Merrie Olde

Well, here we are in Merrie Olde England. Arrived at Heathrow later morning yesterday and made it cross town on the Piccadilly Line to the small flat in the northern reaches of Islington, where we'll be staying for the next ten days. But first... a hymn in praise of New Zealand Air. We were booked in "premium economy"--a cut above coach but not quite business--and had the most comfortable transatlantic flight in memory. A pair, not a trio of very high-tech seats, angled to look out through the portholes and provided with an advanced, easy-to-operate audio and visual system. Better yet, though, was the quality of the food and the kind of service geared to the pleasure and comfort of the passenger, not the convenience of the flight attendant. A refreshing change. Loved it... well, as much as ten hours at five hundred miles an hour and thirty-five thousand feet in a sardine tin can be loved. Kiwis forever! I even got a refresher course in the language, having chosen to watch, re-watch "The King's Speech"--a truly marvelous movie about the courage of a man not born to be king, but having to shoulder that responsibility despite his dreadful fear of having to speak in public.

Having brushed up on my English, then, I felt reasonably well equipped to face the next British challenge: the queues. Not so bad as I'd feared at immigration, but once we got to the airport Tube station it hit me. The English love to queue. They pretend to hate it but believe me, they love it. Otherwise, why would they do so much of it? We lined up to buy an "oyster" card for the London transport system--and got rejected by the damn machine. Joined a long, patient line to buy one at the ticket office, and were nonplussed at how many different oyster cards there are to choose from--week-long, weekend, senior, pay-as-you-go--the choices seemed endless. By now, of course, we are dog-tired and incapable to rational analysis. Buy a damn card and head for the netherworld. The Piccadilly Line takes us straight to our destination at Holloway Road--an hour's bone-rattling journey--and we try to prepare for an exit from the crowded train with our overloaded wheelies and backpacks, but too late. We reach the station, the doors open, we barge our way through the throng... and the doors close in our face before we can make it out to the platform!

We turned around at the next station, of course, and made it back to Holloway Road where our friend Bernard was awaiting our arrival patiently at the exit. Margaret, his wife, had meanwhile been lurking around the corner in their Prius and answered the cell phone call to pick us all up and drive us the "our" flat--though it actually belongs to their son and daughter-in-law, with whom we had arranged our trade: the whole family had stayed at our Laguna Beach cottage earlier in the year. Margaret and Bernard introduced us to the area and the flat itself; they even had a cell phone ready for our use--though by this time our minds were no longer up to the challenge of a new electronic device. We enjoyed a good English cup of tea and a fine conversation, arranging to visit them next week at their home in Dulwich, south of town.

Thinking to take a nice walk to get our feet on the ground and awaken ourselves sufficiently to last out just a few more hours to account for the jet lag and the time change, we headed out, going north on Holloway Road a ways before arriving at the very cosmopolitan hub of the Archway--an area crammed with markets, restaurants and shops and lively with the endless flow of people, a polyglot of languages and ethnic costumes all mingling with the apparent ease of familiarity. No one seemed to be noticing the difference of anyone else.

We stopped at a the cash-point outside a Lloyd's Bank and this machine, too, turned down our request for money. It must be something about Americans... We joined the line inside the bank. I have been banking since the 1950s at Lloyds. My parents banked there before me. It used to be a family affair. We knew the manager, he knew us. Knowing the family, they had no problems allowing us to "go into the red" when necessary; they knew that sooner or later we'd be good for the funds. Well, now nearly sixty years on, it's different. The queue reached from the counters to the door. Two tellers struggled with everything from a huge cash-laundering transaction with two thugs--so it seemed to me--from the Russian mafia to a local store-keeper depositing three hundred pounds in small change. When we got to the front of the line, the teller explained to us carefully that he could give us cash only on a Lloyds Bank card, not a Citibank Visa, and directed us politely to a hole-in-the-wall a few blocks further off.

We had not yet quite reached the destination we had set out for. The long and detailed instructions our friends Phil and Jess (an acting/musician/performing couple just starting out to make a niche for themselves in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles) had left in their flat for us suggested a mile's walk up to Highgate Park, which proved to be another long haul from the Archway up the rather steep Highgate Hill. The park, once we got there, proved a delight, complete with walled English gardens, wide areas of green lawn with dogs and children playing, woods and lakes. Having read along the way that Karl Marx was buried in the Highgate Cemetery, we could not resist a detour to make that pilgrimage--the poor man must be restless in his grave these days--but found the cemetery closed a few minutes before our arrival. We had to make to with peering through the railings and sending belated metta to the great man, greatly despised as he is in our own country!

By this time, we were no only lost, we were totally exhausted and miles out of our way. A kind stranger offered us a pitying look when we asked for directions, and put us back on the right track. A long walk back down Holloway Road, a stop at a surprisingly desultory Saintsburys, another at a fruit and vegetable stand, and we arrived back home in time for a light supper. What I had hoped would be an easy online hook-up via wi-fi turned into an hours' long comedy of errors, involving a series of increasingly desperate local and international calls and, finally, one to the internet service provider (much easier here, I have to say, than the familiar nightmare at home) who set us straight. My greatly fatigued and totally befuddled mind had betrayed me. The instructions that Jess had left for us proved right in every detail; I simply had not read them carefully enough. The final call was in red-faced embarrassment to Phil in Los Angeles, to admit to my idiocy.

Ellie, meanwhile, had laid out a nice supper of salad and tomato basil soup from Saintsburys and Double Gloucester cheese. And I helped myself to a much-needed pouring of Phil and Jess's vodka. Before allowing ourselves to retire for the night, we made good use of our new connection to watch the Obama speech on the economy. We both thought he did a great job--both with the content and the delivery. I have no doubt there will be disagreement from certain readers of The Buddha Diaries... but all that can wait. We're content, for the moment, to be here in Merrie Olde.

The Grove--And Family

I woke quite early, Ellie quite late. I was pleased she was getting the chance to catch up on the lost sleep on the flight from Los Angeles, and felt reasonably well rested myself--enough so as to be able to get up, make a good English cuppa tea and get a start on the blog entry your read (possibly; or possibly not) yesterday. Went out to find a Herald Tribune, which carries a little more American national news than the European papers; and a copy of the weekend Guardian. Was pleased to note that Paul Krugman was a fraction less critical of the Obama speech than he might have been; and that the reception of the speech was generally positive.

On with the day... we had another cup of tea, a bowl of fruit and cereal from yesterday's shopping expedition, a shave and shower and were ready for the drive through the north of London to met up with the family, as planned, at The Grove, a resort near Watford, halfway between where we're staying and where they live, in Harpenden. Loved the little dark blue Toyota Yaris that came with our home trade. Quite comfortable and easy to drive. I learned to drive on the left-hand side of the road, but it's still a bit of a challenge when I come back to the old country; I'm not a nervous driver in normal circumstances, but I admit to getting easily flustered when I don't know where I'm going, particularly in heavy traffic where it's important to know ahead of time when you're going to have to make a lane change or a turn. Thanks to massive road works and consequently massive traffic jams, it was a slow and slightly nerve-racking business getting out of town.

And then there's the matter of "roundabouts", and knowing which exit to take from them, and how; and the unfamiliar highway posting system and directional signs, the idiosyncrasies that can be misleading and bewildering. We found ourselves following signs to The Grove with big trucks on them, indicating, was we shortly discovered, that this was the route for delivery trucks not for passenger cars; and that it took us the (very!) long way around to avoid certain narrow bridges. What should have been a forty-five minute drive clocked in at an hour and a half as we drove in through the impressive gates and drove up through the lovely green landscape, up over a hump-back bridge that crossed a canal with colorful recreation barges, and on up to the magnificent mansion which has been converted into the resort known as The Grove. We were impressed.

A great reunion with the family. Matthew, my oldest, and Alice, his oldest, were waiting for us in the lobby. Inside, already at the lunch table, we found Diane, Matthew's wife, and the twins, Georgia and Joseph (well, Joe) along with Diane's parents, Helen and Leslie, over for the summer with the family from where they live in the south of France.

Quite a gang: needed three pictures! Here's Ellie and Alice...

The Grove provided us with an excellent buffet from which to choose for lunch, starting with hors d'oeuvres and tapas, leading on to a selection of roasts, vegetables and salads, and ending up with a fine selection of cheeses and, for dessert, fruits, cakes and pastries with delicious whipped dream. A spread, in other words, worthy of Tom Jones (the Fielding Tom, not the Welsh one) and that whole 18th century culture of excess. We ate well, we dallied over dessert and coffee, we enjoyed the family catch-up conversations.

After lunch, we braved the cold winds (they had been predicted as gale force, a remnant of our late unlamented hurricane Irene) and skies heavy with dark clouds to tour the gardens out behind the mansion: green, manicured lawns and luxuriant flower beds...

landscaped with nicely clipped, low hedges and lily ponds...

(that's Georgia!) ... all interspersed with sculptures...

... whose whimsy added to the aura of a pleasure garden. Also, who'd have guessed, an Indian couple getting married!

The Bentleys and Aston Martins in the parking lot were a clue to the upscale quality of the resort, whose luxury we enjoyed enormously. Not a thought for Karl Marx, lying there in his grave, unvisited yesterday, in Highgate Cemetery.

A wonderful celebration, then, of our family reunion. Later in the afternoon, we followed Matthew's car back to Harpenden, where they have recently made some improvements to their house: a renovated under-the-stairs loo, traditional in an English home; a new shower in the bathroom upstairs; and a fine patio behind the house, allowing a more spacious area for the children's play and outdoor entertainment. The children are amazingly creative: they all play musical instruments, they draw and paint, they write stories and poems, and the results of their efforts are everywhere in the house. It's great to see them again, and to admire their sheer, unrestrained vitality!

By early evening Ellie and I were feeling the effects of the time change and sleep deprivation, and decided it was time to leave for the drive back to London before it got too dark. We said our goodbyes to Helen and Leslie, who will be returning to France before we rejoin the family on Sunday; and less final ones to Matthew and Diane and the grandkids. The drive back to Islington was relatively uneventful, thanks in part to Matthew's excellent directions--and the loan of his GPS. Back at our flat, we had a quick bite of fruit and cheese and crackers as we listened to the Modern Jazz Quartet on our I-Pad. Such a strange new world!

"A Day In Harpenden"

Yesterday was a whole day with the family in Harpenden. We started out a little later than planned in our little Yaris, hoping that the congestion in North London would prove lighter on a Sunday. Some hope! Also our GPS, borrowed from Matthew, had been set to avoid motorways, so our guide let us down at a critical moment when we could have saved ourselves a lot of time by joining the M1. Instead, we found ourselves hassling the traffic on the busy A1 for a while before finding our way back to the motorway.

We did, though, make it to Harpenden in time for lunch. What had started out as a beautiful sunny day, had by this time changed into the familiar English gloom, but inside all was cheery with a fine spread set out by Diane. Matthew had an afternoon rehearsal scheduled for his local theatrical production of "Guys and Dolls." Like his children he is blessed with a wonderful creative talent--in his case, for music and drama. Having had to change our travel plans from October, when we might have seen the production, to September, we had wanted to see him at least in a rehearsal but he felt that this would not be the best of moments.

Instead, we drove downtown with the three children to do a bit of shopping. Expert guidance from Alice, now 11--a much more reliable guide than our GPS! We made our mark at the local Waitrose with the twins, now 9 years old charging about among the aisles while Ellie and Alice engaged in the more serious purpose of grocery shopping. Then across the main street to Boots, the chemist, to replaced my nail clippers, mysteriously mislaid along the way. With rain threatening and shops everywhere starting to close (closing time is 4:00 in Harpenden on a Sunday!) We stopped at a small cafe for an inordinately expensive cup of coffee and milkshakes. We dashed back to the car to the car in a downpour--one of those English showers that end almost as soon as they started.

Back at the house Diane was busy working on a feast for the evening and the children were playing happily outside in the garden. Ellie and I lounged around on the couch watching 9/11 memorial ceremonies in New York on a grand high-def television, much moved once again by the pain of those who had suffered unimaginable loss--with particular thoughts for our own very close friends who lost a loved one. Thinking back to that moment of great national unity, it is hard not to regret the dreadful mess we have made of it all.

On Matthew's return we all braved the gathering cool of a damp twilight and headed out to the garden for a pre-dinner glass of plum wine (our feast was to be Japanese!) and snacks. Diane had done a beautiful job of setting up a table and preparing sticky rice and the other makings for a self-made sushi lesson. We all tucked in with a will and the children proved particularly adept at putting together their sushi. The results for most of us were less aesthetically pleasing than those of the expert sushi chef, but just as delicious.

After dinner we negotiated the trip back to Islington via the M1 with growing confidence and ease. Today as I write this, the children are back at school and Matthew and Diane back to their extaordinarily busy schedules. We will rejoin them next weekend. Meanwhile, an excursion to visit my sister in the Cotswolds...

(No pictures today, I fear. We were negligent.)

"To Cirencester"

A leisurely start to the day, sorting out what we'd need for a couple of nights away from our Islington flat, then into the car and off to Cirencester, with expert guidance from Gertie, our GPS. She escorted us through the northern reaches of London and off to the west, to meet the M4 motorway, and our little Yaris did a noble job contending with speeding traffic. Arriving in good time in the general area of our destination, we stopped off at the supposedly Saxon village of Cricklade and found a pub for lunch...

The Red Lion. Curiously, there was a White Lion right across the street. Looked in vain for the Golden Lion or the Black Lion. Still, we shared a good beet soup at the Red Lion, and a less good ploughman's lunch, with an inferior cheddar and and even less ferior chutney--and, believe it or not, NO pickled onion. Ah, well. Still, a good half pint of draft Guinness to compensate.

We did a quick tour of the village...

... including the very beautiful and surprisingly large church for so small a village...

... some parts of which date from the Saxon era. Some kind of event with a spread of food and drinks was coming to an end; upon inquiry from a woman about to leave the church with a large plate of tarts, we discovered that it had been her father's funeral. We offered condolences, and were offered a fruit tart in return.

Then back to the parking lot to pick up the car and into Cirencester itself for a lovely reunion with my sister, Flora. She has a beautifully modernized old house on what must be the narrowest street in the town, very comfortably appointed in every respect. First thing we noticed, on the hall table, was a collection of the porcelain pottery she has been working on, delightfully glazed, somewhat crazy little hand-crafted pieces that remind us a bit of the great George Ohr--the "Mad Potter of Biloxi", whose work we love so much.

A good catch-up conversation over the essential cup of tea, then a walk through the old streets of the town to the very modern Waitrose market, where Flora had a few purchases to make. And back to the house via a different route. It was soon time to drive out to a rather remote country railroad station to pick up Flora's grandson, Hugo, returning from his performing arts school in London. It's a big commute for him, every day; he arrived home tired but in good spirits. Now fourteen years old, he not only attends one of the most distinguished schools in London for young people with his talents, but also works regularly to help pay the bills. Today's job was voiceover work for language studies.

At home for dinner, we enjoyed an excellent leg of lamb that Flora had prepared, along with green vegetables and roast potatoes. Mint sauce, of course. All very tasty. Washed down with a glass of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc I had purchased at the market. It was good to have the opportunity to catch up with Hugo, now a fine young lad with a handsome mien and a changing voice, very articulate and poised for one so young. (No pictures yet. We'll fix that tomorrow.) He insisted, after dinner, on doing his exercises before going to bed. As for the rest of us, we lounged in front of the television set for only a few minutes before deciding it was time to hit the sack.

"To Bath"

Up early, before the six-o'clock alarm this morning, ready to join Flora in taking Hugo to the train station--a daily ritual on those days when Hugo returns to Cirencester for the night. It's a demanding schedule for a fourteen-year old, leaving on the 6:43 train from the neighboring village of Kemble, spending the day at school and, sometimes, working at a voiceover or acting job after school, returning home on the train at 6 or 7 in the evening, or even later. Remarkable dedication, for one so young.

A quiet meditation with Flora in her sitting room... always good to have the company; and a bowl of porridge cooked up with a touch of fresh ginger, quite delicious. Time enough to get the blog posted before leaving Cirencester for the hour's drive to Bath, to meet up with Flora's daughter, Louise and her husband, Martin for lunch. Passed through Tetbury, where Prince Charles has his country home and celebrated (and originally much mocked) organic garden, on on through lovely Jane Austen countryside, green meadows, gently sloping hillsides, woods, ponds and bridle paths, all somewhat marred by the driving rain. It was cold, wet and gusty by the time we reached the park-and-drive outside Bath, but the views of this gorgeous Georgian city were still spectacular as we drove into town on the top floor of the double-decker bus...

Once there, we walked down through the soggy center of town...

... to the local Marks & Spencer, to acquire something warmer to protect a Southern Californian against the inclemencies of the English climate, then back up to the Jamie Oliver restaurant, where we found Louise...

and Martin...

... waiting for us. We soon worked out that it has been thirteen years since we last saw them. They have been living in Spain, so we have missed them on our visits to family in England; but have now moved themselves and their business to this very lovely city, bustling not only with the tourist trade but also those coming into town from the surrounding county--as they did even back in Jane Austen's day.

An excellent lunch, and a wonderful opportunity to renew contact with our family...

Flora is fortunate indeed to have two such lovely daughters, and a grandson who is so talented and dedicated to his passion for the theater. Between us, we consumed more food and wine than we should have done, in celebration of a grand reunion. And gabbed endlessly.

After lunch, some sunshine...

With Louise and Martin returning to an afternoon's work, we wandered the streets a bit and stopped in to visit the abbey--a huge church remarkable not only for its graceful architecture...

... but also for the hundreds of elaborately engraved tombstones...

... that line the walls on either side of the chancel, all quite fascinating to read with their wonderful epigraphs in flowery prose and funerary verse. A good moment to pause and contemplate the life and death of so many human beings who once walked the earth, as we do, with all the same pains and pleasures that make up our own lives.

We made it back to Cirencester in good time to rest up a bit before Hugo arrived back home. Out to dinner at a local restaurant, easy walking distance, and home to bed.

Cirencester

It's getting to be the morning ritual: up at six, cup of tea, drive Hugo to the train station, back for a sit with sister Flora, then a bit of blogging. Breakfast with Ellie. Later in the morning, a leisurely walk down Coxwell Street...

The sunshine is deceptive, it was really quite cold for those of us who live in more temperate climates. Then out along a narrow lane...

... past the communal swimming pool (already closed for the season) and a horse pasture...

... and into the park which is a part of the Bathurst Estate--the home of the Earl of Bathurst.

The chestnut trees that line the great drive leading to the city are, sadly, diseased...

... but still producing those horse chestnuts--"conkers"--I used to play with as a boy. We collected a few of the shiny, dark brown nuts (the inedible kind) to bring home with us to California. Oh, and I loved those greens (birch, I believe, these ones; obviously not chestnut):

Heading back into town...

... we made our way to the Brewery Arts Center, where Flora's ceramics are a part of a current group show (not a good picture, I fear):

I had arranged to meet fellow-bloggers Fiona and Kaspa...

... of A River of Stones and the Malvern Sangha, a Pure Land Buddhist group. Readers of The Buddha Diaries might remember that I reviewed their beautiful book of short poems--same title as the blog--in these pages a while ago. It was a delight to meet them; we sat out in the sunshine over home-made soup and quiche and sandwiches, and talked about blogging, and Buddhism, mutual online friends and other common interests. This marks the first time, after all these years, that I have actually met a fellow blogger in the flesh. It did not surprise me to encounter excellent spirited people who love life and are dedicated to their work. Good to be "in touch"!

With Fiona and Kaspa on their way back to Malvern, we wandered back through the center of town to the church, where there are a number of grave markers dedicated to members of the Clothier family dating from the seventeenth and eighteenth century. Cirencester was a center for the wool industry, and the Clothiers were prominent in that field. Here's one that notes the passing of on Hodgkinson Paine Clothier who died in 1642...

The inscription, if you can enlarge the image and take the time to work out the words, is a brief metaphysical poem based on the punning relationship between "Paine" and "pain" and the conflicting metaphors of "warre" and "peace." For those who have difficulty making out the words, the last four lines read: "He looseing quiet by warre yet gained ease/by it PAINE'S life began and paines did cease/And from ye troubles here him God did sever/by death to life (,) by warre to peace for ever." A neat sequence of conceits!

Home for a much needed rest, a chance to sleep--perchance to dream... while Ellie, with her boundless energy, explored the downtown shops. Off to the station to fetch Hugo back for a quiet dinner at home, and an early bed. Tomorrow (well, today, as I write this entry) we move on.

The Other Place

... is how we folks from Cambridge famously refer to Oxford. The same, I believe is how thy refer to us. No matter. It is now more than forty years since I visited this "other place," and figured that it would be worth the extra leg of journey on our way to London from Cirencester...

But first, the usual 6 AM pilgrimage out to the train station to see Hugo off and give him a farewell hug. It will be a while before we have the chance to see him again. Have I mentioned that he's a charming lad? And handsome? And talented? The English are strictly forbidden by ancient law from saying of thinking anything nice about themselves or their immediate family. But surely a great-uncle, particularly one tainted by long years in America, is permitted to do it for them? I only regret that I did not think to take more photographs.

And then there was a little farewell ritual with Flora. She had been holding on to an exchange of letters between the two of us in harder times and had me take a look at them. Between us. we agreed that they had little to do with the present moment and needed no attachment from either one of us. But they were important enough to need something other than simply tearing up and discarding in the waste basket, so we took the fragments out to a lovely spot in Flora's garden, placed them in a ceramic pot that she herself had made, and set a match to them. It was a moving moment, to stand and watch this old history purified in the flames.

At our age, it is not easy to say goodbye. Travel becomes less easy, and the years fly past. But the moment came, we said a rather tearful goodbye--I speak for myself--and backed the little Yaris out perilously for the last time into Coxwell Street. We took the Cotswold country roads through Bibury and Burford (with a thought for Jenny, my former sister-in-law; sad to miss her, but we did not even have a telephone number) and joined the main A4o to get to the Pear Tree Park-and-Ride for Oxford.

Well, I hesitate to sound prejudiced or snobby, but I actually prefer the other "other place"--my own. I'm sure that Cambridge, like Oxford today, has been inundated with tourists. I'm equally sure that, like Oxford, it has more than its share of MacDonalds and Pizza Huts and Burger Kings and Starbucks--not to mention The Gap and other chains. But Cambridge does feel more open and spacious to me, more of a college town, with its central market square, its lovely Backs and its fabulous King's Parade, its colleges gathered more or less along a single route. Last time I was there, the colleges were also more welcoming and open to visitors. Here in Oxford, you were lucky to get a glimpse through into the first quad from the porter's lodge...

Perhaps that, too, has changed at Cambridge. Even the Oxford version of the Bridge of Sighs...

... (both universities boast a replica of this Venice landmark) is different; unlike its Cambridge counterpart, it crosses no water, just a dry, paved street.

But enough of these tiresome prejudicial quibbles. I'm sure I have annoyed enough people by now. We did enjoy our time wandering the back streets and the main streets of this great university. We enjoyed our visit to the science museum...

with a special exhibition of its collection of oddities and eccentricities. We enjoyed mugging in front of fine old buildings: here's Ellie, by what I believe to be the Divinity School...

...and again, in the back alley that leads to a famous tavern...

And myself, preparing for lunch at what purports to be the oldest coffee house in the kingdom...

With the prospect of a fairly long drive back through London traffic to Islington, we left the city toward mid-afternoon on the park-and-ride double decker. (At this point, Latin scholars--and others--might enjoy this 1914 ode to the Motor Bus by A. D. Godfrey. As this picture shows, it's as appropriate today as it was back then, when motor buses first appeared on English streets.)

We fired up the trusty Yaris and our GPS, Gertie, for an uneventful, relatively easy journey back to the flat. A long walk down the rather drab Holloway Road to the local Waitrose market to pick up a few supplies for supper--an unpretentious affair of soup and good English cheddar cheese. Lacking a television set in the flat, we switched on the laptop and found an episode of MI-5 to watch. Over here, it's called "Spooks"--an unacceptable title, it seems, in sensitive America. We have a little mouse who scampers around here in the evening. Ellie lets out the traditional "Eek!" whenever she sees him, but he does no harm.

And off to bed.

Dulwich

We awoke back in our Islington flat and spent the morning catching up with the blog and various other chores before heading out, in the middle of the day, for the journey from the Archway tube station, some fifteen minutes' walk to the north, down under central London to end up at the nearest tube to our friends in Dulwich, south of the city. Margaret and Bernard are the parents of the young couple with whom we traded ten days in the Laguna cottage for ten days in their London flat; they had kindly invited us down for the afternoon and were there at the station to drive us to their lovely home in this pleasant suburb.

A beautiful, sunny day--and unexpectedly warm. We spent some time admiring the back garden...

... a delightful mix of wild growth and cultivation...

... which includes such treasures as a fig tree, a vegetable garden at the bottom end, a lily pond and a productive raspberry patch. Not to mention the birds. Bernard tells us that they have seen thirty different species over the years, and that at least a dozen are regular visitors to their bird feeders. From the bottom of the garden, we heard a greater spotted woodpecker at work in the neighbor's graceful acacia tree. A genuine paradise, amazingly quiet and private for the suburb of a great, noisy city.

(Is this not a Constable?)

Margaret had prepared a delicious lunch for us--poached salmon and new potatoes with vegetables and salad, followed by fresh strawberries and raspberries and cream! After lunch, we left for our promised tour of the landmarks of this part of the city, the Dulwich Picture Gallery and and College. Too much fascinating history to recount here; suffice it to say that it was all originally a part of one great estate, and that much of it has been protected from the ravages of commercial development.

Our first stop was at the Picture Gallery--an amazing treasure house of great paintings from the Italian Renaissance to Constable and Reynolds, including some masterpiece work by the likes of Rembrandt and Rubens. Bernard--a person of some influence in these parts!--had arranged for a personal tour guide for the four of us, and our extraordinarily well informed docent regaled us with great stories about the history of the place, its founders and benefactors. as well as about the astounding collection. One of London's best kept secrets, it is only recently beginning to be widely known and is, of course, a magnet for historians and scholars who find it a mine of new topics for research and study.

Of particular interest to us was the surprising current exhibition, Twombley and Poussin: Arcadian Painters, exploring these painters' common interest in poetry, myth and nature, and the curious coincidence of their ages at various stages of development. The show includes some absolutely wonderful paintings by both artists--the most amazing of which, for me, were the Twombleys, especially his huge, magnificent "Four Seasons." They cast the painter in a whole new, richer and more incandescent light for me.

Here's a part of the original Dulwich College buildings, now alms houses:

And a recent bronze statue of the school's founder, Edward Alleyn, a celebrated actor on the Elizabethan stage of Shakespeare and Marlowe. Too much history to attempt to recall today, but here's a link to further information. On to the college itself, then...

... where Bernard attended school many years ago and where he is still very active in alumni work. Dulwich is one of the fine English "public" schools---and one which has made a consistent effort, over many years, to maintain access for students other than the wealthy few who could afford the hefty fees. Like many schools of its kind (including my own, Lancing College,) it has produced many outstanding figures including, in the case of Dulwich, the explorer Ernest Shackleton, whose storied survival lifeboat, the James Caird...

... is preserved to this day in one wing of the college. That's another inspiring story of great courage, sacrifice, leadership and perseverance--qualities which schools such as these are intended to foster.

A great afternoon. After a late tea and a bite of delicious "lemon drizzle" cake in the garden, we bade a grateful farewell to our generous hosts and returned to our flat to solve a water heater problem. It involved several transatlantic calls; but the less said about that, the better. We missed our mouse this evening...