selenak

Back at home, and this time, you're getting the narration and the pictures at the same time. Also, I had a look at the schedule that was made for me in my absence, and was horrified because I'll be travelling not just to Berlin but Düsseldorf as well within the next week. Must write to

yahtzee63 and demand another week delay to write my contribution for the Alias aliases ficathon, as I won't have a quiet minute until September 10th. How I'll ever catch up with my

theatrical_muse and

fandom_muses stuff, I don't know, either. But now, I give you..

Wednesday saw us leaving Stratford for London. This inevitably meant getting stuck in a traffic jam once we were around the Heathrow area, but that was to be expected, and anyway, two traffic jams (in and out of London) on such a long journey were nothing.

Our hotel was in Kensington, near Earl’s Court, and to our surprise the room was already available, so we just dumped our luggage, bought daily travelcards, and split up. In theory. In practice, I bumped into the AP about two hours after I had left him (and hit the bookstores in the meantime), in the first museum I revisited, which happened to be the National Gallery. He had spotted a Modigliani exhibition at the Royal Academy he took me to, and a museum which despite repeated visits to London on both our parts had been unknown to us before – the Wallace collection. One of these houses left by a millionaire full of art and artefacts he collected, with all the furniture intact, and did Mr. W. ever collect, from miniature portraits to weapons to Gainsboroughs etc. He even had a poster telling the citizens of Paris about the auctioning of Marie Antoinette’s (la ci-devant reine) furniture in the middle of the French Revolution.

In the evening, we went to a musical. (After I dragged Dad to two plays with Elizabethan English that was tough for him to understand, I felt I owed him.) I had heard the new production of Evita was supposed to be good, so we got tickets for that one, and yes, it was. Watching Philip Quast as Peron made me think of

andrastewhite, who first pointed his Javert out to me as the definite performance. That evening, Elena Roger was sick, so we saw the understudy, Abie Something or the other, but she was excellent, too, especially in the “I’d be surprisingly good for you” duet with Peron and the waltz with Che. The only thing that felt wrong was the addition of the song ALW had written for the film version to the score, “You must love me”; I always thought it didn’t fit with the cynical tone of Evita as a whole. The program had a curriculum vita by Tim Rice which he must have written himself and which cracked me up; in it, he says that feeling after “Joseph”, “Jesus Christ Superstar” and “Evita”, they couldn’t possibly top that lot, he and ALW went their separate ways, “whereupon ALW promptly topped that lot with Cats” while he, Rice, became a Disney wage slave.

Thursday was research at the British Library day, which went productively; besides, I had lunch with

londonkds, which was delightful, both for the company and the Indian restaurant he whisked me away to. Holding my tin plate in my hand while queuing, I observed, somewhat enviously, that the discipline of queuing was a uniquely English thing; on the continent, everyone would have been crowding the buffet. Afterwards we went back to the BL and I did some more research before heading off to meet a friend of

shezan’s, one Mark Pickering, whom I had tea with at the Royal Academy, talking film and Shakespeare and various actors past and present. No sooner had we parted that I headed off to meet

monanotlisa, who is vacationing in London right now, and whom I hadn’t seen since her accident; I was very glad to see her in what appeared to be good health, and high spirits. We had strawberry cake and tasty conversation as well, and then, after saying hello to

kangeiko, I had to regretfully head towards my hotel and the packing of suitcases.

On Friday, we were in England for exactly three weeks, and sadly, it was time to leave it again. We knew Knole didn’t open until noon but thought we might at least take a look from outside. No way – even the grounds are locked. So we went on to Leeds Castle, which has been recommended to me. (Btw, when first hearing the name and before looking it up, I naturally assumed it had to be near Leeds, when it couldn’t be further away, but that made it great for visiting on our last day.) It’s owned by a trust fund now, since 1974, but the last private owner, Lady Baillie, was a bird fiend, and important the signature for her castle from Australia – black swans.

Considering all the decades which passed since then, it’s not surprising we also saw white swans with black necks and heads, and black swans with white feathers underneath, and all sorts of combinations, in addition to, yes, black swans. Those black guys sure got around. The castle itself was suitably romantic in its watery setting, though I’m not sure I’d call it “the loveliest castle in England”; I’m careful with my superlatives (mostly). But it’s well worth the visit, and you can rent it, too; it’s available for conferences and weddings. We walked around somewhat and then headed back towards our car and to Canterbury.

Now both of us had seen Canterbury when we were teenagers – age 13 in my case, age 14 in the AP’s. Which meant it had been a while. Also, since we visited Winchester, Salisbury, York and Durham, Canterbury was a must - all the great cathedrals. (Also, St. Augustine is buried there, completely overshadowed by Thomas Becket.) The cathedral, built out of bright “Caen”-stone, is impressive, but being spoiled now, we still rooted for Winchester and Salisbury more. (Yes, and Durham, too.)

We went past the royal tombs – the one of the Black Prince is getting restored, and Henry IV plus wife meant poor Dad had to hear some more Shakespeare from me, “uneasy lies the head” etc. Of course the highest claim to fame this cathedral has – at least abroad – is the spot where Becket got killed. Which the AP actually walked past the first time, because he hadn’t expected the modern sculpture; I had to point it out to him. Three red swords looking as if they were made of blood, symbolizing the three murderers, one presumes, on the altar, and a simple “Thomas” written on the ground.

It was striking, but I have a problem with seeing Becket’s death as martyrdom, you know. It was murder, sure, but it was part of an ongoing typical medieval power struggle between throne and church. These happened everywhere in Europe at the time. And the main issue here, as far as I recall, was who had the right to appoint bishops, King or Pope. The only thing which made it unusual, aside from the place of death, was that Becket used to be friends with Henry before, but he didn’t die for any cause but said power struggle, and well, it just doesn’t square as something qualifying for the strong term of “martyrdom”. Or sainthood, come to that. But then, I have a problem with Becket in general – in a way, he seems the ultimate shallow man to me, first the perfect chancellor when Henry appointed him chancellor, then the perfect archbishop (which meant fighting the King) – all perfect façade and no real substance.

Coming to the coast, we had a short stop at Deal, one of those fortresses another Henry, Henry VIII, build (which turned out not to be used at all), formed like a clover leaf and currently the location of some tv production.

So we were thwarted again, and turned to St. Margeret-at-Cliffe as the spot to say goodbye to the coast to, white cliffs and all, before getting on our ferry to the continent. If we could have sung Auld Lang Syne, we would have; we felt maudlin enough. It was a fantastic journey. And thus here's yours truly, saying farewell to the cliffs and to the travelogue: