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 30th 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 9th 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 11th 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.
