warm lemon soda and sat on the steps to smoke my pipe. After my near death experience in Hong Kong earlier in the year I was a bit nervous about my first pipe, however I experienced no ill-effects and was sufficiently recovered by the time Christopher returned to leap to my feet in anticipation of a few more miles of footslogging.
We passed many a famous landmark on our walk back to Picadilly; the Ritz Hotel, Burlington Arcade, a rather feeble Chinatown and the outer edges of Soho. Upon alighting from our train at Russell Square I was almost disembowelled by the ticket barrier which apparently didn't recognise my ticket.
At 2pm we entered the lobby of the Royal National, only to discover long queues of people waiting to register. We made our way over to the baggage area and handed over my receipts to the young concierge who asked me to find my own bags from a large selection stacked three deep on three tiers in a small room. Christopher and I climbed up on the shelves and laboriously moved suitcases around in a vain attempt to locate my two pieces of luggage. After twenty minutes of searching Chris left to look around outside, eventually finding them chained to a row of bags which were about to be loaded on a coach bound for the continent. "Good spotting!" cried the concierge. This attitude, along with traffic signals designed to kill pedestrians, led me to believe that the old country had a lot to learn from its offspring.
We returned to the queue which advanced at a very slow rate, leaving us growing more and more impatient. A tour leader, who appeared to be Portuguese, approached the head of our line and insisted that her thirty charges be given precedence. The desk manager retaliated by giving her thirty forms and insisting that the group complete them before joining the line. Our room was small but comfortable but contained no bar fridge. Now I come to think of it, none of the places in which I stayed whilst in England contained a fridge, which meant that I had to leave my chocolate milk submerged in the sink to keep it cool.
In the evening we walked around several blocks looking for food. In typical Cullis fashion we found that we could not decide on a restaurant and were forced to resort to Big Macs (ugh!). On the way back we became completely lost and ended up back in Covent Garden. At least that gave us a reference point and by 9pm we were back in our little cell. After walking at least 15 kilometres I was ready for bed, which was lucky as I learned that Christopher always retired on the dot of nine.
DAY 2 THU Breakfast was a rather time consuming affair at the Royal National. I had to walk down many corridors before I found the breakfast area where an unsmiling servant handed me two trays containing a cereal of some type, toast and jam. Our breakfast partly digested, we parted company so that Christopher could make hotel arrangements. I decided to walk to Camden Town in search of the record shops mentioned in one of my guidebooks. I had no trouble in reaching my objective even though my destination was so far away it escaped the boundaries of my map. Camden Town was reminiscent of Marrickville and had little of any interest to recommend it, which was probably why I encountered no other tourists. Both of the record shops were closed and I had to be content with a rapid exploration of the Camden markets.
I had more luck when I reached Picadilly Circus. Tower Records had a great collection of my type of music and I purchased a few interesting CDs. I fulfilled a lifetime ambition when I stumbled across both Foyle's and Blackwell's bookshops, though I bought nothing. Margaret and I were both impressed during our travels to discover that just about every town we visited contained at least one enormous bookshop, usually one of the Dillon's chain.
Christopher and I met at the Circus at about one o'clock and set off to catch the tube to Westminster. I was thrilled to catch my first sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament and I took several hundred photos from the middle of Westminster Bridge. At 3pm we joined a walking tour of the City of Westminster led by a knowledgeable lady named Judy who told us lots of stuff about Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the Jewel Place, the Buggers of Calais and Westminster School, most of which I have forgotten. I do remember that one of the churches we saw was nicknamed "Queen Anne's Footstool" because it resembled the fat monarch's stool after she had knocked it over. I also remember that a year at Westminster School costs $25,000, almost as much as a year at Marist College Eastwood.
The tour ended in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey and we then returned to the hotel. I was a little the worse for wear as the temperature had reached 31 degrees and, even worse, I had developed large and painful blisters under my toes. A long, hot bath helped a bit but I was grateful to crawl under my bedclothes at 9pm.
DAY 3 FRI I awoke this morning with my blisters no better. Upper lip suitably stiffened I staggered off to the breakfast room to collect our paltry meal. At least the temperature was supposed to drop and the weatherman had hinted at the possibility of rain. Christopher disappeared on some mysterious mission, possibly involving the sale of drugs, and I lay back on my bed and read my book. I was anxious to get going as the traffic was predicted to be horrendous due to the fact that Monday was a holiday.
We took a cab (my first trip in an English taxi) to Marble Arch to collect our rental car. The queue at Alamo was long and irritable and when we finally reached the desk the fellow tried to persuade us to switch to a larger car. Christopher managed to steer our little Vauxhall Corsa through the tricky streets of London and onto the A40 without mishap and we were relieved to find that the traffic was not as intimidating as we had feared. Somewhere along the way I took over the wheel and, once Christopher had reminded me that the English drive on the same side of the road as we do, had little difficulty in navigating the spacious motorways and winding country lanes.
Having bypassed Oxford we decided to spend the night in Winchcombe. I was entranced by this rather charming Cotswold village, which was unlike anything I'd seen back home. We tried to find lodgings at the Plaisterer's Arms, a charming old pub, but it was full and we were forced to seek assistance at the Tourist Information Office (where I later purchased my first mug). The charming lady behind the counter soon found us a room at Gower House, just around the corner. The seventeenth century house was most charming, as were the proprietors. We were charmed by the abundantly flowered garden and yet again by a pair of extremely friendly dogs. 'Charming' is a word that could easily be used to excess in England, though rarely inappropriately.
I am considered in some circles to be quite charming myself and put this virtue to use in persuading our landlady to wash and iron my shirt in preparation for Tuesday's Freeman ceremony (more on that later). At 7pm we ambled over to the Plaisterer's Arms for our first pub dinner. My potato skins with cheese and onions slid easily down a throat lubricated by a pint of John Smith's finest real ale, and we retired to our room sated but not inebriated.
What should have been a night of deep sleep and pleasant dreams was spoiled by a bunch of local youths who shouted and laughed drunkenly beneath our window. I awoke at 4.30am to the sound of trucks making their deliveries to the small supermarket below. No sooner had they left than a Royal Mail van began delivering and collecting mail rather noisily at the post office across the street.
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