When we left off, St Paul’s had been espied, and the size of the thing was sufficient to knock one for six (a phrase I’ve never looked into the derivation of, but no doubt someone will provide the information now that the question’s been put). After going into the British Museum and coming out of a single gallery with a brain fully saturated with information, it seemed a wise move to not go on the tour of the Cathedral (plus one saves £8 in the bargain). The Golden Gallery and The Whispering Gallery would have been cool to check out, but that’s next time and someone will have to accompany me so that the latter’s acoustics can be confirmed as functioning in the famous manner.

So… to sit upon the steps, look at the statue of Her Late Majesty Queen Victoria (HON. MEMBERS: Hear, hear!), and see if the laptop can connect to a Wi-Fi network, so that an e-mail can be sent to Jennifer saying ‘guess where I’m typing this?’ Sadly, there’s no signal that I can access. Damn.

However, there is — just across the square from the historical building and equally historical monument to the longest-reigning Monarch in English History [image, above left] — a Pizza Express declaring its lengthy existence in the location, a mighty history of some several full years numbering almost two digits!

It’s enough to make one shake one’s head.

The imposing sight of the place [image, right] really can’t be over-stated. This is a cathedral with one stated goal: to impart to all who approach it that, while they may be in the city which is considered the cradle of modern civilisation, they are but human and Mighty is The Lord whose house stands before them. They are to feel humble and know their mortal limitations before Him. This edifice succeeds fully at its task. The inscription on Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb in the Cathedral’s crypt is quite right to state Lector, si Monumentum Requiris, Circumspice, for it is a mighty monument to the power of a belief in God, no matter what your own religious outlook may be.

Onwards, then, and into the area most commonly thought of when someone speaks of having an office in ‘The City’: the Financial District. Here is where the Stock Exchange, the Bank of England, and numerous investment and financial companies have their headquarters. Oddly, some people are so well off from the business they do, they can even use the sides of their buildings for the purpose of shopping lists [see photo, below left].

Arriving in the area around Bank Station — located at the conflagration of Prince’s, Lombard, Queen Victoria, Cornhill, and Threadneedle Streets — we see the historical heart of English Commerce: The Royal Exchange! Now used as an luxury shopping centre, it consists of a number of floors and office spaces surrounding a central courtyard which was once where merchants and tradesmen could do business and the place to go and buy and sell stocks. During the mid-1950s, stock trading having all but entirely stopped during the Second World War, the central courtyard was transformed into The Mermaid Theatre and productions of As You Like it and Macbeth were staged in honour of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953 (although one wonders about the propriety of the second title as something to honour a coronation) as it was Queen Elizabeth I who gave the decree that the original Exchange be henceforth termed “Royal”.

As I took a number of photographs of it [right], I was impressed with the architectural grandness of this monument of National Finance… because I thought it was the Bank of England. Days later came realisation that the Bank of England was, in fact, building which was provided such a handy thing to jump up on the ledges of so as to find a better angle to take pictures of what was now a shopping mall for those people still possessing enough money to buy and sell me thrice over. This is the problem with exploring a city without a native to guide you about and explain what’s what, what? Domine Dirige Nos indeed!

[sigh]

Onwards again, further into ‘The Square Mile’ to the immediate East and North of this spot, which not only houses the two buildings mentioned, but also the headquarters for Lloyd’s of London, the residence of the Lord Mayor, the Swiss Re Tower (aka: “30 St. Mary Axe”, its address; “The Gherkin”; “The Towering Innuendo”; The Crystal Phallus”, which is also a pun on ‘The Crystal Palace’; “The Glass Dildo”), and Tower 42 (formerly “the NatWest Tower”, due to it being the headquarters for the National Westminster Bank).

The last of those buildings listed wasn’t on the “List of Things to See” for the day, but upon crossing Gracechurch Street, a quick glance to the left brought me almost to a complete halt as the sight of a chunk of New York City seemed to have been plonked down in the middle of London. After a quick shot or two of that monstrosity (and the tallest building in the UK until 1 Canada Place was built on Canary Warf), the headquarters for Lloyd’s was sought.

Other than the fact that its design was ‘modern’ and ‘futuristic’, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was looking for. When, after wending one’s way through some fairly traditional Victorian-era constructions lining a number of winding streets, the location was confirmed by looking at the map and checking intersecting streets about half-a-dozen times, the only reaction to coalesce was “you’re kidding; that’s Lloyd’s?” As I looked at it [image, left], the thought “well, it’ll look great once it’s done” came to mind, along with the possibility that it would have fit perfectly as part of the landscape of Blade Runner (although it’s said the inspiration for that story’s city was a number of weeks in Vancouver, along with the author taking a large amount of acid). Looking at the photos now, I still am at a loss to decide whether or not I like it. Apparently the real time to see it is at night, for the architects have been able to provide the drama and colour to make it truly become what matches their original idea for the building. As one didn’t see that, nor can one easily locate any photos of it at night, I shall have to return to this in the evening during the next visit to this city.

Turning North, I beheld 30 St. Mary Axe: the building named for a pickle [image below, taken from opposing direction than indicated by the narrative]. And, Lord, it certainly does look like one. When viewed from the correct direction, there’s even a green tint to sections of it. This building, one can take to easily, as the lines are much more welcoming than the ‘kitchen implement’ features of the Lloyd’s building. Around the base of it is a plaza, which must be filled on a summer’s day with people meeting and lunching. Around the edge of the plaza is a raised wall, and into each section of it, on the top surface, is a number of large plaques, each containing a line of a poem, principally speaking of an opposition to war and violence in general. At the mid-point of the wall there is a most curious — and entirely appropriate — tomb to an un-known Roman child, whose murdered remains were found during construction, carefully removed to safety, and then re-buried in the same spot so that they continue their briefly interrupted internment. How apt, then, for a poem to be placed around them, speaking of violence to all people whether known and honoured by those who did so, or those who no longer are remembered yet whose deaths were just as needless.

Oddly, I can’t find anything about the poem or the child’s tomb anywhere, so I may be entirely wrong in all of the above political / pacifist connection-making.

Tomorrow, part iii: Leaving the Financial Centre before I’m nicked by the Security boys.

All of these posts about the trip are composed using notes about each day’s events and points of interest which were jotted down either at the end of that day or a few days after, so as to have fresh insights about what was intriguing and permit the viewpoint to be kept as close to the original impressions as possible. Often, when visiting a new place, aspects of a location and its uniqueness is lost when thinking back upon it weeks later after returning to the mundanity of one’s normal locale. That which was foreign to one’s experience is now foreign again, so the recollection of its spark of excitement when first seen is lost. Thus, with both time and physicality in close proximity, the making of notes and occasional bits of text putting into words what one thinks and feels is of great aid when composing more complete works of prose about the moment in the past.

For some reason, no notes were made about the 20^th, which is why this post is all based on photos.

I’ve no idea why I didn’t note anything down, but perhaps I was too completely knackered at the end of the day to place words into a document. Also possible is that the intention was to make some notes the next day, but couldn’t recall anything more detailed than ‘went for a walk in The City’; which is precisely what I did.

As a result, most of this will follow the time-honoured style of “here’s a photo, and here’s what it is and what was happening at the time”. Logically, some of the images will be bigger than normal so as to show you things in them. Additionally, if you click them they’ll not take you to a page at Flickr, but instead will open a larger version of the image in front of the post so you can see as much detail as is needed.

Now, are you all sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…

The decision was made that this was the day I would wander into The City of London proper, choosing to eschew those lesser places such as Westminster, Covent Garden, and St. John’s Wood. Begone with your talk of the Wonder of Wandsworth, the Charm of Chelsea, or the Beauty of Brixton! ‘Tis London, I say; LONDON!

For those of you thinking ‘but isn’t he already in London?’, it’s important to remember that there is Greater London which encompasses all of the places just mentioned and more besides, and then there’s the specific original City of London which comprises post codes EC1-EC4, and is often merely referred to as ‘The City’, as there is no other city in the world worth the breath of mentioning it. That was the story during the time of The Empire, anyway.

The ultimate goal for the day was to head into the area and see the Sites of Historic Import within that Sacred and Holy City of the New Jerusalem (a.k.a.: ‘London’). Having examined the map of The City in the Lonely Planet Guide to England, it seemed a goodly day’s walking tour would bring one in contact with a plethora of things which one ought to have an idea what they really look like. Choosing to basically start at one end and work to the other, this made St. Paul’s Cathedral [image of dome, above left] the logical ‘start point’ was there, albeit by way of Blackfriar’s Bridge.

Silly me… One cannot simply ‘take a peek’ at something as one heads to the supposed ‘first big thing’ when walking in London. The place is filled with big, important things; to the extent that you’ll probably sit down on one to rest for a minute and not realise it.

For instance, the cattle troughs are still there [see right], testifying to the Borough of Clerkenwell’s origins as a Goods and Warehousing area. This one was put in place in 1886 by the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association, who may very well be still finding location for the things, for all one knows.

Whilst writing this, I was stunned to discover that the M.D.F.&C.T.A. have an entry in Wikipedia, proving once and for all that everything is available to answer your questions if you merely search that site. Still, it’s incredible to locate so much information about something seemingly so innocuous as a group dedicated to the construction of public water fountains.

Shortly thereafter one passes what is probably the Smithfield Central Markets (word of its exact nature is still to come from my tame London Expert), which that day were either closed because the place is a death trap — which it looks like [image, above left] — or because it was Monday — which it was that day — and eventually arrive at Blackfriars Bridge, where I once again give directions to people, this time to a nice young German couple who needed to know how to get to the Tate Modern, just the other side of the span. Easy-peasy.

The bridge [image, right] is an impressive thing: wide, flat, and quite easy to drive across without realising the thing’s a bridge, one should think. It was being worked on at the City end that day. It’s possible they were completing a bit someone in 1645 made a note about getting to at the end of the job. One didn’t want to ask as it might be quite embarrassing for the men involved.

After passing a Welsh church trapped on all sides by an underpass and an overpass and a by-way… and the poor people are already suffering so much merely by being Welsh… one next passes by the Royal College of Arms (just sitting there, no fanfares, no big fancy security force, no neon sign), when suddenly — up a pedestrian mall between who buildings — you see St. Paul’s.

I’d spotted it a few times in the past hour as the distance decreased, but hadn’t seen it for the past twenty minutes or so, so to suddenly be one block from it, and to have it a goodly height upwards from my elevation, was to be presented with the full glory of its construction. The height, the design, the incomprehensibility of something that massive not being destroyed in the blitz (how could you not hit the thing, even if you tried to miss it?), it all fell into place. The scale of the undertaking of its construction is incomprehensible when gazing upon its whole. The setting in the landscape is such that you are able to stand at a great enough distance that you appreciate its lines and dimensions.

Let’s stop here for this post, and continue with more of the walking tour of The City tomorrow.

I arise around 10, probably. The head is still full of a bit of pooh, so the rest is good. Granted, today will probably set that health back a bit from being fully realised, but who cares?

Leaving the hotel on my way to breakfast and Wi-Fi, the pretty young African girl at reception brightens at my passing and greets me. “You’re not wearing your hat” she says, having obviously been on the desk yesterday afternoon when I wandered in under a red fez. This is what happens when you stay more than a week and don’t set fire to your room or engage in a drunken brawl: they remember you because of your anachronistic headgear.

Crossing Great Percy Street, I see two men eating chicken and each sucking heartily on large tins of Foster’s Lager. On the pavement. The boxes of chicken are sitting on the top of a metal dispenser, or rubbish tin ‚or something. Right next to the road. Wow. Upon my return, the men have gone and the empty Foster’s tin has been joined by an empty bottle of Tesco’s Scotch Whisky, so they are clearly men of selective and discerning tastes. Thank goodness they chose to share this display of hearty Lord’s Day Buffet with the public, so that the rumours of London’s citizens being able to carry-off any sort of behaviour and get away with it are continued.

Granted, this isn’t Mayfair or Knightsbridge, so what does one expect?

Caffé Nero has Diana Krall (Nanaimo’s Greatest Export) singing away about nobody wanting you when you’re down and out; how nice it is to hear a voice from home. However the staff recognised and greeted me me as a local — I think — or at least as someone other than just an anonymous bloke looking for coffee. How nice to be treated as belonging somewhere 1/3 around the world from my home. I could live here. Perhaps I am already doing so, in a way, but only for a short time?

After e-mail inviting me out for an afternoon, it’s back to the hotel to then meet up at King’s Cross [intersection, above] for a wander to the new King’s Place Arts Centre where we have cups of tea, browse some newspapers and see one of the many canals which make London accessible by barge. Mostly this is used for transport of things such as heavy transport goods now, but in the past has been used for bringing in ice and other supplies for use in The City; as well as people on barges taking a holiday or simply living and working on the canals of England, which they still do. More information on this ‘hidden gem of London and Greater Britain’ is available through the good people at the London Canal Museum.

Then it’s off to a find one of the famed London Black Cabs where an address is given to the driver who responds it with something akin to ‘where the hell’s that, then?’ After being chided for having done The Knowledge, help is offered him from one of his passengers sitting in one of the ‘jump seats’ behind him, and enquiry is made of another passenger as to what our destination is. “We’re going to The Pineapple!” I stare blankly at him, having no idea what he’s talking about. “It’s a pub.” I absorb this information: Pineapple, public house. Visions of people with massive arrangements of fruit on their heads serving drinks fill my mind, only to be replaced with images of people pulling pints into hallowed-out pineapple shells, or possibly fermented pineapple-juice.

It is as this precise moment that I internally shrug and resign myself to the understanding that I am no way in control of the rest of the day’s destiny, and accept that anything can — and probably will — happen.

The Pineapple (51 Leverton Street, Kentish Town, NW5 2NX) is a wonderful place to spend the afternoon in a massive chin-wag. Pints are inevitably involved. These are two of The Three Good Things in London (cf. 1066 and All That, Messrs. Sellar & Yateman [Methuen, 1998 re-print — ISBN-10: 0−413−77270−5; ISBN-13: 978 – 0-413 – 77270-1]), the third being currently discussed by a large committee struck to determine what it may be (word is that the third century of debate went rather well, but the fourth seems to be a bit distracted with discussing the introduction of motor carriages and ‘them dashed, pesky Labourites’).

I got the first round as we came in the door, we settled in ‘the snug’ with newspapers many… and then things got away from me as people came and went over a number of hours. At one point we had the day’s theme snack as it was “Sausage Sunday!”, which wasn’t bad to be honest. However, I’ve no idea who paid for my actual lunch of a Chicken Satay Wrap, which was also delightful. Rounds came and were consumed throughout, and again they appeared without my involvement… many people are owed pints by me… if only one could remember their names…

The lane behind the pub was visited, “because Ian wants to take a photo of it.” I did…? One doesn’t recall saying this, but upon arriving in it, the charm of it was immediately evident, and photos were taken [there’s one on the left, for instance]. A heaven of cobblestones, it harkened to a time of earlier days when the area was very working class and filled with a mixture of industrial filth and equally filthy people. These days the filth and the industry are gone, but the buildings — to an extent — remain, most of them having had ‘all mod cons’ rammed up their backsides and walls and floors moved around to accommodate the massive collection of stuff which the typical ‘civilised person’ scatters about their nest.

Time continued inexorably onward, we retired to the Solarium in the pub’s rear for a bit, then… Eventually we left and headed back to King’s Cross, on the way having a race on London Transport with one of our number taking the Overland Railway whilst the other two took the Underground. I’ve no idea the time at this point, nor if dinner was had, but I doubt it. I do recall coming back to the room to read The Independent on Sunday’s “Forgotten Authors” column and a piece about the new film W, all about the soon-to-be-ex-President.

And I watch more Blake’s 7. God, it’s slow to get going… the only suspense in it seems to be the question ‘will there be tension anytime?’

By now, I really am starting to get the hang off the city now. No, seriously! Watch; we’ll pop down here and take a short-cut I’ve learned that will… oh… this is the dead-end I’ve learned… right… Okay, let’s go back to the main road behind and then we’ll… oh… hang on, it ought to be… I’ll just look at the A-Z for a minute…

The head-death continues un-abated, and the lack of deep sleep last evening doesn’t help the feeling of confusion and dis-orientation. Yes, eventually, those Morphean arms of rest were reached, but the ability to remain in their warm embrace was neither un-interrupted nor even sufficiently long to provide any depth of sleep so badly needed by the body to utilise its recuperative powers. The fact that I’ve neither alarm clock nor any other hotel-provided system of knowing the time to arise probably doesn’t help, as the mind needs to keep checking on how the time’s getting on every ninety minutes or so. At one point I take to getting out of bed, turning on the laptop, waiting for Windows to start, looking at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen, then powering down, then getting back into bed; all just to do the same as glancing at one’s bed-side clock would normally accomplish. This must end, and I resolve to get both a clock with ability to right its alarum bells, as well as some sort of medical capsules with have both a decongestant and narcotic in as high amounts as can be had without putting a G.P. in a headlock so as to obtain a prescription.

As is the norm now, one breakfasts at the Exmouth Market Caffé Nero in Clerkenwell, with more juice and yoghurt than you can shake a stick at. Sadly, today they’re out of the selections of sliced, fresh fruit that I’ve grown fond of. Damn. The citric acidity is wonderfully able to cut through phlegm, and the Vitamin C must be doing something to at least stave off this cold getting worse.

A good number of hours are spent dealing with e-mail aplenty about so very many things. One of today’s chief topics is arranging to spend Tuesday with fellow Humdrumming person Trudi Topham. She claims to have abilities profound with the leading of men from foreign parts about inside the confines of large national facilities. The destination of a few days from now is The National Gallery, one of Jennifer’s favourite places to visit when she was a Gardener Trainee at Windsor Great Park. Many wonderful things are in the building and at least some of them ought to be seen before one leaves.

Such time is spent doing all of this e-mail that Luncheon is taken at this coffee house of joy near the Mount Pleasant sorting station, consisting of some sort of Fruit Booster Smoothie Thing. So healthy is it, that one can almost taste it through the nasal pooh filling the canals of one’s skull. After leaving the coffee house, I re-locate the chemist’s and pay for a packet of “Lemsip MAX” AM/PM… If this doesn’t work, there shall be some blood spilt in Olde London Towne methinks…

I locate, with some difficulty, a business willing to make much of my clothing cleaner than it currently is. The hope was for a laundrette to be near-by, possibly with free in-house wi-fi. However, blast it, such is not to hand without travelling some distance, and its probably asking far too much for provision of world communication technology as well. None the less, after a short walk up King’s Cross Road almost to Pentonville Road, one locates a cleaner who agrees to cleanse my several kilos of clothing so that it might be fresher and less bacteria-ridden. Soon, at least my clothes will smell English.

Heading through town on the way to a meeting with Bristol-based author of skill John Llewellyn Probert, the British Museum is used as a geographic guidepost around which to navigate. On one side of it, the Bloomsbury Hotel [image; above, left], near which Russell Square forms the heart of Bloomsbury, with the Russell Square Gardens being historically surrounded by offices of publishers who released Great Works of Literature (so declared due to… the publishers saying they were, and no one was able to successfully argue against them, so the label stuck). Now, of course, the publishing offices are mostly located in Chelsea or Kensington (where the heating’s more modern), but here is the place where England’s Literary Power was located between the World Wars.

Heading south from the B.M. along the mysteriously named “Museum Street” (how do they come up with these names?), one comes upon Drury Lane almost by accident after crossing the vast width of High Holborn. Pity most of it is dug up, though [photo; right]. When now looking at north end of it in the borough of Camden, it’s tough to see it as having once being the fabled street of dreams during the late-Victorian Era, with actors heading to the Theatre Royal negotiating their way through the area’s prostitution and past its gin palaces; never mind as this being the reputed location of the home of The Muffin Man. Still, it’s charming, what? One of the places one ought to see, if only to say ‘one was there once, you know…’

After wandering past the Freemason’s Hall and taking pictures of the imposing façade famous for its standing in for Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, in the series Spooks (or MI5 in the US broadcasts), I arrive at Holborn Station where I am to meet with Mr. Probert in the time-honoured fashion of ‘you shall know me by my red tuxedo jacket and matching fez’. Standing outside the Kingsway exit and attempting to get a wi-fi signal on my laptop as traffic and plebeians sweep past me in equal amounts of ‘a fuck of a lot’, one does feel a tad outré with one’s sartorial choices. Still, this is the method of recognition which was agreed upon. He locates me, and we re-locate to the Prince of Wales Pub to discuss things literary.

On the way there, we pass a crowd of young people who we supposed were queuing to be considered for inclusion in Britain’s Got Talent. We agreed it was a shame that, if Britain did indeed have any, none of it was in evidence that day. Perhaps it was taking a week-end in Belgium, but we hoped it was able to have a nice break.

While working our way to the bar and then the ensuing safari to locate a table for ourselves, we both noted the Pearly King and Queen in residence having a spot of late luncheon. While considering the taking of a photo or two, it seemed… well, odd, as I was still wearing a fez … so I didn’t. You don’t want to look too much of a touristy git, do you? There’s even limits to how much I wish to draw attention to myself.

Mr. Probert and I part each other’s company a short time later, neither of us having threatened the other’s life indicating something positive at the very least. As we returned to the Tube Station we considered barging our way into the audition room of Britain’s Got Talent to ‘show ‘em how it’s done’, but decided that the poor young people would be so crushed by the obvious superiority of John’s piano bashing and my singing/interesting movement that they would go home weeping. As a result, we protected the sanctity of the dreams held so tightly by the throng standing upon the Great Queen Street pavement.

I head to The Union Tavern, intending to have dinner. Upon arriving there, however, the nice publican informs me that ‘chef is just getting in,’ so dinner will be a bit delayed. ‘Perhaps Sir would wish to return in a couple of hours, say at 6:30…?’ And perhaps after one is no longer wearing such a silly hat, one suggests? He pauses ever-so-slightly before responding ‘As you wish, Sir…’ So, I head to the hotel and decide to dine at Smithy’s instead, it being a short distance away in the very-out-of-the-way bit along Leeke Street. Dinner began with a salad of warm mozzarella with braised fennel and red onion on rocket, with a pesto-based dressing; then this was followed by the most incredible duck a l’orange of my life! Accompanying the moist, flawlessly prepared fowl, was spinach and roasted butter-nut squash, as well as fresh sour-dough bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. ‘Afters’ consisted of pistachio and black current ice cream, as well as elderberry sorbet, the three presented in equal amounts in a small bowl. There was wine had, but there is no note from the evening regarding the varietal, never mind even the vintner country.

The result was a bill of something larger than one would have liked, as it wasn’t the intention to ‘splash out’ this evening, but… well, I’ll remember this meal for a long while. The greatest shame was that Jennifer wasn’t here for it, as she’d really have loved it. Very much a wonderful place with perfect service, excellent food, and a fair selection of real ales, this is a place to head to without worrying about the price, as the value is the thing. More about them on their web-site here.

After the meal one perambulated back to the hotel, where one endured two more episodes of Blakes 7… thinking “it’s got to get better now that we’re getting more stuff set-up, right…? …please?”

And so, to sleep; perchance to rest properly for a change.

A day in which few things are done, but much takes place. Life’s like that, eh?