London Calling

We gathered a group of families at our neighborhood pub last night to bid farewell to a local favorite, Ben’s Thai Restaurant.

Local lore holds that chef Ben is whisked away to cook for the King of Thailand on his occassional visits to London.  Perhaps not fit for a king, the food was tasty and reliable for a neghborhood joint.  Ben’s has been a long-time, upstairs occupant of the Warrington Hotel, one of the most ornate Victorian-era pubs in London and our local watering hole.  Built as a hotel in the 1850’s, the turn-of-the-century Warrington was rumored to be a favorite brothel of west-enders, even while being owned by the Church of England.

The building has been purchased by celebrity restaurateur, Gordon Ramsay.  Having recently earned two new Michelin stars for his London digs, Petrus and La Noisette, Ramsay intends to turn the Warrington into a gastro-pub, serving food beyond the basic sausage and mash or steak and ale pie.  Sadly, I’m guessing the new eats will require a reservation six weeks in advance or a personal relationship with Ramsay.  Certainly the price of a pint wil go up…

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An opportune day off from school gave us a chance to take the kids to the Tate Modern with the promise of a breath-taking descent through the cavernous heart of the former power station(designed by the architect of Cropthorne Court fame!).  Weekend visitors arrive before opening time to queue up for tickets to this most interactive of modern art exhibits.  On a Friday morning, we had the place to ourselves.

Modern art often leaves me scratching my head.  I can appreciate experiments with medium, color, balance and perspective, but more conceptual exercises often strike me as gratuitously clever or facetious.  I’m not sure how I feel about Carsten Holler’s slide exhibition as art, but it sure as hell is a damn good ride.  Five stories of flying and twisting through space in an aluminum and plexiglass tube.  Participatory sculpture like this should be required at all art museums.

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Well, not exactly, but we did wake up to snow in London this morning.  A rarity here, but even less likely in Berkeley.  This is the first time the kids have ever walked to school in the snow. A day to remember…

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Winds at freeway passing lane speeds, bullets of rain trying to slash through gortex and denim, the river washing over its banks to muddy the trail, trees falling across our path.  The perfect day to brave a gentle walk along the Thames.  The Thames Path travels along the river for 180 miles of English countryside.  The path begins on the east side of greater London, following the meandering Thames through Greenwich, the city, a string of small villages, farms and country estates, finally ending at the river’s source near Cirencester.

Several other London lads and I had chosen a nine mile stretch of river between Henley-on-Thames and Marlow, anticipating a mild three hour walk to a pint and a pub lunch.  However, leaving the train station and crossing the river, it was clear that we were in for a rough morning.  Many of the quayside docks were submerged as the river was swollen from days of heavy rain.  The wind roared across the open water and fields, blowing sheets of rain against our backs.  One small consolation: that wind would stay at our backs for most of the day.  We followed the river for a few miles along the route of the famous Henley Regatta.  Beautiful boathouses and open greens line this part of the Thames.  During regatta season they are all crowded and bustling with activity. This day everything was boarded up and abandoned.  The trail was well marked but often flooded, leading us to traverse open heath as necessary to maintain our footing and keep our feet dry.  As with the rest of rural England, the paths were well marked and provided access across working farms and elegant estates.

After passing by the lock at Hambleden, we saw that the rushing water had expanded well beyond its banks, completely cutting off our route.  Fortunately, this was at a U turn in the river which allowed us to follow a small road into the village of Aston to rejoin the trail.  While the wind continued to blow at a steady clip upwards of 60 mph, the rain was now coming in short, intermittent bursts.  The temperature was mild, so the wind acted as an effective blow dryer on our wet backs.  An hour into the walk and we were feeling pretty good about our progress.

After leaving Aston we followed the path across a hillside through a flock of grazing sheep.  The river was down to our left, about 300 yards away.  Acres of meadow had flooded on both banks and the sheep were headed for higher ground.  We were 100 yards below the crest of the hill, walking in relative calm and quiet, but could hear the wind blowing like a hurricane just above us.  Dscending back to the river’s edge, we were forced to abandon the trail again for dryer and firmer ground.  We trudged through waist-high brush along a line of elm trees that were bending in the wind.  A loud crack and one of them fell across our path fifty yards ahead.  OK, adrenaline rush.  By now we were all re-thinking the wisdom of this outing.  Fortunately, from here on in it was mostly a struggle against mud and wind, as the sky began to clear.  Still, we had over four miles and perhaps two hours to go.

The path stuck to the river past the villages of Hurley and Temple  While the banks were often flooded, we were rarely walking through more than a few inches of water.  We’d see another half dozen newly felled trees across our path before day’s end.  A few unusually strong gusts of wind sent one or more of us skidding across the path in the mud or scraping along a barbed-wire fence but, with that wind at our back we were able to recapture some of our lost time as we danced across the mud trying to keep our balance.

We finally saw the bridge at Marlow in the distance.  The trail was narrowly penned in between the river and a barbed-wire fence, leading to a small footbridge just below the quay that would lead onto our first solid footing in over an hour.  The river would play one last trick.  Despite all the wind and rain, mud splattered up above our knees, we had all made it this far with relatively dry feet.  The last 50 yards of path were completely covered by Thames water.  Swans floated along the fence line where the path was supposed to be.  We had made it 99% of the way to Marlow, but weren’t gonna get our pint without sacrificing our feet.  Somewhere behind us there may have been an alternative route, but by now we were all too tired and frustrated to care.  It was only 20 or 30 splashing steps to the bridge, but in six to ten inches of Thames that was enough to fill our boots with water and soak us to the knees.

Ultimately, we’d only lost about an hour to the elements.  But, instead of enjoying the rural sights, we spent the day battling weather more common to Mt. Washington than the inland vales of England.  After pouring out our boots and hanging what we could strip off in front of a fire at the Two Brewers, that first pint was most welcome indeed.

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Among the many familiar traditions we found in London this Christmas season was ice skating.  Of course, ice is as hard to come by for skating as it is for a cocktail or soda in a pub.  It didn’t help that this year’s December temperatures were running above 50˚F, rather warm for outdoor ice, even with costly ozone- depleting and smog-generating refrigeration systems hard at work.  The few, high-profile, outdoor ice rinks are available on a paid reservation basis.  Most popular of these is the courtyard at Somerset House, an imposing 18th century palace along the banks of the Thames.  Somerset House, former home of the Royal Society and the Navy Board where seamen awaited there sailing orders, now houses an impressive collection of galleries and exhibit halls, as well as the Inland Revenue Office, Britain’s version of the IRS.

Sadly, with the thriving London economy comes increased demand for leisure activities and, as novices in town, we were slow to pull the trigger on this rink.  Sarah did manage to squeeze in an hour of skating on the moat at the Tower of London, but the rink there was bathed in half an inch of water–a sloppy proposition.  Kew Gardens and Windsor Castle were both booked, as well, but we were fortunate to find an afternoon slot at Hampton Court Palace.

On a sunny Saturday the weather gods smiled on us with the first frosty day of winter.  After a short train ride out to Hampton Court we picked up our tickets, grabbed some surprisingly decent skates, and took to the crowded rink.  Hilary’s Wisconsin upbringing has endowed her with some skill on the ice, but the rest of us floundered around like Londoners.

Do they play hockey in the UK?  You’d never know it from the dearth of flashy skaters on the rink.  When the hour was up we cleared the ice, grabbed some hot tea and ambled over to the palace gardens for a stroll.  The dozens of acres of manicured lawns, gardens and topiary were impressive, despite being mostly dormant.  We finished off our day with sausage and mash at a local pub…and a few pints.

Not a bad start to our winter holiday…..

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