Holiday Day nine (March 10^th) Niagara and Dinner in the air

To Niagara

Tuesday started with a pleasant, if costly, breakfast at the Hilton. (I remember the hotel now because I took a photo of it the night before.)

This was a day for an escorted tour, complete with a knowledgeable guide, and we were corralled into reception at a certain time to ensure all 20 of us were present and correct. Hands washed, a clean handkerchief, shoes cleaned… Oh, that was boarding school, sorry. It was a more laid-back affair as everyone met one by one and shared stories of where they’d gone the night before and what the rooms were like – huge. At the appointed hour, Tour Manager Keith moved among us, counting and tapping on his phone as he always seemed to be doing, said something about meeting our guide and the coach, and herded us outside to a comfort bus. We’d been joined by our two American guests by then, Maxine and her translator. Maxine (who I called Maricie by mistake) soon became a firm favourite thanks to her lack of hearing and sit-com character. Conversations with Maxine often ran thus:

‘Good morning,’ you’d greet as you found your seat.
‘What did he say?’ she’d ask her companion.
‘He said, good morning.’ (Spoken deliberately and close to the ear.)
‘Oh.’
‘Are you having a good time?’
‘I think it’s nine. Is it nine?’
‘Yes, it’s nine.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why d’you ask?’

It was a grey day that promised a morning of rain, but a brighter afternoon, which as it turned out, was precisely what we got. Niagara Falls are about 80 miles from where we were staying, and the journey took us through Mississauga along the Queen Elizabeth Way. Place names are a mix of British and North American as you go through Burlington, Stony Creek, and close to Aldershot, before seeing the delights of Grimsby, Port Dalhousie and finally Niagara. You could be forgiven for thinking you’d arrived at Blackpool what with the arcades and tourist ‘attractions’ that didn’t look so attractive in the grey drizzle. A multitude of coloured lights spangled the windows through the rain, reminding me of Hastings in autumn, and the streets, teaming in summer no doubt, were more or less empty.

At Niagara

As was the car park when we drove in and unloaded with directions and instructions given by our guide. The rendezvous time was arranged, and toilets pointed out to Maxine. ‘No, I’m still fine, dear.’

There were a couple of things that struck me about Niagara Falls. Firstly, how small they seem in comparison to expectations, and then how much the town is a tourist trap. However, you can’t help but be awed by nature, and the third thing that struck me was how close you can get to the water. There are places where, if you had a death wish, you could step over the fence and go for a swim. It would last about three seconds before you’re swept over the drop to your doom.

Having said that, in 1960, seven-year-old Roger Woodward and his sister were in a boat on the upper Niagara River when the boat capsized. The man with them went over the falls and died, the sister was rescued 20 feet from the edge, and young Roger went over but survived. I wouldn’t advise it, however, not with 681,750 gallons of water per second accompanying you to the plunge pool at the bottom. (That, apparently, is what it’s called.)

We learnt all manner of information as we took to the tunnels that have been built into the rock so you can get behind the falls, get wet and, if you can hear yourself think, say things like ‘Oh!’, ‘Good Lord!’ and ‘Bloody hell.’ The tour involved a lift, of course, and plunged us into the depths where we followed a few people through the tunnels which open out in off-shoots to arches where you can be splashed by the spray and wonder at the rumble. The bears enjoyed it, as did we.

That done, we had some time to explore the true wonder of the Falls, the gift shop, where you can pick up all kinds of quality tourist tat from fridge magnets to sweatshirts (which we did, as presents for the Godboys you understand). There are good views of the spectacle from the upper gallery, and plenty of information about other sights to see and things to experience in the locale. A few to mention and marvel at include, the IMAX Theatre Daredevil Exhibit, the Fun Factory, the Dinosaur Adventure Golf (not to be missed for its cultural contribution to world wonders), the House of Frankenstein (why?), and various other houses including, Upside-down, Fun, and Haunted. We did none of those, but we did let the bears sit in Robert Wadlow’s chair. He was 8’11” tall, the world’s tallest man. He lived from 1918 to 1940 and died when he was 22, poor chap.

I should mention that from our lunch table on the upper floors of the Sheraton, we were able to see both the Horseshoe Falls (Canadian side) and the lesser American Falls (below). The two countries are joined by a bridge, and the border checkpoint is right in the middle of it. That was about as close to the USA as we were going to and wanted to get.

Lunch done, we had some free time away from the herd to explore the delights of Blackpool in the rain. We trudged up the hill to look at a few shops, decline several offers to feed slot machines, avoid the lure of the glitzy arcades and amble down again to meet the coach. By then, we were clutching our most treasured memory of the Falls, an iconic interpretation of a family day out taken beneath the rocks against a green screen.

The afternoon

The weather was showing signs of clearing by then, and we were trundled off to spend something like three hours in a ghost town.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad and would have been lovely in summer. But Niagara Village (aka, ‘The Village of the Damned’ as Neil called it) appears to exist to service tourists, in the nicest possible way. Quaint shops and pubs, even an all-year-round Christmas shop, and a pleasant walk along the river’s edge, but, frankly, in early March, not a lot else to do.

We investigated the post office as we like to see how the locals live, and then, naturally, found a pub and sat to write postcards. Using tracking skills learned at GLAD (the Group Leaders’ Academy of Detection), Keith tracked us down and told us the others had rebelled and wanted to leave early. We were fine with that, so we re-joined the coach an hour ahead of schedule only to have to wait for Maxine and her translator.

‘We could have had another glass of wine, Maxine!’
‘What did he say?’
‘They could have had another glass of wine.’
‘Not for me. Where are we now?’

The CN Tower

Cutting a long story as short as I can, we drove back to Toronto through sunshine. During the day, and before we set off from home, we’d been in touch with Martin Sulev, a Canadian author who has been to Symi, and who has written two books in the well-received Demon of Athens series. (Follow that link for the books which are more than worth reading.) Martin, who we’d never met, invited us out for the evening, and we’d arranged to meet later at the hotel.

The previous evening, some of our party had somehow managed to find time to nip up the CN Tower, and as it wasn’t far from the hotel, we suggested we go there. The CN Tower, as I am sure you know, is the ninth tallest free-standing structure in the world, and in 1995, was declared one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World by the American Society of Civil Engineers. It’s 553.3 meters high (1,815.3 feet) and has a revolving restaurant at 1,250 feet above the ground.

Now, I know I am used to the Kali Strata and can still walk up it without getting out of breath, but where the Kali Strata has roughly 380 steps (depending on route and destination), the CN Tower has 1,776. The record for climbing them stands at nine minutes and 54.9 seconds, but it’s worth it as the building offers free wi-fi. We, however, weren’t going to take the stairs because there is no need. It has a lift. (I told you lifts were going to make a reappearance in these posts.)

To be precise, it has a scenic elevator complete with glass panels in the floor, a fact I didn’t know until I was inside it with no way out. The lift catapults you 1,250 feet into the air at a speed of 22 kmph in 58 gut-churning seconds, though, strangely, you feel like you’re hardly moving as the ground drops away, you rise about 100 floors and wonder what would happen if the cables broke.
You empty out on weak legs into a dining room reminiscent of The Towering Inferno, your husband rushes to look down through the sloping glass with nothing between him and death apart from engineering supplied by the lowest bidder, and you wonder if you will be able to manage dinner. Your mind is distracted slightly as you negotiate from static carpet to slowly rotating carpet and step over the threshold knowing there’s little beneath you and the ground now as you’re protruding over the central structure. Still, the menu looks good and if the bears can do it, so can I.

The unfortunate things about that photo-op is the window stays still while you revolve, and if Martin hadn’t grabbed him, Little-Pad would have endured a complete rotation before returning to us 72 minutes later.

Dinner was delightful (thank you, Martin), and we chatted about writing, Symi and life in Canada as we slowly revolved, took photos and, when necessary, waited for the gents to come round again, so we didn’t have to chase after it. That was the first time I’d been in a revolving restaurant, although I vaguely remember going up the Post Office Tower in London when I was little. (Pah! Call that a tower? It’s only 581 feet high.)

Another dubious attraction of the CN Tower is the glass. If you’re so inclined, and many people are, you can stand on a glass floor over 1,000 feet in the air and look down. If you’re barking, like Neil, you can lie on it and take photos of the mirrored ceiling, and if you’re a Canadian like Martin, you can just wander across it as though it were an Axminster. If you’re a little hight-wary, like me, you can scoot across a corner of it, daring one quick step on the glass to say you’ve done it.

It was a wonderful evening at the end of a remarkable day. I should point out, that at this stage, the word on the incredibly wide and clean streets was that the Tower might have to close soon because of the virus. Toronto was certainly pretty quiet when we were there, but otherwise, the ‘thing’ was still a way off, attention was focused on Italy and other faraway places, and there were still only instructions to be wary, avoid doorknobs and sing Happy Birthday in public restrooms (as the very polite Canadians very politely call a toilet).
Tomorrow, we finally get to the heart of this trip and start the journey on The Canadian. That’s the name of the train that runs between Toronto and Vancouver, crosses three time zones, and travels roughly 2,087 miles. Make sure you are here in time for the whistle when the guard shouts ‘Aaaaall’board!’

Holiday Day eight (March 9^th) London to Toronto

Cabbies and Carriages

Today’s story is about the journey from London to Toronto.

We checked out of the Travelodge, and while doing so, asked about a taxi to the airport. That was easy enough. You simply press a button on the counter and a moment later, the receptionist gives you a cab number. Five minutes later, a few steps away on Drury Lane, there’s a car waiting for you. In our case, it was a traditional black cab driven by a young man called Christian who came complete with a reassuring East End accent.

There’s something about a London black cab that only the British could pull off. For a start, a black cab’s real title is still a hackney carriage, as if Britain were still living in the 19^th century. (Currently, I think it is; the country still has duel carriageways.) The origins of the use of ‘hackney’ date back to 1654 when parliament passed “An Ordinance for the Regulation of Hackney-Coachmen in London and the places adjacent”, which was intended to remedy what it described as the “many Inconveniences [that] do daily arise by reason of the late increase and great irregularity of Hackney Coaches and Hackney Coachmen in London, Westminster and the places thereabouts.” Hackney, then a village in Middlesex and now part of Greater London, was renown for its meadows and horses, and the original pullers of the carriages were from Hackney. Thus, we took a hackney carriage driven by a man from Hackney, under 450 horsepower as opposed to one beleaguered old nag.

Whatever, Christian whisked us to Heathrow with the minimum of cabbie blarney and personal thoughts on West Ham FC and immigration and even offered us hand-san before and after the ride.

Heathrow

Her Majesty very kindly gave us the use of her terminal for our check-in, but as we were early, there was plenty of time for a Costa (small fortune) coffee while we waited to meet our tour manager. From here on, we were travelling under the wing of Great Rail Journeys on their escorted ‘The Canadian in Winter’ tour.

A few weeks previously, our tour pack had arrived including the name and phone number of our manager, Keith, and bang on nine o’clock, I met him just inside the terminal entrance. Keith was (and I hope, still is), a tall, broadly-built Yorkshireman in, I’d say, his sixties, who was very experienced in taking tours to all kinds of places.

[Note: I have to be careful what I say about whom because some of the people we met on the tour are reading this (Jude, Alison… I know who you are). I am prone to forget details and miss things out, so let me know if I get anything majorly wrong, but remember this is written from my perspective, eight months after the events, and comes from my fading memory.]

‘Collins and Gosling’ I announced as if we were representing someone in court, and we were duly ticked off the list and given our papers for check-in. Now then, when I booked this tour and paid the deposit back in December 2018, I’d noticed that the company offered upgrades on the flights. Thinking it might be a special treat on the way back, I asked how much an upgrade to premium economy might cost for the return journey. When I’d picked myself up off the floor, I (think I) agreed, and asked what the cost would be for both journeys. I was told that they didn’t have a quote for the outbound upgrade at that time, but they’d made a note to contact me when they knew. Then Christmas happened, and I forgot all about it. So, when we came to check-in, I was expecting the usual cattle-class treatment, but strangely, we’d been upgraded to PE for the outward journey. Must have booked that one the wrong way around, I later thought, but at the time, was convinced someone had made a mistake to our advantage, and I still am.

Either way, we were treated like lords at check-in, and sailed through the barriers and security, the pat-down and strip search… Actually, no, only joking, but once you’ve removed your shoes, jackets and belt, and your trousers have fallen down halfway through the scanner, you might as well have been led off to a room and de-clothed; it would be less embarrassing. I do wonder if, when a person is strip-searched and contraband is discovered, does the criminal later tell their cellmate he was fingered at Heathrow? Just a thought.

The bears, naturally, were excited to be flying, especially Little Pad who’d only flown once, to London from his factory in Taiwan, and even then, he was in a packing crate. Paddington had flown before many times. We found him waiting for us in 2007 when we stopped off in Brighton on our way to South America. Jenine had sent him as a travelling companion, and since, he has been on every major trip we’ve taken. So far, Padders has been to Peru (where, strangely, no-one had heard of him), Ecuador, Scotland, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania, Serbia and Austria, and a couple of years ago, went on holiday with Jenine and the boys to Athens and Corinth. So, Paddington knows how to behave at the airport.

He’s also met a few stars.

The travelator route at the Queen’s Terminal is overlooked by large photos of pop/rock stars and events. If you like to play Where’s Wally, then you will have a great time with this next photo.

Taken on July 13th, 1985, it shows the stage at Live Aid. Somewhere in the front of that crowd, you can find our own special wally, Neil, waving his arms and doing whatever youths do at these events. At the same time, I was driving past on my way from Baron’s Court to somewhere unholy in Essex for a party. I was taking friends across town, the party was dreadful, and I ended up sleeping in the car. But that’s another story, and now back to this one:

In the Air

The flight was with Air Canada, and everything ran perfectly. We had that priority boarding thing, which I always think is totally unnecessary unless you have medical or mobility needs, because, let’s face it, no-one’s going to take off any earlier than anyone else, but it did give us time to explore our seats in cattle-class-plus. As with the theatre tickets we had lavished my pension on, we were in the front row, and with so much legroom, I could have done yoga in the gap between me and the wall dividing us from business class. Except, of course, I can’t do yoga and only get into those unlikely positions following an accident.

We had our own movable monitors, complimentary things we’d never use, hot and cold running waiters, even cloths on the trays when lunch came. They also gave us real cutlery, which somewhat negates the ‘no knives or sharp objects’ security arrangements so stringently enforced at airports, but we weren’t planning a hijack, so that was alright.

Lunch was, by our standards, a posh affair that included far too much wine, a table service which continued through the afternoon as the time zones changed, I watched ‘The Goldfinch’ and got all sniffly at the end, and fell asleep. Now, that’s a first for me, sleeping while travelling. Actually, it’s a second as I once managed three hours kip on the way back from Australia. (It was my only three hours in 48 from my brother’s house in Salamander Bay, New South Wales to the Plaza hotel in Rhodes by which time I was understandably delirious.)

I managed four hours dozing as we crossed the Atlantic and the tip of Greenland, and woke to discover we were over land. Or, rather, over frozen rivers and a snowy landscape that ran to the curve of the world, and the journey monitor rather alarmingly, told me we were on our way to Montreal. It updated when I refreshed the screen, and we’d passed Greenland, but were still, allegedly heading for Montreal.

Toronto

Luckily, we didn’t end up in Quebec, but in Ontario, so I don’t know what that was all about, but finally, after about eight hours in the air, an announcement came that we were nearing our destination. Jackets were gathered, empty bottles disposed of, bags arranged and bears put away for the next stage of the adventure, and we disembarked.

A short while later, having been instructed somewhere around 64° N, 19° W (Iceland long/lat) to meet at baggage reclaim, we did just that and met up with the rest of our party and Keith. Our tour manager clearly knew what he was about because no sooner had Neil appeared than he identified him as the one to keep an eye on. ‘I see you’re going to be the naughty one on this trip, lad,’ he observed dryly, and I thought, ‘If only you knew.’

Now I think about it, that laugh might have happened at Heathrow, my mind’s a bit fuddled because we’d left London at midday, flown for eight hours and it was only four in the afternoon, except it was eight in the evening, or should have been.

Anyway, there were 18 in our group and two more to join us later because they were travelling from America, poor things. We obediently followed instructions, sailed through immigration on our British and Irish passports, and clambered aboard a waiting bus.

Having come from Symi, where no building is taller than three or four storeys, and even from London, the first sight of the buildings of Toronto was very impressive.

Even more impressive was our room at the four-star hotel where we settled in before heading out to find somewhere to eat.

I have to say, the hotel was a bit more up-market than those we’re used to dealing with. I think it was the Hilton (Jude or Alison will remind me, I’m sure). I told you my memory’s a bit cloudy in some places, and my papers and notes are up in the loft, and I couldn’t be bothered to go and find them. I do, however, remember it had a scenic elevator which rather took me by surprise when I first stepped in. I’d be quite happy abseiling down a cliff or climbing up a mountain, roped on and at a dizzying height, but a man-made object travelling upwards at speed with nothing between me and the drop other than plate glass… Well, I have a ‘thing’ about that these days, and although I didn’t know it, I was going to encounter a couple more before the end of the trip.

Before then, however, we have Niagara Falls to visit tomorrow, so make sure you bring your Pac a Mac.

Holiday Day seven (March 8^th) London

Sunday was to be our last day in London before setting off to Canada on Monday morning, and it was to be a day of past-blasts and a reunion, so please forgive the rambling reminiscences that follow.

Morning dawned early and surprisingly headache-free. The day had been set aside for one main event, a small reunion of friends and family at the Punch & Judy pub in Covent Garden at 2 pm, and as we’re early risers, we had the entire morning to ourselves. That was, apart from breakfast where we skulked around hoping to avoid ‘mistaken identity busty broad from Bradford’, or wherever it was, and her ‘still in shock’ husband, in case they favoured house red for breakfast rather than tea. Apparently, they didn’t favour breakfast at all, and we managed a circuit of the buffet and a couple of trips to the coffee machine without incident. Having walked over 10 miles the day before, we opted for a localised wander and headed out into another clear but chilly morning.

The peaceful West End

Everyone should experience the West End early on a Sunday morning, there’s an air of peace that’s pleasantly out of place. Maybe it’s the feeling of tall, old and sturdy buildings looking down on you, or the emptiness of wide roads, but you get a sense of ‘something happened last night, and now it’s gone.’ What you knew to be teaming streets, glittering theatres, crowded bars and steaming food stalls are still there, but they’re not doing anything. They’re not exactly asleep either, as you know they will come alive again in a few hours, and soon, you won’t be able to amble across a road, you’ll have to look both ways and hope for the best. The air smells fresher, though is still tinted with ‘city’, and as if some magic wand has been waved, what were littered gutters and choked roads are miraculously clean and deserted.

When I first moved to London in the 80s and was waiting to start a job with Lambeth Council, I had three months with little money and plenty of free time. I used to wake early and wander from Clapham towards the river and over, and keep walking. One morning, I found myself in Baker Street by about eight, and it must have been a Sunday because everywhere was similarly deserted, and I felt like I had the whole city to myself. Well, it was a similar feeling on our last day in London.

We’d heard of a Steampunk market held in the grounds of St James’ Church, Piccadilly, and thought we may as well wander down there to take a look. The route took us through Leicester Square where we stumbled upon a practically perfect statue of Mary Poppins and stopped for a photo-op.

Wandering in the Past

That’s another thing about returning to a place you used to know well; I still did. I can’t remember how long it took me to find my way around London when I was 24, not long, I think, and somehow, when you live in a city, you absorb the place, and understand how it works without question. That’s why I knew where I was going, and couldn’t help but point out places of interest as we walked. The Swiss Centre was on that corner, and that’s where I saw my first Liam Neesom film, ‘Lamb’, many years ago. The Hippodrome was ‘The Talk of the Town’, and there’s a Sunday Times magazine somewhere with photos of my uncle and godmother taking cocktails there, her in her tiara, him in his dinner suit. That was sometime in the 1960s, I think, and they went home afterwards on his 900cc motorbike. ‘That’s where I saw ‘City of Angels in 1993,’ was another on my guided reminiscence tour.

It got kinda weird as we walked Piccadilly towards the church. My godfather (not related to Her Ladyship, the godmother), used to ‘Work the Dilly’ in the 1930s, taking his patch along the south side, while opposite worked a ‘Nasty queen, we never liked her’, Quentin Crisp. They were both, at the time, what we’d now call rent boys. As I walked, I remembered interviewing Uncle Bob (‘Babs’ was his professional name both on the Dilly and, later, in the Royal Navy and after that, as the head housekeeper of the Hyde Park Hotel). He wanted to write down his life story and, as he got older, I ended up compiling his memoirs with him. He even came to Symi for two weeks and worked on telling me the stories. But I am, again, digressing.

Anyway, the Steampunk market wasn’t open; we were far too early anyway, but we were very pleased to read this sign on the church gates.

Photo-ops and Odd Connections

We wandered the Dilly (similarly to my godfather but not for the same reason), and headed back towards Covent Garden for a coffee at Tuttons. By then, Neil had posted Mary Poppins on Facebook, and as we walked, we had a message from Sall who you met at the theatre the other evening. She directed us back to Leicester Square where, if we cared to hunt, we would find other fun statues. And guess what? We did.

‘There’s a lovely old street I want to walk down,’ I declared afterwards. ‘It’s on our way, just over the road… Oh!’ And here comes another Symi connection story.

Showing at the Garrick Theatre back in March, was a production of City of Angels. The original London run was in 1993, as I mentioned just now, and appearing in it was a very fine actress/singer/dancer called Jeanette Ranger. I didn’t know it at the time, as I watched, enthralled, that 20 years later, she and I would be living on the same Greek island, and I would have the pleasure of playing piano for her when she came to the house regularly to keep up her singing.

And, if you want more of these odd connections (this is, after all, a day for reminisces and reunions), how about this one? In 1986, I went to one of the previews for ‘Chess’ the Tim Rice/Benny and Bjorn musical at the Prince Edward Theatre. Great show and I went back a couple of weeks after the run opened. Again, I didn’t know it then, but 20 or so years later, I’d be dancing in the Jean & Tonic bar with one of the dancers I saw on the stage that night (and later in a production of West Side Story at her Majesty’s), Jane, who used to have the Sunflower in Yialos.

Another connection. Uncle Bob of the Dilly later bought a house in Clapham and used to throw parties. I think he was still, surreptitiously, doing his ‘old job’, but let’s not go there. One famous party he threw was for the dancers from the original London run of West Side Story (1959 to 1961, also at Her Majesty’s) – and that’s as much as I am allowed to tell you.

And, for another name-drop, I once interviewed Michael Cashman at the Garrick Theatre. I was doing some volunteer writing work for what was then NALGO, and the insidious Section 28 was in place, so it was a political interview. Very nice chap he is too, Barron Cashman as he is now, and Sir Ian (just Ian, as he was then), popped his head into the dressing room to say hello. But, again, I digress.

Mad Hatters and Paddington ready for his close-up

Meanwhile, on our way to Covent Garden, we walked down Great Newport Street (I think it’s called), the one where there are antiquarian bookshops and a rather Dickensian feel. It was still early, and so deserted, apart from Alice and the Mad Hatter. Well, one always expects the unexpected in London, but I didn’t expect to see these two life-sized characters taking tea outside a bookshop at nine on a Sunday morning. We had to stop and ask if Little Pad could have a photo-op with them, and they obliged. They also did a fair amount of looking beyond us to the other side of the street, and I couldn’t work out why, until a film director tapped us on the shoulder with a cameraman hovering behind.

Apparently, they were making a promo or music video or maybe just a fetish flick, I don’t know, but we were apologetic as we’d not seen them lurking in a doorway, but they were charming. Actually, the director said, ‘Would you mind if we filmed you two walking with your Paddingtons? Only body-shots, so no need to sign any release forms.’ ‘As long as we can keep our clothes on.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Never mind. Yes, do.’ So, we wandered Great Newport Street with the Paddingtons poking out of our pockets and, somewhere in the world, there’s a video of the boys being carried towards morning coffee.

After which, we did more aimless wandering, admired shop fronts, and slowly, Covent Garden market came to life. We ‘did’ that, checked out the Punch & Judy to see what time it opened, and finally, around 1.30, called in and found an upstairs banquette where we and our expected party could spend the afternoon.

Friends old and new

I am now very much in danger of falling too far down the rabbit hole that is memory lane and boring you (if I haven’t already), so I’ll keep it brief. Ha!

As we were only in London for a couple of days, we’d said, rather generally, ‘We’re going to be here at this time if anyone wants to meet up.’ That’s much easier than trying to allot slots and whiz from A to Z meeting someone here for ten minutes and someone there for five.

One by one, friends and family arrived. My nephew George, who some of you might know from when he briefly worked at To Spitiko in Yialos, his partner came too. Then Neil’s sister, who, again, is a fairly regular Symi visitor, and her partner. Sall from the other night whose husband, sadly, couldn’t make it because he’d just come off a three-day (or longer), non-stop shift in the virus ward, after working 24 hours a day, as hospital staff do. Then came Neil’s first ever girlfriend from junior school, Tanya, and two of my best friends from my school days, Simon and Andrew. Oh, and there was also a stray woman whose name I can’t remember, but who slipped into our banquette, presumably wanting company or warmth, and joined in our reunion even though no-one had a clue who she was. She was very understanding though, and ended up taking blurred photos for us in return for the occasional drink. Bless.

What can you say when you meet up with your old best-buds from when you were 16? Apart, that is, from ‘Oh my God, how old are we now?’ and ‘Has it really been 40 years?’

Actually, it hadn’t been that long since we last met. I saw Simon a couple of years ago back on Romney Marsh, and Andrew and I last saw each other in the 90s when he had a recording studio in West London. Since then (he writes, beaming with pride) Andrew’s been working as a producer/composer at Abbey Road, and in India where his company is at the forefront of booking, producing and arranging for, some of India’s top musicians. He also recently wrote the music for the stage production of ‘The Life of Pi’ which was staged at The Crucible, Sheffield in 2019. It was set to transfer to the West End in June 2020, but the bloody virus brought the curtain down on that, for now at least. When at school, I always thought that I’d get to the West End before he did, but clearly, I was pleasantly wrong. (You can’t count a week-long run of a dreadful cabaret musical I was involved in at the Actors’ Centre off Cambridge Circus in the 90s, where often there were more of us on stage than there were in the audience. It had a cast of three.)

It was a fabulous afternoon of catching up, staring at each other in disbelief, and gulping gin and tonic. Rather, gulping at the price of a gin and tonic; London’s not Symi, is it? As the afternoon continued, and some people had to leave, we said farewells to all but family. Six of us went for an Italian meal at a restaurant in St Martin’s Lane where I’d once been brought forward from the back of the queue because the doorman thought I was Bruno Brookes. I know, I’m full of these kinds of name-drop tales, but when you live in London and hang out ‘up west’ these things are bound to happen.

After dinner, us ‘boys’ went to Village Soho. Us, to pretend we were 25 again, and George and Ian to pretend we werent with them.

Towards Canada – almost

Okay, so I’m going to have to leave you now, and you leave us wandering back to our hotel for packing and an early night as our taxi is booked, and we’re due at Heathrow at 8.30 tomorrow. Yes, we are finally, after one week on the road, heading off to Canada. We must meet our Great Rail Journeys tour guide by nine at the latest as our flight is at midday.

Before I go, I will mention that, at this point, the West End streets were still teeming, life was going on as usual apart from more hand washing and being aware of door handles, and although cases were rising around the world, there was still only one in Canada. Had we cancelled, our insurance company would not have covered us. It was too late by then anyway, Paddington had already packed himself away.

Food, Feet and Phantoms: A day in London

Holiday day six

Saturday morning in London

We woke up in our subterranean car park-effect hotel room with the knowledge that we had a whole day in town ahead of a show in the evening. So, what to do? We’d thought about spending the day shopping, but kind of said, ‘Nah’ to that and went for breakfast.

It was a typically British affair of eggs, bacon and talking about other guests behind their backs. The Travelodge is one of those practical hotels that attract all sorts. You find yourself among businessmen in for a conference, people down for the weekend to catch a show and see the sites, students and backpackers, old and young alike. Well, at such reasonable prices (for the heart of London), and within walking distance of West End theatres and the major attractions, it’s hardly surprising it’s always so popular. It does have the ring of student halls about it, and the young, cheerful and assured staff have something to do with that.

Breakfast done, we decided to spend the morning walking. I lived in London for about 14 years and only ‘did’ the sites when I had guests from New Zealand. Something of an extreme, I know, but I’d never walked the north riverbank, and keen to stroll, we set off to the Tower two and a half miles away. I wanted a photo of the Lyceum Theatre to go with my Clearwater collection, and that was at the end of the street.

The theatre appears in book five of my series, ‘Bitter Bloodline’ and features Henry Irving and his theatre manager, Bram Stoker, he of Dracula fame. (They are unwittingly involved in an assassination plot and the story takes us from Clearwater’s country home in Cornwall to the tunnels that run between the Lyceum and the Opera House (fictional, as far as I know), and includes a race by train, Sir Arthur Sullivan and a bottle of wine mentioned in ‘Dracula’, but that’s another story.)

Sewers and stuff

After the Lyceum, our route took us down to the Embankment. Did you know, you probably did, that before 1864 (ish) there was no embankment. The back of Somerset House opened directly onto the Thames, and you can still see the original steps down from the house to the river in Embankment Gardens. From there to the river, now, is the Embankment as we know it. This extra piece of reclaimed land came about because of the ‘Silent Highwayman’ and the ‘Great Stink’ of 1858. In a nutshell, London’s sewer system was crap, and the Thames was mainly effluent, leading to disease (the Silent Highwayman, i.e. Death from the river), and a pong. When the smell became too much for the men sitting in Parliament, and even lime-drenched curtains couldn’t keep the smell of other people’s proceedings from House proceedings, Parliament did something about it. Joseph Bazalgette designed a new sewer system, and part of that runs along the side of the Thames, and the Embankment is built over it.

Back to the story. Along the way, we stopped for photos and to show the Paddington boys some of the sites, and introduce them to some new friends.

We passed various places of interest including, Temple, HQS Wellington, Blackfriars and the end of the original River Fleet (now under Fleet Street and others), and a hotel I can’t remember the name of that had these rather apt bubbles for the users of its café. I wonder if, when designed, they knew something we didn’t…

Continuing on, taking a detour around Broken Wharf House and other buildings that block the river path, re-joining the path and wandering on, we came across a mosaic mural that gave the history of London through the ages. This little gem is tucked away, but worth a look as the further you walk, the more up to date it becomes – depending on your direction of travel. We noted with interest that after Dick Whittington, Mayor of London came ‘Plague strikes again’, closely followed by the peasants’ Revolt, and I can’t help wondering if history is now repeating itself. Your PM was once Mayor of London (I inserted a Dick reference there, but took it out) and is now ineffectually dithering with a ‘plague’ and a certain amount of revolt by people he no doubt sees as peasants. If that is the case, take heart, because the section about the revolt states, ‘City looted + some officials executed.’

Tower Hill

Moving on… We finally came to the Tower on this grey and chilly morning and decided against going in, thanks to the cost.

By then, we were hankering for a kebab. No offence to the Greek giros, but when you used to live just off the Balls Pond Road, and you’ve not had a decent Turkish kabab for 18 years, and suddenly you can, well, these things must be done. We chatted to the guys at the Greek food stall under Tower Bridge but then had to hide from them as we edged closer to the Turkish stall next door. I have to say, a massive wrap with all the bits and pieces and chilli sauce was more than welcome.

Coffee, check. Kebab, check. Paid the check, check. Walk across Tower Bridge, check. Tourist photos, check. What next? The same journey but in reverse and on the other side of the river. Oh, talking of Tower Bridge, we found this plaque among many commemorating those who had built and worked on the bridge since it was started in 1886, opened in 1894 and ever since. (It too makes an appearance in a Clearwater book, while under construction in 1889.)

Southbank

The southside walk is more interesting than the north bank walk, what with the Globe theatre, street entertainers and the like. Of particular interest was the Horniman At Hay’s, simply because of the double entendre.

More necessary was a pit stop at a riverside pub for a glass of something and a resting of the feet. Did you know that ‘the Resting of the Feet’ was a Christmas tradition started in 1392 by Richard II? No, no-one did because I just made it up to make sure you were paying attention.

As you are, you can play ‘Where’s Wally’ and find Paddington

Still moving on, the boys enjoyed the views, buskers and bubbles and we enjoyed the walk which took us all the way to the South Bank complex and the Hungerford Bridge.

Walking across the bridge, I couldn’t help wonder about suicides, mainly because of this rather tragic stuffed hound who had, it seemed, reached the end of his lead and given himself up to the river only to miss his target. Poor thing.

Across the river and where to next? It was mid-afternoon by now, and we’d walked over five miles on concrete, and the feet, and now the back, needed another resting. We called into an old haunt from my London days, a pub called The Halfway To Heaven in Duncannon Street, and another half-mile was added to our total. Nothing had changed since the 90s when I used to pop in for a chat and drink when on a night out in the West End, which was strangely reassuring, and we sat at the window so the boys could watch the world go by. What did go by wasn’t so much the world, but a joyous, dancing and rather random part of it as a group appeared and flash-mobbed us. I call it that because I don’t know what else to call it when a group of teenagers and an instructor stop in the street and suddenly start dancing for you. It was very entertaining, though, and a pleasure to see. Some kind of new trend since my day, says the grumbling old man who secretly wanted to join in.

Upwards and onwards, and another half-mile back to the hotel to shower, change and prepare for a night at the opera…

The Admiral Duncan

On the way to Her Majesty’s Theatre, we stopped off at another old haunt of ours, The Admiral Duncan. This pub was the scene of tragedy on 30^th April 1999, when a madman set off a nail bomb. [The bomb was the third to be planted in a one-man campaign by a Neo-Nazi, David Copeland, who was attempting to stir up ethnic and homophobic tensions. Copeland’s previous bomb attacks, on 17 April in Brixton, south London and on 24 April in Hanbury Street in Whitechapel, east London, had made Londoners wary.] That night, I was rehearsing with my cabaret partner down in Brighton, and his partner and Neil had arranged to meet up at the Duncan for a drink. Their meeting was called off a couple of hours before the bomb went off. There for the grace of…

We called in and ordered a couple of glasses of pre-show wine. I was on the verge of paying the barman when some straight guy told a lesbian that ‘All you need is the right man,’ and presumably offered his services. All hell broke loose. Our barman, diminutive and slightly fay, was over that counter before you could say ‘mine’s a double’, the queens, bless ’em, dragged the str8 and his mates out into Compton Street, and within seconds, a police van had pulled up to much ‘Ooh,’ and ‘Hello…’ from inside. Calm was restored, and I hope the str8 got what he deserved (from the police if not the lesbians with whom, btw, one does not mess). We’d still not paid for our drinks, and when the barman had calmly tucked his hair behind his ears and reconnected with his charming smile, I went back to the bar to pay, asking if he was okay. I earnt myself a ‘Yes, thanks, darlin’. Bloody breeders.’ Nothing like a good West End fight to bring back fond memories of the old days.

Here’s another Wiki insert which I preface with: I have an alibi.

[The Admiral Duncan has been trading since at least 1832. In June of that year, Dennis Collins, a wooden-legged Irish ex-sailor living at the pub, was charged with high treason for throwing stones at King William IV at Ascot Racecourse. Collins was convicted and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered, as the medieval punishment for high treason was then still in effect. However, his sentence was quickly commuted to life imprisonment and he was subsequently transported to Australia.]

And on to the theatre.

The Phantom of the Opera

Now, here’s one of my connection stories. ‘Phantom’ opened on 9^th October 1986 when I was 23 (gulp). I was living in the Lake District at the time but bought a ticket and came down for the weekend to see the first Saturday performance on 11^th October. We saw it that Saturday night in March which turned out to be one of, if not the last Saturday performances of the show. I’d seen it several times because I like what the scenery does, but now, I’ve seen it between what you might consider remarkable bookends of a 34-year run.

The performance that night was just as good as the original with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman, if not better (in some cases), though I noted that health & safety had played its part over the years. The phantom didn’t descend on the proscenium angels, the fire-balls were damp squibs, and Raoul didn’t jump off the bridge into the misty waters. Shame. Mind you, the chandelier fell faster as if the flyman had said, ‘Sod it. I want a drink.’

An Accidental Cabaret

After that, we wandered back through a crowded, Saturday night West End, having decided that there was nowhere cheaper for a nightcap than our hotel. There, I bought the wine because a glammed-up woman in an outfit that barely contained the enthusiasm of flesh that was her bust had attached herself to Neil. I had no idea why until we were invited to sit with her and her husband and discovered she and Neil had chatted that morning over tea. The husband wore the dreamy smile of someone who had landed the prom queen and still couldn’t understand how but wasn’t going to question fate.

They’d come down from somewhere ‘up north’ to see Denise van Outen present Cabaret All Stars at 8, Victoria Embankment. (Bazalgette and his marvellous sewers came to mind, for without him, Ms v Outen wouldn’t have had a venue.) Anyway, this wonderful couple, him with his ‘Yes dear,’ and her with effulgent bust kept us entertained long into the night, and insisted on buying round after round until I was as tight as her gussets, and we had to bow out. Apparently, she’d taken to Neil that morning when they’d met at the tea urn or something, and fell upon us as ‘such nice boys’ in the way straight people do when they discover we’re not monsters.

The fun fact here is, Neil hadn’t met her over a tea urn and had no idea who she was. It was an unclear case of mistaken identity which sent us reeling to bed on a note as high as Christine’s at the end of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’, Act 1 scene 4. (Which, apparently, is a top E, and usually, the singer turns her back while a tape cuts in and the note you hear is Sarah Brightman recorded back in the 1980s. However, our Christine was so close to our front row dress circle seat, I could feel her breath, and she was facing front.)

Now then. I can’t continue this rambling adventure until Monday because tomorrow, I must write a blog on my other blog site at www.jacksonmarsh.com. There, I cover all kinds of things about what I am writing, researching and, in tomorrow’s case, what I’ve been doing this last week. So, if you came here for Symi news, sorry about that, and you’re more likely to find Symi updates tomorrow on my pen name pages.

A Friday in London

Holiday Day Five

Covent Garden and bears

Our basement room at the Drury Lane Travelodge wasn’t as bad as it might sound. It was a large-ish room with a decent bathroom, a comfortable bed and a view of the pylons holding up the building above in what I first thought was an underground car park – but we weren’t there for the vista. The best thing was, there was no door on the wardrobe, an intended design feature which meant we weren’t going to leave any jackets behind. It was also very quiet.

The next day we hit the streets early in the morning, which was bright and chilly. While in town, I wanted to take a few shots of buildings featured in my Victorian mysteries series. So I dragged Neil over to the Royal Opera House, Bow Street police station, the Garrick Club, the National Gallery, and later, the Ivy.

We started the day, though, around Covent Garden where we stumbled upon the Paddington shop, and of course, the bear wanted to meet everyone and have a look around. We rescued a travelling companion for him, ‘Padders’ or ‘Paddette’ or ‘Honestly, Neil, really?’ or whatever we called him, and he joined us for an orange juice at Tuttons on the piazza to settle in before accompanying us on the rest of the trip. Or it might have been the Dirty Martini Bar attached to Tuttons, either way, we sat outside, and they had lovely restrooms.

Tuttons was established and named in the 1970s, and is on the site of Russel Chambers, a much earlier building which burned down in a fire and was reopened in 1887 as a hotel. Covent Garden was laid out by Inigo Jones in 1631, and famous for its fruit and veg market of My Fair Lady fame. In the mid to late 19^th century, one of the Covent Garden buildings had metal columns supporting the apex roof, and at the base of these hollow columns, there were holes. These were used by homeless children and teenagers who would squeeze through the holes and climb the columns to live and sleep safely beneath the roof. They were known locally as ‘The Holes’, for obvious reasons. I came across that snippet in my Clearwater research, and have used it in my soon to be released Clearwater prequel. But back to the story…

A posh lunch

We wandered for most of the day, from Covent Garden to Soho to Oxford Street via the backstreets, had a roam around and back again for a freshen-up. We had, months previously, booked seats to see Blithe Spirit at the Duke of York’s theatre, and our Symi friend Ann was due to join us. We’d also booked a table at Brasserie Zedel for a late lunch before heading to see the play. However, the advice at the time was for the over somethings (can’t remember if it was over 60 or over 70 or over the hill) to stay at home. Thus, Ann had to cancel her afternoon and evening with us. We found a replacement for the show ticket but not the lunch, in the form of an old school friend of mine we’ll meet later.

We’d never been to Zedel’s, but knew we ought to dress for the occasion so we didn’t feel out of place among the grandeur as it’s a posh bistro. While having a pre-late-lunch drink upstairs, I heard back from another old school friend of mine who was vaguely invited to join us for a reunion on Sunday (we’re on Friday now, btw). He, another Neil, was probably not going to make it, but, it transpired, sent me the message from the theatre seat he was currently occupying, waiting for a matinee to start. The fun fact here is, he was seeing a preview of Pretty Woman at the Piccadilly Theatre which was (still is) about ten yards away from Zedel’s. I could see it through the window. Sadly, his interval didn’t coincide with our being so close, so we never caught up with that dodgy tale from the past.

Another oddment. The bar is decorated with old cabaret posters as the brasserie is also a cabaret venue. This led me to reminisce about a godmother who had been an opera singer and chorus girl back in the sepia days. The Dowager Lady Alvingham (Auntie Dolly to us), was a friend of Piaf and also Mistinguett, and as we rounded the corner to go down to the dining room, who should be watching over us but…

An Evening at the Theatre

After grappling with a menu entirely in French and with no pictures, lunch was done, and the bank account depleted as much as we were repleted. We wandered back to St Martin’s Lane to exchange our E-tickets at the theatre and meet the mad old school friend, Sally. Sally’s arrival anywhere always takes the edge of any concerns one has about lack of conversation or laughter, and as soon as she popped up out of the crowd, we picked up on a conversation we’d been having ten years previously; or at least, that’s how it felt. Avoiding as many people as we could, we did the pre-show G&T thing, admired the Chinese ladies wearing masks and thought nothing of it as that’s quite common, but were, by then carrying hand-san and doing the don’t touch the bannisters thing. The neat thing here is, Sally’s husband is the chief virologist at a top London hospital (and she is a very experienced nurse in that dept.), and we were given all the info on the virus and what was likely to happen. As they say, it’s not what you know but who, and so far, his predictions have come true.

Blithe Spirit and Old Mrs Plummet

Blithe Spirit and I have some connections in rather odd ways. For a start, Noel Coward was a friend of the people that once owned a house I grew up in, and he used to visit there, long before our time of course. Then, he had a house overlooking Romney Marsh, and I used to cycle by it regularly going up Lympne Hill. He had a house in St Margaret’s Bay, and I lived on the cliffs above.

I appeared as Charles in an am-dram version of Blithe Spirit when I was 18 which was odd as I was playing the 40-something-year-old Charles (the Noel Coward part if you like), my second wife, Ruth, was 45 and my dead wife, Elvira, was 17. Madam Arcarti couldn’t learn lines, I had something like 54 pages of dialogue out of 58, which I managed, but ended up having to adlib around hers in several scenes.

On one locally famous occasion, we performed the play in the old folks’ home in New Romney. In the séance scene, Madam Arcarti has a line (allegedly in our production), ‘Are you old Mrs Plummet?’ to which there is no answer. Except, in our case, there happened to be a slightly deaf Mrs Plummet at the back of the room who voiced her reply with, ‘Yes, dear?’ The scene continued, only to be interrupted again by ‘Yes, dear?’ which developed into a confusion of ‘I heard my name,’ and ‘Is it time for my pills?’ I think she’d been led away by the time Elvira appeared, I don’t know, I was too busy trying not to laugh.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I’m pleased to say that despite the heckling, I gained good reviews from the local press. You know the kind of thing, ‘Young Mr Cowlings (59) shows great comedic timing…‘ That kind of thing. Oh, I also lived around the corner from where Noel Coward was born, and he died on the night of my 10^th birthday. There, the similarities end.

The last production of Blithe Spirit I’d seen was in 1986 at the Vaudeville Theatre, where the cast included Simon Cadel as Charles (Hi Di Hi), Marcia Warren as Madam Arcarti, Jane Asher as Ruth, and Joanna Lumley as Elvira. Fitting then, that the production we saw that night starred Jenifer Saunders as Madam Arcarti. I have to say, it was the best production I’ve ever seen (our own am-dram hit aside). Directed by Richard Ayre and with a stunning set and cast, it included all manner of stage trickery but was also presented in a raw, real voice. Hard to explain, but even the lesser characters had background stories that somehow came out in their reactions and interactions, and the play had more depth than even the Oscar-winning film.

It was a great show and worth the £125.00 per ticket for the front of the circle. How much?! I know, I found it hard to swallow, except I fully support the theatre and, lets’ face it, hadn’t spent money on a show for about 18 years. When I saw it in 1986 it probably cost a fiver or something, and when we did it in a church hall/Nissan hut in 1981, tickets only cost 75p with concessions for OAPS and a cup of tea thrown in. Except for that rowdy old bird, Mrs Plummet. She was banned.

 

Being an Ab Fab groupie

After the show, we said goodbye to Sal as we were seeing her again in two days, and one can only take so much laughter in one night, and set out being a groupie for the first time in our lives. Ever. Honest. We wanted to get Ms Saunders’ autograph in our programme as a present for Jenine, and hung about the stage door with a couple of lasses from Glasgow who’d come down for the night to see the show, had more laughs and finally, had an audience with Madam Arcarti over a barrier in St Martin’s Lane. Well, Neil did, I was in charge of taking dodgy photos. After that thrill, it was back to the dungeon via the hotel bar, for a good night’s sleep. It was needed. Saturday would bring a day of walking for miles, flash mob dancing, top hats, phantoms and a decent West End punch-up, all of which will be discussed tomorrow.

And a bonus photo of some old show a friend of mine was in 100 years ago.