London Bridge Tour

Kelly had arrived back from her travels in South America a week before, having visited her sister and spent some time readjusting to being home we we decided to go on the Bridge to Bridge walk – a very different walk to that which Nigel and I took every other evening around the Perth river, not as pretty admittedly, but a lot more action packed.

The plan was to see London Bridge then travel across to Tower Bridge, visit the Tower of London, go past St Pauls Cathedral and then back along Millennium Bridge. As we know, however… plans rarely come to fruition.

When we got off at London Bridge, through the hoards of people and misty rains there was a gentleman yelling out for people to speak to him regarding the ‘London Bridge’ experience. Behind him were large posters adorning the walls of blood and darkness and period dressed actors screaming for their lives. It looked brilliant! I looked at Kelly with those ‘please can we go’ puppy dog eyes, and after some discussion and a sudden surge of excitement we decided to cross the breach between living and dead and enter the London Bridge experience and related London Tombs.

Stepping into the darkness under London Bride we were met by a man dressed in 19th Century attire who swept us into a new world. The waiting area held imitation newspapers covering the decades of the life of London Bridge. A television explained briefly the history of the bridge complete with an actress performing as Queen Elizabeth II explaining the importance of the connection between South and North London,
“It may not be the most beautiful bridge in the world”, she said, “but it is one of the most historic”.
Kelly and I were not overly impressed with London Bridge, certainly not as attractive and daunting as Tower Bridge… little did we know.

We joined a group of 8 or so and were guided by the late 18th Century Butler through the dark skeleton drenched cobwebbed halls under London Bridge. After being wished goodluck upon our journey, and warned that we may not make it out alive we slowly wandered in the darkness before coming along what appeared to be some kind of Romanic wizard. Dressed in sack cloth and holding a crooked stick above a pool of blood on the cold cement floor he told us of the toils of those who existed during the original foundations of London Bridge. Warned of the darkness that was to come…

London Bridge is dated back to 55 AD and was originally a wooden construction built by the Romans during their years of English occupation. When the Romans eventually left the bridge slowly broke away and London was abandoned. Our wizard explained the turmoil of the Romanic rule, the death and destruction and what the future would hold. He sent us away with a dramatic wave of his stick, looking past the walls and into our destiny…

Suddenly a Viking woman shouted at us, “hurry! Hurry!” she said with a strong Germanic accent. Such a slight figure of a woman, and yet such a voice. We were told to stand straight against the wall of the cave that we had entered, Kelly and I looked at one another, slightly concerned and trying to hold in our nervous laughter. The Viking woman instructed us that the time had come to bring the bridge to its knees, as instructed by King Olaf in 1014. She asked to see our biceps, to hear us roar – which we all did as per her deafening request – and hop on one leg,
“stop that! You look stupid”, we all laughed before being scolded by a look that could kill. She then hurried us into an adjoining room that held three rows of two wooden benches, at the front was a wooden structure representing London Bridge with ropes attach, and to the back imagery to create the feeling you were on a Viking ship. One man was advised that he was going to be a captain of some description and given the tradition goat-horned steel Viking hat.
“PULL!” we grabbed the ropes at our feet and pulled,
“PULL!!!!” and again we pulled, being yelled at in the background by our favourite female Viking.
The London Tower before us creaked, cracked and moved. We had accomplished our mission and were told to go forth, quickly… quickly…

Moving through the dungeon-like enclosures with no light we were greeted by all sorts of horrifying ghouls. Ghosts jumped out at us, rocking chairs through windows and rats scurrying about. Heads hanging from the roof struck us in the face and water spat from the walls. Two gentlemen behind us decided it would be a good time to scream and frighten the females… they yelled right behind Kelly and I and we screamed and jumped and laughed! What a horrifying delight.

During our journey through the pits of London Bridge we encountered a specialist in the decapitation of all sorts of villains, the son, he advised, of the man who decapitated Guy Fawlks. He explained the necessary washing and tarring of the head before placing it on a peg along the bridge for all to witness. We were soon met by a gentleman wondering whether anyone was a witch, wearing a long dirt coloured cloak he pointed,
“Are you a witch?”
“Well… I used to be”, I said. Which was responded to by a look of shock, but he seemed to enjoy the possible banter,
“Why’d you give it up”,
“Oh”, I said, “Bit too dangerous these days”.
He nodded in agreement, “Oh, yes, that’s true. What with all the burnings”, he then led on to explain the old tale of how women were established as witches and why. Basically the medical profession wanted to get rid of anyone that might be taking some of their clientele, such as midwives – and anyone who questioned their processes or offered a different medical opinion regarding anything from consumption, the flu, to the plague. The women were taken to the river, if they floated they were witches and killed, if they didn’t float they weren’t witches, but were more than likely dead at any rate,
“Just as well for you then, eh?” he said with his thick London accent. I nodded in agreement,
“So, which parts’ you from then?” he asked,
“Australia”,
“Ozztraliaa?... ‘aven’t ‘eard of that. Where is it?”
“Oh you just go in that direction for a day,” I pointed behind him, “and then take a sharp right”,
“Oh”, he said and carried on his discussion of the shops that led up along London Bridge and went on to explain the first fire that occurred killing hundreds upon hundreds of people.
Kelly later asked whether she thought I’d not pronounced ‘Australia’ correctly and that he might not have realised where I was from. I suggested that because his character was based way before Australia was discovered he might have just played along. It was all thoroughly enjoyable though.

We were advised by another gentleman to bathe in our urine in order to prevent the plague, a woman warned us about walking the streets late at night for fear of Jack the Ripper who would slit a woman up and down, and all the time the walls continued to spit and howl, chained madpeople rattled at chains and ghouls lurked in dark corners to frighten us as we moved through the walkways. We were greeted by the ghost of Robert McColloch, an American entrepreneur who bought London Bridge in 1968 which was later reassembled in Arizona…

Along our 2000 year length journey we heard the stories of the people who had perished on the bridge, from Romans to Druids and Vikings, to prisoners convicted of treason for being Catholic at one time, Anglican the next and sometimes simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We saw the dark tombs and were greeted by the essence of history along our tour. Neither of us knew that the Thames at one time had even frozen over and temporary homes, markets and stalls were set up on the thick ice around 1811. It was here that the concept of traffic ‘keeping to the left’ was invented to prevent congestion across the bridge in 1722.

So much history… and presented in such an… well lets just say intriguing and entertaining way. By the end of it Kelly and I had developed a strong bond with London Bridge. It had been built and abandoned, conquered and burnt, half burnt again in 1666. People had lived, bred and died on it, it had witnessed events and held the heads of heroes and villains. It was a slice of history and although aesthetically it didn’t out rightly present as an icon of England, it was infact the heart of London, bringing together North and South and bridging the cap of city and country. We had fallen in love with it and were exceptionally glad to have done the tour… what a marvellous start to a day.

Trafalga Square & Surrounds

I hadn’t expected it to look like this. Trafalga Square opened up before me like a dream. The large whit-paved area shone back at me with the reflection of the sun. This was what I thought London would be about, this was the place of my imaginings. Overlooking the square stood a pillared building, which I had every intention of investigating. This was yet another Gallery that was currently featuring Titian and also a few original Monet works. But first I needed to investigate Trafalga Square. When I thought of it I didn’t actually visual a ‘square’ as such… but here it was. Flanked by the Museum, the South Africa Building and a large gated structure at its far end, the square was a grassless park inside, and yet beyond, the town of London. A statue of a man on a horse overlooked the overflowing waterfall where children played with the pigeons and buskers danced to the joy of the crowd. Enormous lion statues sat on the four corners of a pillar hailing the sacrafices of British soldiers throughout the years, and within the pond directly opposite cherubs flew from the waters.

I imagine that being there alone, it would be the most peaceful of places – but here now, there was a hubbub of colours with tourists meandering around, taking photos of one another, couples sitting watching the water fountain and parents laughing lovingly at their children.

I couldn’t help but wander around looking to the skies – trying with some difficulty not to a) look like a tourist, and b) bump into every person in my vicinity. The Church holds an impressive steeple with a shining blue clock, above the museum is a gold painted steel globe, under which Lions watch over London, and further below, cherubs ensure peace and harmony in the space. All perfectly designed to delight the onlooker – I wondered how many people miss these little delicacies of sight. So may Londoners seem to miss what is right before their eyes and I was glad that I came from a place that ensured my shock and awe at experiencing all of this.

I wandered around the area with a broad smile transforming my face and my mood. Here – I was impressed, this made the whole day so much more worth while. I love being surprised. I had heard of Trafalga Square but had not researched it, thought about it… and therefore was lucky enough to have any preconceived ideas about what it would be. Expectation can so often lead to disappointment – I marvelled at my luck.

Eventually I made my way into the grand pillar-bearing museum and was prepared for something quite spectacular. When I walk into these great halls I peer about like the proverbial mere cat, as if it is a secret that I am here – waiting for someone to tell me I shouldn’t be here at all, its for the special people, not little Fiona. And yet, here I was, feeling like a naughty child about to steal a 50 cent lolly.

The hall of the building was domed – somewhat… and certainly to a lesser degree – similar to His Majesty’s Theatre in Perth (a side note that if you happy to go to that particular theatre, the dome is not actually a dome, but painted in such a way that given perspective it appears as such. The original dome apparently was smashed and it cost too much for it to be repaired… something for your next dinner party!). The kind man in the Museum allowed me to take a photo, “so long as you take it from there”, pointing to a corner… so I stood at the corner, leaned on a pillar, twisted my body to the point of falling over (meanwhile my bag had swung from my shoulder and was swinging precariously off my elbow causing more problems with my balance) and snapped the dome. “haha!” laughed the kind security guard, “fair enough”. I smiled very happily while he rolled his eyes at me and trotted off on my merry way.

I was just so happy, I wanted to talk to people. Looking back I wonder about my sanity, trying to catch other peoples eyes to share my joy and excitement. My “oh I’m lost again” and “oh! Look! Another hall filled with paintings galore” moments needed to be shared. I was so happy I almost started considering myself a complete other person and chatted away to myself in my mind about how marvellous that painting was, and how on EARTH that spot could be considered art? It was fun, I was having fun and in realising that I was having fun – had even more fun… shortly thereafter I was carried out in a straight jacket!

No… to my left were Titian paintings with a ridiculous amount of people muttering to themselves about how ‘simply marvellous’ and ‘what a feat of perfection’ etc etc and every other generic thing people aught to say when they see something that is ‘said’ to be ‘art’. I prefer to make my own mind up and at times am influenced to love or hate something on the basis of popularity – if something is popular I will hate it simply to be different… almost rebelling against society for no actual reason, to no end what so ever… and potentially simply because it makes me feel more like an individual. I think it is such a struggle to try not to be a part of the crowd, to not get swept away by the media and society generally, to retain your own free will and more importantly, your ability to decide how you feel about a certain thing – to be true to yourself in a sort of way. My heavens – I sound like Oprah! Ahhh my point is proven to spite myself!

But back to the contents of this striking museum. You have read about other museums I have been fortunate enough to frequent, with the wonderous designs throughout the ages, and this is no exception. It doesn’t matter how many museums or galleries you visit, there are always wonders to be found, images that touch you, shock you, bring some emotion from you – whether it be love or hate. I maybe like them for that reason, not only the imaginings of the people who paintined them, the people in the paintings themselves, the era that they were commissioned, but the fact there a whole lifetime can go on outside the walls of the museum, but here you are, absorbed. Not thinking of wars, of issues at home… of anything remotely related to your existence, you are simply there appreciating something, feeling something. Its escapism.

I wandered from hall to hall and room to room taking everything in, from modern to Titian forms of artwork and enjoyed every moment. After a time, however, you stop appreciating, there is only so much you can see in a day, and the time was coming for me to move on to my next destination for the day.

Walking back through Trafalga Square I took out my camera and snapped myself roaring with the lion, and looking up at the pillar – taking a moment to consider the soldiers it was dedicated to. I stood watching the water fountain for a time before realising that someone was watching me watch the water fountain. A man whom I assume was homeless was looking at me with intent and I thought it time I moved on before becoming subject for any potential criminal activity.

Back across the road I made the discovery of my lifetime… If you have ever known me at Christmas I am one of those horribly annoying people who so desperately enjoy the crooners… A bit of ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and ‘Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas’ by Dean Martin is an essential part of any tree decorating. I have always dreamt and wondered about these ‘roasted chestnuts’ by the fire, and holly on the door. Oh to have a white Christmas. When I crossed the road and smelt a smell I’d never smelt before I knew this was a moment. There before me, so subtle in its presence was… a roasted chestnut stall! Oh the excitement! It was a moment of utter glee. Although I didn’t buy any – not thinking they actually looked that enticing and not really being a huge fan of nuts in general – I stood looking at them, smelling them, telling the poor man selling them how I’d always wanted to see some (another straight jacket moment) and then taking a photo of me next to them. Christmas was coming, my first winter Christmas. I started singing “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” to myself, whistling through the chorus and practically skipping down the road. It is true – its always the small things that bring joy. I just wished there was someone to share my excitement.

Earlier in the day I had spoken to Nigel and we were discussing the American Presidential Elections… Nigel had told me (and ofcourse I would not know otherwise because I’d not watched the news before I left the house) that McCain had claimed victory. For the rest of the day I was thinking to myself, ‘my, that is strange… I really didn’t think he had it. And the voters? Last time I checked there was 70% poll in favour of Obama’. After walking some distance from the Chestnut stall I stopped… I growled… I thought, what a cheeky cheeky man! There infront of me was the Evening Standard stall (the main London Newspaper) announcing in great black writing “OBAMA VICTORY”. I laughed to myself and felt a presence near me. Even 12000 miles away he was still trying to make me laugh.

My next mission was to walk the Victoria Embankment. I’m still unsure why I felt the need to. Potentially because in Perth the whole city is all about the river so one would assume that every city focuses its beauty around the river… and most certainly wouldn’t let traffic interfere with your solitary moment with the stream… Not so.

However, I was not there yet. Walking along the streets alone from one destination to another is travelling in itself. This is why I’ve not had much fascination with taking a tour bus around London – there is so much that you may potentially miss. And the new and improved ‘Fiona the Discoverer’ didn’t want to miss a thing. I scooted past a shopping centre situated between arches that had been there since the 1500’s and used to be canal-like and somehow connected to the Thames themselves. Under these stones were skeletons and the essence of history.

I finally made it through to ‘Victoria Embankment’ and it wasn’t exactly what one would expect… well certainly not what I expected to see. I think I had imagined something quite like South Perth with the vast well maintained green parkland enabling families and friends to gather for barbeques and romantic escapes along the rivers’ shore. Not so. I was walking along a very busy two way, four lane’d road, with ambulances and police cars flying past, people beeping and speeding to get home from a long day at the office. It was loud, it was grey and I wondered what had possessed me to walk this walk.

Later I discovered that the Victoria Embankment was infact a very historical part of London, where the merchants unlouded their ships filled with spices and silk and all wonders of the world for “London” which was only situated on the North side of the river (the South side of the river was infact all country side until the late 1700’s). Littered here and there, and almost out of view were hidden parks. Miniature escapes from the rushing traffic. I slid into each quietly, requiring some respite (but sure not to sit down. When you walk for hours and hours and feel that sense of lethargy slowly creeping in the one worst thing that you can possibly do is sit down… there is no hope what so ever of you EVER getting up again).

I took in the peacefulness around me. Birds were even finding solace between branches that crept over forgotten-about statues of past heroes. I noticed all of the ‘keep off the grass signs’ and immediately wanted to jump up and down and dance around on the grass like a mad person (straight jacket… never ending day of Bedlam {Bedlam was infact a mental institution which is where the term comes from… hails from England as well!}). I am still blown away by the colours of the English winter, the deep orange of the leaves contrasted with the mossy emerald of the trees and the striking green of the grass, all contrasted by the pitted grey skies. I took a breath and made my way back to the taxi-ridden jungle of the road.

I came to a secret looking and fancy looking night club. There was a large Afro-Caribbean man standing out the front looking all very imposing. I smiled at him and gestured whether it was alright to take a photo. Suddenly the imposing character became a very welcoming persona and he gestured that it would be fine. I took a snap and he looked most impressed that he was in the photo. I waved him goodbye and carried on my walk feeling his smile behind me. There really are so many pleasant people in the world.

I continued my meandering as the wind was coming in with its crisp afternoon coldness. Searching in my backpack I took out my gloves and hat and hoped that it would warm me enough to prevent any unnecessary ice frosting on any obtruding areas of my body. I came across the ‘Walk About Pub’… the Walk About is the ‘place to go’ for all things Aussie. It was 4pm and there was no one there yet, but I checked out the menu. Fish and Chips, Burgers and Kangaroo – it was all there and ready for consumption. But I had come here for the English experience and had been warned off these areas by every one I knew. If I was interested in being a topless barmaid… or indeed, a topless patron, it was the place to go… I decided it might not be a pub that I would frequent, but it was nice to know where other Australians were incase I became dreadfully home sick and wanted to discuss Rove and all things Australian. I took a photo and carried on, feeling none-the-better for the gloves and hat.

Along the path and across the road was a mural dedicated to soldiers. Being so close to Remembrance Day, the mural was littered with red poppys. I smiled at that and took a moment to consider it.

I walked past the original London School and heard children coming from the gates with accents that implied ‘good breeding’, even when they swore it sounded like the most well-to-do word you had ever heard. The school itself is almost completely fenced in, as is the beautiful park that surrounds it. The park reminded me of ‘Notting Hill’, if you’ve seen it, the moment that Hugh Grant takes Julia Roberts into a secret walled park that no one is generally allowed in. I felt like the poor lil match girl staring in.

I had finally made it to a bridge… I wasn’t entirely sure which bridge until looking later. It is called ‘Blackfriars Bidge’, and a busy bridge it is. Traffic both mechanical and humour whizzed along it from one side of London to another. I, on the other hand, was quite happy to stand and stare, taking in the façade of London from one aspect and then, another. It was impressive. Stretching further than the eye can see, and effort made to ensure that, although functional, it remained architecturally pleasing. I could see the London Eye staring back at me through the mist of rain that started to lightly descend overhead. The street lights flickered on as I wandered slowly, and tiredly, across the bridge. When I saw what I call the Kiss Hug Kiss building (generally considered the XOX building… I figure it is always important to read between the lines… I seem to be the only one who knows what it means! Every time I mention the Kiss Hug Kiss building I am met with stares of confusion and incredulity… I figure I am simply right, and they… are simply wrong). I loved simply staring at the bridges across the city, the boats moored up, the roman, Victorian and more modern style buildings littering the river-line, I was so excited to be there. Just me. And it was becoming even more beautiful as the sun was descending, the buildings’ lights shining out creating a whole new world that I’d not yet seen.

As I write this, sitting comfortably in my room with Cat Stevens singing in the background, I realise what a day it was. It has been more than a week since this all happened and I finally understand why I feel the need for a few days solitude and quietness – simply to get over the enduring hike. “So this explains why my jeans don’t fit!” I say to myself, stunned and impressed at the same time.

Having made it across the bridge I came to the conclusion that the sun was going down and I was partially frozen, even with my white-stitching lined black leather gloves and black beret… it was time to head in the general direction of ‘home’. No more adventures for today.

As I wandered back along the South Bank to where I’d been days before my heart was taken adrift with blue fairy lights scattered in the trees and lining the length of my walking journey. It was so peaceful and movie-moment perfect. My tiredness and coldness was overcome by a sense of peace. The Thames was rough and I could hear it slapping against the bank, there was a light mist of music wavering through the frosty winds and people laughing and chatting as I wandered past them. A skate park appeared to my left, while St Pauls Cathedral rose up across the river on my right. I moved past the National Theatre writing in my ‘do again list’ to pop in some time soon. While walking under the arches of another bridge that crossed the river I found a book stall, everything for a pound! Most exciting, but I was in urgent need of some warmth so I continued on my journey knowing that I had various books at home that I was dying to get my teeth in to. The time had not yet come to start my own library.

I drifted along the walkway, past a merry-go-round that, had my sister been there, we would have frequented with giggles, and further along to the London Eye. A statue of a man holding an umbrella appeared before me… I was most interested because I’d been through this area before and hadn’t seen that particular statue – must be something for Christmas, I thought to myself. I took out my camera and prepared to take a photo of the statue with the London Eye rising up in the background… and then, almost fell over (fortunately I was kneeling in such a way that shock could not over come my balance)… the statue moved! This silvery umbrella carrying statue was infact a busker – and a very good one at that. I noticed that I was not alone in my shock, a Japanese couple almost fell into the Thames with the ‘jump-back’ shock that the pseudo statue had caused. I could help but smile as I wandered past him and in the general direction of a tube station. What a day – it was time to go home.

It was Guy Fawlks Night. I had no chance of a quiet evening… not when it comes to fire works. I love fire works, I’ve always loved fire works. I think if you don’t experience a thing overly often, it is entirely common for you to be completely obsessed with that said thing later in life. And fireworks are certainly a weakness of mine. I remember being a very small child and sitting at home on New Years Eve, Mum and Dad having allowed us to stay up very late to watch the fire works on the television from around the world. Well, here I was in London and it was Guy Fawlks… there was no way I was staying in the house and not taking advantage of this very personally-historic moment.

When I returned to the house I organised a quick cup of tea, said a hello to Mark (Nigel’s brother) and freshened up. Swapping jumpers and recharging my camera, I asked Mark where would be a more appropriate place to see the fire works in full swing. He suggested I head to Clapham Common, which was only a tube station away. There was a buzz of excitement – this was my first night out in London technically… I just hoped it would go smoothly.

After having my cup of tea, I slung my backpack back on my back and wandered out the door with a joyful cheerio to all secluded in the central-heating warmth.

Getting out at Clapham Common was an experience in itself. I can very very safely say that I have never, ever in my short life seen so many people. It was a sea of faces, smiling faces. Adults, children, couples, families, people dressed to impress and those that had come from work. I could not see a street, a shop… and certainly not anything that even slightly resembled a ‘common’. There were Police everywhere, trying to ensure everyone got to their destination peacefully.

People were wielding fluorescent globes, wearing fluorescent necklaces, cameras danced above the heads of the crowd and flags danced upon the horizon. I was in the throng, along but strangely feeling very safe in the moment. I could hear music blaring from the distance and was swept along in its direction by the swaying crowd.

The atmosphere was intoxicating, everyone was smiling at one another, whether friends or strangers. Oddly I ended up at the front of a fence that rotated all around the very large open space of Clapham Common, with atleast fifteen rows of people staring toward the common, behind me. To my left was a couple holding one another and kissing at appropriate intervals. The music blaring came from a sound system in the middle of the common where one would assume, the fireworks would appear.

I was quite happy just being there, listening to the conversations, laughter and general banter of the people surrounding me, but then… at 7.30pm a BOOM was carried through the area and the crowd was immediately silenced. Suddenly the sky was lit up in green and the purple, with the fizz and hiss of fireworks igniting the frosty winter skies. The ahhhs and ooohhhs from the crowd, I could not help but join in. Even if I wanted to, I could not have kept a straight face, so strong was my smile and awe at the scene. Being here, with these people, in London… alone, watching fireworks and listening to music blare across the skies… it was all too much, it was all fantastic… it was everything I wanted.

What a day…

Museum and Gallery Day - Part 1

It was getting to the stage that I simply didn’t know what to do, my mind was swimming in the memories of the past few days. I was scared that the more I did the less I would retain and the less I would enjoy. But I was determined to get through my list, I was becoming obsessed with the desire to ‘achieve’ and to do ‘travel’ right – I still have difficulty grasping the idea that travel is an individualistic feat and that which ever way you do it, you do it right. If I felt inclined to go on a 20-something tour and drink every night, that was right, and if I decided to be the Tazzie the Tasmanian Devil in London – then that was right as well. I was wearing myself out and my eyes – thanks to the genetics from my father – were showing the signs of tiredness.

I ate my toast, had my tea, tied up my sneakers (which I was becoming increasingly attached to because they had taken me so far… regardless of the fact I’d not seen one other girl in all of my travels wearing white trainers…) and headed out in search of some culture.

My destination was the British Museum. The first thing I saw as I came out of the Goodge Street station was “We Will Rock You” playing at a theatre across the road. There stood a giant man holding a microphone, laden in gold with red and black lights shinning out the name of the production. I had seen the production the year before, and however shameful, loved every moment. The story line had an almost Orwellian spin with a bit of humour added to the mix, along with Queens most well renowned songs. I clapped and sung my way through and as I passed the theatre I started singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my mind.

After all these days you would think I would have come to accept the fact that you can be walking along a street aimlessly, looking to one side of the street, then turn to look at the other and be shocked to see a beautiful, Romanesque building rise up before you… but no. I smiled and rolled my eyes at myself when appeared a grand off-white pillar clad building materialise behind large ornate steel gates. I almost ran into the hot-dog vendor situated out of the front of the building. My mouth watering, I took a deep breath and walked away from the hot-dog vendor, advising myself that if I was very good I MIGHT be fortunate to treat myself later. I would fall on my hands and knees to thank the man who man hot dogs if I ever had the fortune to meet him. Especially one strewn with caramelised onions, French mustard, tomato sauce and soft white bread… ahhh

Moving into the Museum I was surprised to find that entrance was free. For hours, you could meander, spending an entire day in this beauty without spending a penny (apart from a potential hot dog on the way out ofcourse).

I fell in love. The British Museum is yet another marvellous feat of design, the building alone inspires – but what you can see in there, it is what dreams are made of. You are transported into another world with each corner you turn. At one point you are with Tutankhamen, turn the corner and Moa wishes you the worst (or best, depending on your perspective I suppose). I visited China, South America and smoked a friendship pipe with the Aztecs, I was welcomed to Japan by beautiful Concubines and popped past Mongolia (sucking on the flesh of human bones with our dear friend Ghengis Khan). Then I headed back to Europe for a cup of tea with the Tudors, sat with Anne Boylen before her head was impolitely struck from her head, dined with Mary Queen of Scots and saw to tomb of Sir Thomas Moore. Every room I went into I decided was my favourite… but then I discovered the sculpture section. The pharaohs’ looked at me unceremoniously and I was whisked away to Egypt, speaking with Queen Esther about the future of the Jews. Where did they come from? These ancients who had such skill, ability and above all, determination, to create such structures? There was so much that we took for granted, so much in the world to be marvelled at. It gave me shivers, looking at these ancient stones made to look like the overlord kings of a past world. I wanted to know who these people were, what their world was like, how they felt, were they happy or scared? Did they know what the world would be like in thousands of years to come? Who were their gods? I have always been a fan of Egyptology and had I any inclining that one could actually make enough to live on by being an Egyptologist, I would certainly have headed down that route. I considered potentially going back and studying it further when I got to forty or so, in the meantime I would soak up the history that was standing here before me.

The Romans also fascinate me, what they accomplished during their reign? Like the Byzantines, the Mongolians (for a short while), the Spanish later… and finally the English. I learnt during my “History of Globalisation” course at university the concept of “exoticism”, in that, because something is simply unusual or unknown, it is therefore exotic. Exotic does not actually mean a small island somewhere off the coast of America or in the Bahama’s, we all experience exoticism differently because of our different experiences. I am sure that in five generations from now people will look back to the start of the new millennium and think how wonderfully outrageous, or extremely simplistic and innocent it was, just as I was considering the extent of passion that existed in Roman times. Passion for family, home, country, religion, that I felt was lacking in the world today. Something more important than self and possessions.

One of my favourite sculptures was Aphrodite – she’s always been my favourite goddess, and I’m sure we all know the story – a bit naughty I thought in that a penis was thrown into the roaring waves and from this Aphrodite was born and is the goddess of love and fertility. The sculpture depicted her kneeling and looking off into the distance while covering her breast with her arms. Generally one sees her in a huge clam shell with waves flaying at her legs, but this gave her a bit more of a human aspect, she is just a woman… and maybe that’s the point, the female of the species holding the key to love and fertility.

The problem I have with museums is that I feel like a tourist. I feel like I’m staring at an object that does not belong in the space its situated. I want to be there, not only in the place it originated, but also in the time. It made me realise that a part of me, in my desire to come to England, or Europe, I was infact hoping in some way to go back in time, to live like Austen or the Bronte’s – to go to Bath and take the cure, to be in a world more innocent to my minds eye.

The British Museum did not quench any thirst, it was magnificent and I shall go again, but it made me desire so much more to go to these places and walk where ghosts still wandered and be in the presence of history.

I was on a mission, taking out my list I identified my next stop – the day was going so quickly! Half of me was advising to simply slow down and see what I could see in the time I had, another part of me wanted to see everything (including the continent) all at once. Nigel’s voice rang loud in my mind “Calm Down!”, but I’d had five cups of tea, each with two sugars… and I was off like Speedy Gonzalas!

I walked down a street and my mother popped up for a second… “Pancake Café”, I wished she was here, we’d have strawberry pancakes and a very large cup of tea and giggle about all the money we spent shopping. Melbourne was so much better with her there. I took a photo of the Pancake Café with Mum in mind, thinking of our last ‘girly’ excursion where Tiffany, Mum and I had gone to the Carillion City Pancake Parlour for brunch, and carried on my way.

More theatres! Were they stalking me? “Fiona…” they crooned, “watch me”. But there was no time! I would see a play, a very good play, or a musical… many infact, but not today – today was Culture Day and I needed to getto the Photographers Gallery.

When I think back to that day I even shock myself with how much I did. No wonder I’m tired! Its as if I think I only have one day to see it all. Part of me feels that I need to see as much as possible so that I can show my family and friends via facebook – if I don’t go out I almost feel guilty. I think I simply understand the opportunity I have and how fortunate that I can be here, right now, that there are millions of people that would ever have this opportunity, and there are some whom I love that may not get the chance. When I wander with my camera I am taking them all with me, from my Pop to my Mother, showing Dad the history and Tiffany the theatres, making silly faces when I’m excited to Nigel, and consider having a cup of tea at the Ritz with Nana. So many people… and they deserve a good tour. I am simply the tour guide. I do need to stop myself at times, however, and remember this is for me as well. That I need to live, breathe and experience this, that this is me developing into what ever it is I want to be.

In between destination 1 and destination desired 2 I discovered destinations that, had I known of them, I would have headed immediately for them. First… I discovered a theatre where HairSpray was playing – having to take a happy snap for my dear sister. I decided not to purchase a ticket or go… not until I had my sister or Mother there to join me… some things are sacred and need to be experienced with those you love. I look around at times while I wander the London streets, expecting to see someone, wanting to experience a moment with that person… only to find that they aren’t there. I decided I didn’t want to see a musical such as this because the sadness would surpass the happiness of the theatrical delight.

My next happy discovery was the Royal Shakespeare Company Theatre… my first EVER play was Midsommer Nights Dream that my mother arranged for me on, what I think was, my 15th Birthday. It was done by the Bell Shakespeare Company (of which I’ve seen around 4 more productions, one of which was also Midsommer Nights Dream…). We were in the Botanical Gardens in Perth and the performance was set in the light-soaked trees. People dressed as fairies and Kings and Queens ran up and down the aisles of the crowd to everyones delight… except my father ofcourse who was certainly unimpressed that we had to move from one area to another for the second half of the performance (in his defence, his back was very bad at the time, however I remember his grumpiness with great fondness – my mother and I chuckling to ourselves). It was a magnificent performance, my eyes like saucers throughout the play. It was my first true introduction to theatre and, I must say, it was love at first sight.

Now… here I was… not at the Australian version – Bell Shakespeare… but at the actual Royal Shakespeare… and their theatre no less. I could not but walk in. I wanted to see something then and there, I wanted to see Dame Judy Dench performing Twelfth Knight, David Tennent as Hamlet (which was unfortunately sold out… have a soft spot for dear Dave ever since I saw the BBC version of Casanova… and then Dr Who ofcourse). I couldn’t believe that these actors, the people doing the job of my dreams, were here, performing… performing with a company dedicated to The Shakespeare… I asked the man at the Box Office if I could take a quick photo, he saw the excitement in my eyes and advised “It is not generally appropriate madame” (he called me madame!) “however, if you must”… and I must, I must indeed. I took a few photos and again walked out of a building filled with appreciation for existence (and a secret desire that has never waned to become a stage-actress).

I carried on and was astounded by the astounding things with every step that I took, the next theatre was showing PIAF, a play about Edith Piafs life and featuring her sometimes eery, sometimes hilarious, music. I immediately thought of my father, turning Edith up very loud in the pink lounge room. Watching movies when Piaf came on and him looking fondly at me explaining who she was and why he loved her music, he even has her CD. An all Australian farmer… with the CD of a French singer? He’s a man of many contradictions. I took a photo thinking of him and carried on my merry way only to find Josephs Technicolour Coat playing at the next corner which reminded me of my Aunty Julie who had seen the production – I believe in Perth – when I was a child. She had purchased the VHS and I remember being so jealous that she got to go! I looked up to her when I was a child, thinking she had the most magnificent life, having travelled and gone to plays. I thought I’d like to do all that too – now Tiffany, if you could have a child please so that I can make her jealous?! Ofcourse the next corner reminded me of my Mother, the Lion King was showing and the posters rang out at me. For years I had wanted to see the Lion King and one of Mum and my main reasons for going to Melbourne was to hopefully see the production. It was featuring the Maori actor from Water Rats who had the most amazing voice, one of those rare voices that seem to go straight through your veins and make music more than music, but an emotion beyond description. Unfortunately the play stopped playing (a juxtaposition in itself) a few days before our arrival. I wished with all my heart that my Mum was there at that moment, that we could have one of our spontaneous girly evenings and go immediately to watch it. I will go while I am here and will take her with me, she should certainly expect the t-shirt in the mail.

While pondering the wonders I’d experienced since my walk from British Museum, and being slightly concerned about the time and how I was going to accomplish my Bond-like mission within the given hours of a day I realised I popped down a small street without many people on it. I continued, thinking I would somehow pop back out at an appropriate place, only to discover ‘Neals Yard’. Neal’s Yard is apparently a very well known attraction for London locals – I had not read about it in any of my guides or maps. Therefore I struck down the Fiona Flag and claimed it as my own.

Its almost Mediterranean in its presentation, with colours wowing you. A pink wall lead me through a cobbled street to a hair dresser whose caption made use of an image of Betty Boop (one of my favourite cartoon characters). Past the hair dresser I came to a courtyard with a few small shops and a café, all very quiet, but with strong blues, oranges and purples colouring the walls and transporting you into a whole new place. Large hanging plants hung from second storey balcony’s and a light touch of music whisked on the winds. It enabled me to take a moment, take a breath and take stock of my day and my weeks.

I emerged from Neal’s Yard with a new sense of excitement. Wandering. I was back in the mood for wandering. I still wanted to conquer my list, but at the same time wanted to ensure that I appreciated everything as I bounded down the sometimes cobbled streets.

I decided to cross the road and enter an interesting store I spotted. It was a up-town second hand store that had everything I could have dreamed of. Gloves, hats, ponchos, jumpers… all from the 50s, 60s and 70s. Welcome home Fiona.

As the 70s music belted out I took this, that and the other thing from the rack. Things I would never ever even dream of wearing in Perth. I was going to have a closet party right there in the store. I felt quite liberated, I’ve mentioned before how impressed I was that in London, its wear what you feel like – ofcourse there are those Paris-Hilton look alikes, some persons that appear as if they’ve put their make up on with a spatula (males and females) and ofcourse someone wearing a Mohawk and some kind of very large diamond encrusted dagger as a pendant… but the ability to wear what you feel, to express yourself through attire and not be looked at, not to stick out like the proverbial elephant, its exciting.

I put a great white beanie-like hat on and a red plaid poncho (that itched my neck terribly) and danced… I danced like no one was watching and my heart soared. I was having fun… in London… and all by myself. It is a magnificent feeling to enjoy yourself without another person in the room, to be happy and healthy and loving the moment you are in.

Simply because the store brought me such happiness I bought a little jacket that I’ve since worn every night as my beddy-down time jacket. Its comfortable and, yes, I look like a Grandpa from the 40s… but I feel like me in it, and I feel happy.

Post-boogy I realised the time and continued on my drastic journey to find the Photographers Gallery. It was a long treck to get to Trafalga Square, but there was so much to do and see and the hours were getting the better of me. Already the sun was descending and the afternoon chill was in the air. The clouds tormented me with the possibility of rain, so I hop scotched through the streets, navigating my way past camera-carrying map-perusing lost-meandering people.

The Portrait Gallery is yet another impressive building that is molded into the perfection of historic architecture in London. There was an exhibition on, but at 15 pound a pop (around $35) I thought I could suffice with the region known as “free”… aka “for poor people and me”. I was actually disappointed by the Portrait Gallery but intend on going again, and actually seeing an exhibition… I was hoping for more photography of the 40s through to 70s (which I find quite fascinating), but it was more focused on characters from the Tudor, Victorian and Edwardian eras… similar of which I’d seen in other galleries throughout my London tour. The paintings were beautiful, but ofcourse there is little emotion in most. The Lords and Ladies were required to sit before a painting, a sculpture, in a garden and look as bored as possible while the artist painted an exact depiction of the said Lord or Lady laboriously. There is little sense of personality in many, which is fascinating in itself, but once you have seen twenty, thirty… fifty… you start ignoring the substance of the piece. I find contemporary art and photography somewhat more enticing because if drives me to analyse and wonder… there was little to wonder with a picture of Queen Victoria post-husband-death as she stared at me… all I felt was that she had every intention of getting me out of her presence…. Not the most amicable of historic characters – even if she is quite modern in historic tense.

One painting that I did find… disturbing, I suppose, was that of Churchill. He is sitting in the House of Parliament with his Parliamentarians and staring out… staring at you. Wherever you go, he is looking at you with utter consternation, as are some of his compatriots. I was meandering through, taking in the images that surrounded me, when I felt eyes upon me, at which time I turned to discover that there were eyes on me… the entire Parliament, infact… it is amazing to feel such a thing through a painting, to have felt it before seeing the painting, as if there is more than simply watercolour and canvas… some essence of self that has been taken into the material and echoed over the years to those who disturb its presence.

I still have a desire to visit more photo-oriented galleries, I love photographs and thoroughly enjoy the thrill of taking that snap at the right time, the right place, something filled with energy and peace, all at the same time. There is a sense of pride when you get it just right. I’ve always wanted to learn how to develop film myself and… well to become a photographer in a way. Travelling around London and taking happy snaps is not the same as taking a photo… and although with technological advances, everyone can take a good photo, there is an art to taking something really moving. There was a documentary I once saw about an Australian who would go surfing for the pure purpose of capturing a wave just as it split open to engulf those riding it… my unicorns dancing on the great blue. He was amazing and took pride in his art… and indeed, it was art. I look forward to having enough peace in my personal situation that I can meander and concentrate on the form of a photo, rather than capturing everything that I see.

I headed out and crossed the road to discover that I was standing before St Martins in the Fields. So many people had told me about this Church and I had great expectations. From the exterior it looked similar in age to the Portrait Gallery, with pillars rising up with determination to keep modernity from its steps. It was pristine… from this you could sense the love that London had for it, people cared enough to take time to ensure that time did not taint its beauty.

I headed down to the ‘Crypt’ first… simply because it was called the ‘Crypt’ and therefore enticing in its potential gothicness… however it was simply a gift store with every tragic bit of commercialist degradation lining its walls ready for the budding tourist to spend their pounds on, and also a café whose exorbitant prices were beyond my stomaching.

I headed back up the stairs and into the Church that… while beautiful, was not as impressive as Westminster Cathedral that I had stumbled across earlier in the week. It was clean and pristine and… well seemed to lack emotion. People say that it is magnificent, but I wonder if they have wandered off the beaten track to some of the even more beautiful Churches and Cathedrals in their city, places that aren’t in the ‘must see’ guides… I lit a candle for those I was thinking of, took note of the Churches structure and tried to appreciate it for what it was, but the sterility took away from its presence for me and I decided I was much happier in my personal discovery…

I understand the reason that St Martins in the Fields is so well known is because of its location… Location Location Location as they say… because as I stepped out I suddenly realised where I was and why people had tld me to go… infront of me was a large expanse of car-traffic-less pavement and scores of people. There was a pond filled with black-steel statues and marble fountains, lions adorning post-war structures and buskers in every corner. Never have I seen so many cameras snapping away, lighting up the area like a miniature summer storm. Here was Trafalga Square.

To Be Continued….

Devouring Dali & Movie-tastic

Still in Westminster Abbey I realised I couldn’t find my way out. Around every corner there was another corner, another prayer room filled with glass mosaics and tombs and writings dedicated to the people who contributed to the society of their time. There were arches and thrones and statues and the regalia worn by kings and queens through the centuries. It took an hour to simply do the ‘once over’. In the centre there is a large square grassed area (that one is not allowed to walk on… it seems quite the norm that people are not allowed to walk on the grass and I cant count how many “keep off the grass” signs I’ve seen in my short time here). I passed a priest or two and finally made my way out. Unfortunately the experience was tainted by the fact I had to pay 12 pound and then was not allowed to take any photos. And the fact that potentially every tourist in London was in the Abbey at the same time as me. Places like that you need solitude for, some quiet to take in the glory. History does not speak so loud as in the silence of solitude (I think I’ll have to copy write that sentence!)

I came out of Westminster Abbey determined to cheer myself up. I was disappointed and I think there is a lot to be said about Great Expectations. Westminster Cathedral is not on the maps so much, or on the tongues of toursists… so in going there, its romance had been maintained. I like the secret places you find when you meander along the street.

Turning to the right I look up only to behold Big Ben bearing down on me. Again, I expected it to be larger, however it did not stop the butterflies running ramped in my stomach… It was another “Yay! I’m here… look at me in my beret checking out Buckingham Palace”. It’s a bitter sweet moment because you cant help for you mind to run across the waves and back to the people you love, wishing and dreaming they were with you there. I knew Nigel would have loved to be there seeing my eyes light up while I jumped around infront of passing Londoners like a crazy person. I took out my camera and recorded my first impressions.

Big Ben and Houses of Parliament are simply beautiful and have a gothic feel to them. Its like staring at a painting come to life for the complexity of the architecture, every crevice has been considered, each tells a story about the purpose of the building, the people who helped create it and the people whom it would house. Its difficult to describe what I mean, when you look at the Houses of Parliament from afar its as if someone has used grey paint and subtly stroked down on the horizon, I don’t know if you can describe something so large as intricate, but it is in its detail. I could stare at it for house, you feel like touching the exterior of the building, wondering how they formed it. It reminded me of some photo’s I’d seen of Gaudi’s Church in Barcelona (adding to list of things to do when I head to the continent).

I took in the surroundings, snapped a million photos and tried to fit my head into the shots so that I could actually accept that I’d been here, no… it wasn’t all a distant dream. It still seems all very surreal to me, I feel as if I’m going to wake up at home again soon… and realise it was all of very long dream.

I carried on along the bridge, bumping into people as I walked… I was still distracted looking at Big Ben and Parliament, the fact that it is build on the river, literally on the river, was another amazing feat. Its so impressive, we think that “back in the day” those persons were not as advanced as the modern day, wars were conducted in a different manner, there was little to no concept of different cultures or respect of such, they didn’t have telephones, the internet, every conceivable play thing that one could ever imagine… and yet, they made some of the most unbelievable and strikingly beautiful buildings, buildings that far surpass the so called “mansions” of today. I like to think there was love and pride put into every arch and pillar. Everything was done manually with thousands of hands, probably thousands of deaths, multitudes of money… maybe sometimes the harder a thing is to do, the more motivated one is to do it well.

I finally arrived at the other end of the bridge and was shocked yet again at what I had come across. Up! Up! For wandering. I had arrived at the South Bank (which apparently used to be considered “the country side”, London was across the river which is where the 1666 Fire of London took place destroying the original city which had been primarily made of wood). Here I was where the prostitutes, gamblers and persons of questionable character had danced and sung their way through medieval naughtyness. How exciting. Now the South Bank is considered a bit of a modern tourist / artsy realm. There were people everywhere… by the sounds of things, they were also all French and were not inclined to seeing me… such were the thumps and bumps that I received as I made my way down the stairs, or side stepped into a puddle when a pack of wild frogs came directly at me! I was not overly impressed by this, especially considering my shoes allow water into them quite easily and now my socks were all wet… but nothing could take from my excitement.

There rising up before me was the London Eye and what an impressive construction that is. There was an American shouting to see everyone tickets (at 20pound a pop I thought I would not partake and could possibly find another way to see the city without parting with what is $45 for a 20minute ferris wheel. But it is still a site to see.

I was not so excited to see the London Eye as I was to… I still have to take a breath and check my excitement even thinking about it… there behind me was an exhibition at the County Hall (another beautiful big building where previously discussions about the goings on in the city of London would have been held years ago… now it is a centre for exhibitions) and WHAT an exhibition. By the statues out side you didn’t even need to read the title of the exhibition. Giant figures of long-legged elephants and women with drawers coming from their abdomen… Dali.

Ever since Brett introduced me to Dali when I was in high school I have been fascinated. Having read his biography I don’t much like him as an individual, he was ‘odd’ for the sake of being odd and certainly took Andre Breton’s thunder in relation to the Dada / Surrealist movement (poor Breton didn’t have the same skill with the paint brush). Nevertheless, to see Dali originals, to read about him and have a whole building dedicated to him… including a café! I was at a loss, I was jumping up and down, I wanted to grab a stranger and tell them how truly happy I was. Yay… and more Yay!

I convinced the lady at the front desk that I was a student but had forgotten my card (I think given my attire… aka looking like a mad lil art student… she was obliged to believe me, or atleast feel sorry for me that I had no fashion sense what so ever). I got in for 5 pound less than I should of and was quite content with that. Then, I walked through the hall.

The hall leads through to the triple gallery area. Along it were photo’s of Dali and his quotes… many of these quotes I’ve read before but still make me huff and puff when I read them. He has very arrogant tendencies and again, it is frustrating when I person plays on the quirky side of their nature. You either are or you aren’t, and I think Dali was just making money of it, given the time he was living in. He was actually the first pop artist ever (that is artist that during his lifetime became famous not only for his art but also his persona… what Andy Warhol was for the 60s and 70s, Dali was for the 30s and 40s. He quotes at one time, “Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure - that of being Salvador Dali”… never has a human being been more arrogant. He also made a few comments about the inadequacies of women… which, I ofcourse gasped at, then smiled because that was his point, he wanted to shock and amuse, and here I was all these decades later, being shocked and amused, you have to give him credit for that.

I turned out of the hall, reading about things I’d already read about and thinking back to my time at University doing the Ideology course, remembering how excited I was reading about Breton, Dali, Satre and de Bouviour, here I was in London where they all spent time and chatted about the ins and outs of society and the human condition.

When entering the main gallery I suddenly felt at home. Luckily there weren’t too many people meandering around so I could spend time infront of a sculpture or painting and take it all in. There were melting clocks, some amazing works that I’d never seen before – coloured paintings that had a Picaso flair to them, the usual woman laning on a stilt with drawers coming from her abdomen, the elephant with exceptionally long legs. My eyes darted from one side of the room to another before I decided to start at one end and circumnavigate my way around every single object and painting. There was a television showing Dali’s films, which in their absurdist manner, made no sense at all – even less sense when spoken in French. One very small object that most fascinated me was a golden paper weight, there were two infact. One was an elephant, and the other, a swan. Reading the details about this one was then advised that both objects were actually the same, however if you turned the elephant up side down, it became a swan. Dali considered himself the first to have made this discovery and this type of mini-sculpture. Whether he was or not, it was very interesting and I really wanted one.

Each room had a different and detailed display of Dali’s work. It’s a pityI had such a horrendous memory, I so wanted to retain everything that I was reading and everything that was before me. However, just being there was enough and I have every intention of going again.

I meandered around all of the amazing structures before finding myself at the Dali Café… even if I wasn’t hungry there was no way I wasn’t eating here. I took up a table and sat on the little green plastic chair and stared out of the window at the hustle bustle outside. Everything on the menu seemed completely ridiculous… I thought maybe it was Dali inspired and had no intention of not making sense. I finally ordered a chicken-type snadwhich, apparently “gormet” and apparently “organic”. The very abrupt waitress, who appeared more interested in speaking another language to a colleague (I assume about the ladies male interest) than helping me with my necessity for food.

Finally she turned up with my meal…

My meal was in a bag…

A brown paper bag, very environmental… carrying on with the organic spin I supposed. The bread was white (unsure how one makes white organic bread considering in order to have white bread the wheat has to be bleached and preservatives added). Not only this but there was no butter (and I can’t be eating bread without butter! One of my loves in life is good butter), but the chicken was bland… and to add insult to injury, there were chunky pieces of some part of the chicken that aught not have been in the chicken sandwhich. I felt suddenly sick after crunching into what I imagined to be a chicken shoulder, was entirely frustrated that I had paid ten pound for something that wasn’t worth two and made my way out of this place of wonders.

I sighed allowed when I came into the impeding clouds, very happy with my accomplishments of the day. I thought I would have a quick wander further down the South Bank and see what restaurants and sites there were to see and then make my way home.

At that time I suddenly felt Tiffany staring at me. I knew. She knew. We knew. I was unknowingly standing before the MOVIESEUM… as the name suggests it is a museum dedicated to movies, with parts of actual sets within. I asked the gentleman dressed as a policeman where to go, he took me in and arranged a student ticket for me and off I went. It all happened rather quickly. No more than five minutes after coming out of the Dali exhibit I was in Star Wars… staring a C-P30 and Chewbacca. Mickey was having a cup of tea with Dorrothy and Danger Mouse greeted me at the entrance way. It wasn’t done as well as it could have been, but I was skipping down the hall thinking of Tiffany at every turn.

My favourite room without a shadow of a doubt was the “play room”, which I assume was created for children, but there was no one in there. There were computers set up so that you could create your own character, with its own personality, its own little world, what ever shape and colour you wanted. I created a purple spotted monster with a great big smile, and positive outlook on like, but if he was ever in danger he had teethy-mouths on his knees so when he kicked he could also bite his assailant. He was situated in Texas and liked to flare his muscles. I could not for the life of me stop laughing. It was the most wonderful thing, it may have surpassed Dali. My own lil monster.

After half an hour of playing with my new favourite fiend I realised that it was getting to the late afternoon and I needed to see everything before rush hour started on the tube (not a big fan of people touching me on public transport or the horrendous smell that human beings give off at the end of the day eating spicey meals to keep the cold at bay). So I ventured forth and spoke with Sherlock briefly before visiting Spongebob and a few more Star Wars heroes. My camera was dying which I thought was a good sign that I should head out. It had been a very long and very exciting day and my legs were beginning to feel the impact of my seven hour trek.

I took a glance around South Bank again, took in Big Ben all lit up, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament shone out at me and everyone in the vicinity seemed as delighted as me to be exactly where they were. Couples were embracing while waiting in line to take a ride on the London Eye and some children were feeding the hundreds of pigeons that were gathering with expectation. It was London. This, I thought, is what London is all about.

I headed off to find a tube station and make my way home. Following signs I dashed through traffic, still buzzing from my excursion of a lifetime, and hoped that a tube station would present itself soon. It was getting increasingly dark and I was getting to the Alice stage (the overwhelming desire to click ones heels and suddenly be back at home). Waterloo station was apparently just around the corner, but unfortunately the corner disappeared. I carried on through and decided I would wander to Elephant and Castle… The problem with travelling and doing it by yourself is that to you, a place is just a place, none are more dangerous than the other… however I later found out that the Elephant and Castle is not really the best place a white female with a red beret and green scarf should be wandering about. I didn’t mind at the time though, it took me around twenty minutes to walk at a fast pace to the general area. I was stopped by two French men asking for directions. Sadly I had to advise that I wasn’t from London and had little idea where I was going myself. I practically skipped down the street after being mistaken for a local, the rain was coming down but in my mind, the sun was shinning.

After getting lost and lost again and feeling like the only light skinned person in the world for quite some time, I finally found the tube and was unbelievably glad to find myself sitting down, my feet hovering off the floor and aching. I was so glad to be heading back to warmth and quiet… but oh what a wonderous day.

Westminster Abbey Part 1

The following day I was on a mission… I had a list and wanted to see the main and traditional sites of London. I have taken to writing lists of an evening so I make as much use of my day as possible. Come rain or shine I wanted to get everything done. Doing this, however, is probably not the best way to travel, it ends up becoming more of a “yes I’ve done it now”, rather than, “I am experiencing something”. I keep telling myself I need to slow down, that it is not a race. Mum always told me that I have always wanted to run before I could walk… hopefully this experience will finally teach me to take one step at a time.

I was most excited getting on the tube, feeling as if I was finally in the television. As a child I would watch play school and think about going outside to cut down a tree and ram it through the television screen so I could get in there and play with the people. Now, after flying for 24 hours I had accomplished the same goal without breaking anything. There weren’t many people on the streets and as I walked down the tube the “tube smell” struck me. I smiled remembering that Nigel had told me that within London there are so many different smells and for the rest of your life it brings back memories to you… however, I do hope that where ever else I go in the world, I will not have to experience the “tube smell” again… or the smell of the people on the tube.

I got off at Victoria Station again and felt like a local. While on the train Ihad my IPod in and was reading the book that Mum had given me before I left. Looking all very nonchalant and cool I was quite impressed with myself at tricking all of these people into thinking I was a Londoner. I’m sure that none of them really cared, but it made me quite happy indeed.

Victoria Station, it seems, is always busy. It appears the tourist terminal, people running this way and that, looking at maps, couples arguing about which way to go, Asian people snapping everything insight with their grand cameras and multi focal zooms. Men in hi-visibility jackets handing out pamphlets for everything from bus rides, to musicals to the Big Issue. Just getting off there is a buzz in itself and you get caught up in the moment. For a second I forgot what I was there for, standing staring at the goings on. It is like watching one of the first black and white films, people dashing about faster than you could imagine they could walk.

The rain was coming in and umbrella’s started popping up, it became a sea of teared ballerina skirts, all different colours and designs, some even advertising technology or restaurants. The downfall of my intention to ‘appear like a local’ was that I did not have an umbrella, and so instead grabbed my black beret from my bag and plonked it on my head in the hopes of atleast keeping the rain from my hair. I re-did my scarf to protect my bear neck that was slowly turning to ice and wandered off in search of… Big Ben.

Over the past few days I had come to the conclusion that I was Fiona the Fantastic who could never get lost and always knew which way to turn instinctively. I would check where the sun was, identify north and traipse in the general direction I was seeking… however, as is the way, when one makes the assumption of their superiority to all others, they are proven wrong and I got myself rather lost.

I had turned up what I thought would lead me to Westminster Abbey, only to find that I was walking into a secret department store. I say secret in that I didn’t realise I’d gone in it until shoes jumped out at me. The building was quite new and stuck out from the old buildings that make London, London. Determined not to go back or look at my map I continued walking and took a side street which I hoped would bring me to something a little more familiar. I was in a similar locale to when I had visited Buckingham Palace and so thought, considering I had been there once, there should be no issues in knowing everything about a place.

However, London is London and every corner sends you to a whole new experience. You are never parallel with the street you think you are parallel and this can lead you on a wild goose chase… I am all for the odd wild goose chase, but now when I am umbrellaless, its raining and all I wanted was a cup of tea.

I took a deep breath, accepted that I cant always be right… there will be times when I don’t know everything (ofcourse far and few between!), took out my map (after finding a corner to hide in) and turned back down the street I had just walked up.

Having returned to Victoria I finally found my “Victoria Street” which was to lead me to the sites I had dreamed of seeing since first watching a BBC THAMES production (which I believe was the “Goodies”…).

This street is particularly busy with office personell dashing about in their black and grey suits, meeting one another on the street to discuss all the important goings on of Mildred from Level One and Cedric on Level Five and what they had gotten up to in the elevator. I smiled and realised that I might be one of them soon, but hopefully would not have to experience the dramas of Mildred and Cedric (never heard a good word about them to tell you the truth).

I was strolling along taking snaps here and there, another theatre presented itself to me as well as enormous modern style buildings that stuck out like a sore thumb on a monkey. The design was quite striking, it was as if the architeches has realised that they could not, and should not try and recreate the traditional buildings, went along a completely different line and complimented the surrounding grandeur of Victorian style blocks with outrageously modern designs with shinning cold steel and windows throughout. One building appeared completely void of any brick or plasta and was beautiful in its own right. It was as if the building realised it couldn’t be the same as all the others, so thought it might as well be as different as it could be instead. I became quite fond of a few of them… the ugly ducklings that aren’t so ugly after all.

Nature still calls in London… even when there isn’t much nature to see. I was missing the trees along the streets and wondered how good the air was considering the lack of photosynthesizing beasts that littered Perth so beautifully. However, I had no time to ponder this… I had had a tea before I got on the tube and was regretting it as I fretted trying once again to find a public toilet. Heaven forbid you had curry the night before.

But then… there before me, like the golden arches they are… McDonalds! The time had come to once again take a McPee (as if the last experience wasn’t bad enough). But I had no choice and scooted in quickly in search of the loos.

People do not look happy in McDonalds… they simply don’t. They look as if they are eating for the sake of eating and the worries of the world are on their head. It was only 11.30am and people were scoffing down all sorts of appetising fat-ridden pretend cow… I raised my eyebrows wondering… considering we are IN London, which is reknowned in some circles for its diverse cuisine… why would people choose to eat McDonalds? It didn’t seem any cheaper, by no means tastier… and heaven forbid, healthier! Amazed at the impact of marketing and its ability to influence throughout the world… and wondering who Mr McDonald was and whether he had a son… I went to relieve myself, hoping that no drama’s would come of it.

Luckily all went well… I survived! I was off to continue my journey being able to concentrate on what I was doing rather than imagining a pristine ceramic bowl of beauty. Turning right out of McDonalds, and still on Victoria Street I gasped… I had been staring at the other side of the road, then swivelled my head around to realise… I had discovered a Cathedral… and not any miniature or small-scale Cathedral, this was impeding.

The exterior was not as beautiful as some Cathedrals I have intention of discovering in my coming days of travel. Red bricked with metal sticking out from columns (I assumed to stop people skating boarding or jumping on them… or prevent pigeons sitting on them and leaving little gifts). It was about three regular shops in width and height… well, I couldn’t fit it all on my camera when I tried to take a photo. Even through the red-brick, you could see beauty though, something internal calling out and wishing that you would enter. The previous day I had wandered the streets of Soho, Piccaddilly and the West End, hardly entering any of the places I saw. But here, now… I felt drawn to enter… and crossing the threshold I discovered why.

The immediate feeling of reverence that engulfs you was striking, but not more so than the interior of this magnificent hall. There was a sermon going on as I entered, and a few eyes greeted to as I walked into the Church, all smiling and welcoming. I glanced above the see glass mosaics strewn in the arches. The structure was early Victorian with all its regality and perfection. Images of the Saints, Lords and Ladies watched as you wandered through the hall. The Church was separated into four main areas. The hall, or main area where the congregation sat and prayed on long pews. Above them the arches of the roof were so high as to make it difficult to take it all in at the same time. At the furthest end of the hall was another distinct area strewn with gold leading to a statue to Jesus, his heart escaping his chest and glowing with gold stelectites erupting from every which way. This Jesus had a serene and loving look on his face as the Priest discussed the New Testament and its relevance today. Between the Priest and the statue of Jesus were large golden gates, steeped at the top as if being the Golden Gates to heaven, and all around mosaics of angels. Along either side of the main hall were two similarly sized halls that went the length of the church. To the left and right of the respective sides were smaller prayer chambers, separated by black steel gates and in each prayer chamber there was a tomb of some royal personage or previous esteemed member of the congregation. The Tomb was topped with a statue of the person that lay within. On the walls were mosaic portraits and poems to various historic people, advising “here lyeth …” and explaining their importance to the church and the society of his or her time. I stood in awe and dared not take my camera out. There was a sense of reverence that followed you, regardless of whether you were religious or not, it seeped into your bones and you knew that this was a place that had been loved throughout time, where historic events had taken place, tears had been shed and relationships made. I lit a candle in one of the chambers thinking of my Grandparents and hoping that they would be proud that I’d made it. I remembered talking to my Gran about travelling and all the marvellous things I would do in my life, her advising that it was possible but not always easy, I never believed her but now knew what she meant. I also now realised that maybe the difficulty in travelling, or doing anything that you truly want to do, is worth the struggle, the pain and hardship and makes the outcome that much sweeter.

I fell in love with this Cathedral. It is places like this that I crossed the oceans for. Some history, age… a sense that cant be captured in a photo, in a book, a feeling that cant be described when you are somewhere important, when you can feel the people that stood here before you… nodding their heads and knowing… something.

As I left the Cathedral I made a mental note to return as much as possible while I was in London so I could sit and feel whatever that feeling was.

Having a sense of accomplishment at discovering this place I felt a new sense of determination and was off, rushing down the street to get to the next experience. It was intoxicating, discovery. As a child I wanted to be an archaeologist, out the back of the house I was digging under the fig tree and lo! Behold! I had discovered a grave… who knew how old it was, who had died there, what was there story. Had there been a murder… I had stumbled across a piece of pure history, it would go down in the books of time. I rushed to tell Mum and Dad what a magnificent daughter they had, that I, Fiona Leake, had found something beyond imagination. My Dad smiled and knowing that he was breaking my heart advised that infact, it was a pig trough… an old pig trough, but a pig trough none the less. I was still determined to discover something and would walk along the rock at the front of the house collecting old bottles, stones I thought might look like something or could possibly have been coral when Pingelly was under the water all of those years ago… it was not until I was advised that Maths was a requirement of the budding archaeologist that I gave up on that venture and thought it better to simply write about old things rather than discover them. But now, turning a corner and making a discovery of my very own, feeding my eyes with all of this… I felt like I was that child again and took stock of the feelings that were swimming through my veins like new life.

Walking down the street, content in the fact I had seen this church and enjoying the comings and goings of office personnel, students with well-to-do accents and the preverbial crazy person (generally having a good old chin wag to themselves about the downfall of society) I didn’t realise that I had brought myself to yet another magnificent feat of architecture… Yes… I was in a pop up book… every corner was a page and on every page a new experience popped up before my eyes that were popping out of their sockets. Strangely enough… it was also around Remembrance Day and so Poppy’s were all the vogue.

It wasn’t just the building itself, but also its locale. There is a large roundabout and on every corner another beautiful structure, these buildings now used as offices, but were once something more. There was a wedding photo being taken on the roundabout next to the grand statue of a gentleman on a horse. Across from this a small park with statues of Winston Churchill and the more well known of the United Kingdom Primeministers. I have never felt to small. The structures draw your eyes from the ground to the sky and every where you look there is something else to be marvelled at. The sky was grey and impeding, the sun had disappeared completely from site and the air was getting increasingly bitter… but I didn’t have a care in the world. At this point I was completely alone, all the noises of the tourists muffled into the background as I realised that I was here… there are so many points now that I think… I’m here… I am actually in London. A lot of the time I am going through some kind of bizarre routine, get up, see stuff, go home, write a list, sleep, get up, see stuff. But it is when you come across an apparition such as Westminster Abbey, when you see Queen Elizabeth the 1st bearing down on you and suddenly feel guilty… (you know she knows, and she knows you know she knows)… you realise that you are treading on history.

Entering the Abbey grounds was particularly beautiful, I was looking intently at the two-person tall stain glass windows lodged all the way along the grand ancient walls when I almost trod on rows upon rows of paper-made poppies each with names on them. People were buying a poppy and writing the name of some relation that they had lost at war and placing them on the green that led to the gates of the Abbey. It was heart warming to see children remembering their long lost grandfather or great grandfather… some, I assumed, wrote the names of those that they have lost in more recent wars. The fact that this is such a day for those in England gives some sense of hope for community in the future. Sometimes you feel hurt by the fact that history plays such a small part in the fast paced consumer driven society of today… knowing that without history there is no future, without history there is no sense of self, no culture, no purpose and the same mistakes can be made all over again. I was glad to have visited on this particular day. Generations should not be forgotten for the sacrifices’ they have made for their unknown descendants.

I entered the Abbey, there seemed to be a small cue at the door where one was expected to pay… my first concern that it was 12 pound to get in, but I was sure it was worth it… I waited patiently with two gentlemen and a woman whom I assumed was French, given her look of distaste and very perfect personal presentation. She huffed and puffed, flung her head in the air and left the waiting area (there was another entry around the other side of the doors). The man who we were to pay was talking on the phone, chatting away as if it were the Sunday after the Derby. I had trouble understanding his accent, but knew that he was not talking about work. Eventually her directed his attention at the three customers waiting in anticipation to hand our money over and get along with our day…

“Sorry… ye c’nt pay ‘ere… ‘ave to goooo next doooor”…

At this point I assumed he was Scottish. The two gentleman… who by this time I realised were infact boys, huffed themselves, looked at me and rolled their eyes before heading out of the payment area and into the next cue. They let me through the door first, which I thought was all very nice, before whispering to each other

“what a prick!”

“You sound like Australian’s” I said… not from their accent, but rather from their very colloquial terminology,

“Yeah! How’d’ya’guess”… all the words spilling together in the local tongue. They asked where I was from and were shocked to discover that I lived a few suburbs from them in Perth…

“Well, woddoyaknow?!”…

After paying I decided to make my escape before the preverbial offer for a drink and a bite to eat and the rest of my afternoon of discovery was ruined. I wished them all very well and carried on my merry way.

When I entered the hall I was flabbergasted… the magnitude of such a building, and so auspicious… it was almost too much. Everything was dedicated to someone, you were in the realm of gods. Wandering along I placed my hand on a tomb… unknowingly. Feeling its chill of marvel under my finger tips. I turned to take in whose tomb it was and read, while a chill went down my spine;

“Here layeth Geoffrey Chaucer”

I immediately thought of Mrs Pullman from my English Literature class, talking to her about the Wife of Bath and trying hard to discern the meaning behind his olde English words. It was so hard to grasp how unique Chaucer’s form was for his time, he was a renegade… and I was touching his tomb! I took my hand off it swiftly, not sure whether a hand would pop out to grasp me, or at the very least… all the literary geniuses’ of the world come to strike me down with their golden pens.

I took a photo of one of the enormous statues that adorned what I assumed to be the main hall. A lady approached to me, (slightly annoyed),

“There is no photography here”…

Well, lets just say I was slightly annoyed myself. I just paid 12 pound to get in and I wasn’t allowed to take photos? I knew that it wasn’t for purposes of art maintenance, nor was it for religious reasons because they sold photos of the Abbey for quite a price indeed. The robbing sods! So, with a hint of frustration and a certain amount of naughtiness I decided to pop my camera on silent and do a bit of filming.. 12 pound, indeed.

The film didn’t turn out very well because I stopped concentrating on it, such was the structure I was within. It didn’t have the same emotional affect that the Cathedral had, possibly due to the hundreds of tourists wandering around in hoards, bumping into each other and listening to their technologically advanced handphone-style walking tours… London was advanced… no need for the knowledgeable elderly lady that would tell you the date of a particular statue, a painting or where the verse originally hailed from that was delicately painted upon the wall… no, we are more advanced than that… now there are speaker phones that you attach to your ear and wander around like a mad person listening to the details in any language of your choosing… Personally I felt it took a certain amount of personalisation from the experience.

Nevertheless, I avoided the people and decided to pay attention to those parts of the abbey that no one else was… I just felt a bit sorry for those parts… however, keeping in mind people are like sheep. As soon as I walked into a space that was, at that time, completely void of tourists… five people would walk in after me, wondering what it was I was looking at, wanting not to miss anything at all.

The Abbey is enormous; I don’t know what else to say. It is vast. It is beautiful and again, filled with memories…

TO BE CONTINUED… NEED SLEEP