Bath - First Discoveries

I washed my face, changed my top, tied my bad back up and prayed that it would hold (was quite impressed with my ingenuity and momentarily considered becoming an inventor – my bag light concept is still on hold til I can raise enough money to get it pattoned, but when I’ll do I’ll be rich and be able to take Paris Hilton by the hand and have a chat about her behaviour… potentially send her to boarding school for discipline… people like that have no business being rich), putting my shoes back on I grabbed my map and made my way back out of my room. Locking the door with the little red key and taking in my surroundings once more, I stepped onto the delightfully quiet street. I took a moment. There were no sirens, no bustling people, the sun was shinning and it was as if I’d been in the dark for weeks… Bath is so open, spacious and perfectly white. They use Bath Stone for the buildings, specially made, it was also used for Buckingham Palace… It gives your heart a little lap of delight knowing that they make so much effort to keep Bath the way Bath was. It’s one of the only remaining UK towns on the History List for being as it was in the 1700 and 1800s… I could imagine myself dressed in a long flowing gown making my way to the great hall for the grand dance during the summer, could hear horses on the cobbled streets, all the time feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and thinking how lucky I was to be here, and proud, to be here alone.

My intention had to be to make my way into town, but instead I went in the opposite direction taking a whim of spontanaeity. Sometimes the feeling to walk left, rather than right can lead you to the most wonderful of places – maybe there is something more to us humans, that instinct that can lead to unexpected experiences, sometimes good and sometimes bad. In this case, it was perfectly perfect and I think the sun was not only shining down on me, but smiling as well. The afternoon was creeping in, but the house seemed slower here than in London. I wandered up a street only to discover I had come across the most picturesque… and enormous… park. It is named after Queen Victoria, given to her in honour of one of her birthdays before she had become Queen, and so is called “Princess Victoria Gardens”.

I wandered up ‘Royal Avenue’, suddenly wondering whether I was actually allowed to be here, it all seemed so grand. The flower beds running up along the road, thick granite walls with inscriptions dedicated to the fallen fathers of the World Wars, red poppies swaying in the wind around them. To my left the park swept down to a landscaped section with a pond, a fountain, trees in sets of three and little walk ways lined by rock beds with water running over them. The sun was whispering through the trees and birds danced in and out and up above. To my left the grounds stretched out with all the magnificent colours o autumn, those greens and browns, oranges and reds, crunchy in their cold leaf like manner. Simple as the site was, as reknowned and normal, it still forced me to stop and take a moment to appreciate the complexity of simplicity and perfection of a natural scene. I think I quite like forests better than landscaped gardens… but, I’m sure when I get to Leeds Castle I may change my mind by the sounds of things. The light seemed blue as it swung through the trees. I stepped in through branches to look at a small semi-circle stage, imagining that they would have musical concerts here during the summer months. There was a sculpture of a vase hidden in the bushes near the stage, snakes creeping up at its edges and what looked like Roman’s dancing around with grapes in their hands – obviously a tribute who are thought to be the founders of Bath, and ofcourse the Roman Spa’s. Apparently, though, the natural hot springs that exist in Bath were first discovered by the Celts, who, like the Romans, thought had Healing Powers (some people still spend exorbitant amounts of money to bathe in the waters today as well… I was not one of those people sadly… not til I get the Bag Light sorted at any rate, and then we might even see if it improves Paris Hilton?).

Carrying on along the road, before even broaching the main part of this almost-never-ending park, I came across an extravagantly sized semi-circular three storey building, completely pristine in condition. I’m not sure as to what this was, but by
the looks of things it had some governmentary purpose. I considered knocking on the door with my CV… what a place to work!

I finally reached another set of large steel gold tipped gates with Lioness’s overlooking the entryway which indicated the entry to the main park area. It was all so grand, so regal… It’s a strange thing about Bath, you miss what you’ve never known, I feel nostalgic about the 18th Century… maybe its something to do with communal memory that I’d read about all those years ago… that the memories of your ancestors were transferred down through generations which would explain the emotions we feel when we walk into the house of our grandparents, or to a larger extent, feel the pull of our ‘homeland’ so to speak… It is nice being able to put theory to practise, everything I read at university seems to be making so much sense, especially those courses on philosophy, culture, anthropology and globalisation. When imaginings become memory and transcend logic.

My head to the sky, I proudly walked through the grand gates, looking around and seeing no one was there, I swept from side to side, holding my imaginary skirt in my hand and bowing to the gentleman who stood by to greet me and take my cloak, I was offered a small glass of Pinot Noir before accepting the arm of my beloved (my beloved who I’d not confessed my feelings to but was hoping that through consultation with my brother, would hopefully ascertain whether my feelings were reciprocated!)… obviously I’ve read far too many Bronte and Austen books, but it was certainly fun – you can get yourself lost sometimes.

As I made my way through the gates there was the most quaint little house to my right, a great weeping willow shadowing it from the sun (and potentially the prying eye). With green awnings, brown slated room and three triangle peeks it seemed like Little Red Riding’s Grandmama’s home… It was just so quaint. I wanted to walk up and take a closer peek – very Goldie Locks of me – but there was a car out the front and I imagined that it wasn’t there for show. Turning back around I found an enormous pillar pointing to the sky, surrounded by a circular stone gate and lions facing East, West, North and South, with a main sculpture above the base of the pillar of Queen Victoria – the later years. Another tribute to the name giver of this delightful space.

I was incredibly snap happy as I made my way through the fields, in between trees, over stumps and crunching leaves, watching birds flitter and squirrels scurry. The sun seemed to be staying out jut for me, I nodded to a couple walking past me, and ‘Goodday’ to a mother, husband and their brood walking along the tree lined path. I felt at peace in this place and had a sense of never ever wanting to leave. Of setting up a little cottage and living off garden vegetables… it just seemed perfect. On the hill in the distance you could spot the most magnicifcent mansion – I found out later that many period films had been filmed there and it was now a very well-to-do Bed and Breakfast… maybe something I would save to go to at a later date… treat myself to some Bath-like Luxury… I wondered if they had theme weekends when you could actually dress up like a 1800s lady and wander about speaking with oh-so-appropriate manners… oh marvellous would that be?!

In the corner of my eye I spotted what appeared to be a small closed off area with a pond. Heading in this direction my mother suddenly appeared in my mind… Mum, I thought, I have found the Secret Garden. Years ago in Wynarling the back yard had grown over… and not in the normal sense of the word – it honestly looked like the beginning of the film, ‘the Secret Garden’, there were no flowers… you would have to dig for days to find earth… the garden had always been difficult to manage, but with thistles and weeds and branches with spikes and prickles… it was like a beast. Mum worked the whole day in the blaring sun (with some assistance from myself, though I think I was more a beverage runner than anything), until she had cleared all of the weeds. I remember the photo of her, sweat on her brow, pitch fork in her hand, smiling tiredly that she had finally conquered what was almost the Dragon of Wynarling… I was suddenly back there and so wanted her to be here to see this. She would love this… It was the garden she had always wanted (something that was not on top of a rock with hard soil that grew nothing but thistles and poisonous melons and horrible double gee-s).

What I thought was gated, was not… luckily. My first image – that I all but could take a photo to capture the breathtaking perfection of the image – was that of a lightly rippling pond through weeping willows (my favourite tree, along with Boabs… I doubt there are many Boabs in England though…) a park bench overlooking the scene. It drew you to it, peace suddenly swept over me, it was a lovers corner, a place for romance or writing, for quietitude and meditation. I wish I could describe more aptly how majestically the greens, browns and oranges swept into one another, the sense of feeling as if you were in a painting.

I walked toward it coming across a small tricking waterfall, listening to the flowing water as it made its way into the lake, looking up the sky had turned to leaves and branches, as if nature was embracing you. Walking along the solace tree lined path, with the sunlight slipping along the cobbles, desperately trying to move through the leaves, I came out to see the lake in all its glory. Three different types of ducks floated along the water, dipping and ducking and coming up again, sea gulls swooping and robbins tattering toward the waters edge. Yellow leaves curtained across the way, and green shrubs made the perfect hiding place for field mice and squirrels. I sat there for some time, just breathing, experiencing, enjoying. Knowing that in the end, this is the sort of place I wanted to find… I felt more at home here than I had in the weeks since I’d arrived, as if it was put here, just for me.

On my way back I stopped for a chat with the white swans, took a breath before exiting and took a moment for the desire to jump up and down with excitement and relief to subside and carried on my way into the main section of town.

As I walked through the streets of Bath I couldn’t get over the magnificent regality of the buildings, the pillars and the off-white stone, the arch windows and grand dark wood doors. The houses, the churches… everything. Like nothing I had witnessed before. Loved the cobbled streets, tripping over now and then, but enjoying watching my feet skate over them, moss in between the cobbles. Walking down another quiet street I discovered a theatre with a sculpture of an angel… wings outspread it looked like it was falling. There was a bat flying toward it and I enjoyed the fact such things were the ‘norm’ in England, that architecture could also be art.

The most important discovery I made was to ensure that I turned into the small streets that barely one person could pass through at a time, because there were secret places. One I came across led to a small courtyard with three little restaurants, all facing toward a water fountain with ivy leaves cascading over the three tears.

When I got to the more central part of the town it was just busy enough to be vibrant, but not to the point that it was uncomfortable or disturbing. People wandered happily, buying fruit from the market stall, sitting at the little jazz café, dashing off to catch a bus and wandering out of Sainsbury’s with bread and wine. Christmas was coming so the streets were lit with Christmas lights, holy and lanterns. Between the buildings hung long holy-like ropes with stars attached. I was so busy looking at the lights and peeking down alleys to find quaint little boutique shops that I didn’t notice the main structure of the town… the thing that everybody comes here to see…

Turning around after taking a photo of yet another light-filled holy encrusted and shining street my breath was taken away, a sheepish smile came across my face and the urge to jump up for delight came over me… There was the Abbey… Such a beautiful and yet daunting gothic structure, my head swivelled up up up to see its peak on the sky line… it was so close, it was there, merely 30 paces away and I’d not noticed it? Did I need to get my eyes checked? And then… oh! How am I going to fit all of that in my camera?!

The arched windows are… simply… beautiful, a feat to exist. The Abbey seems mostly window… so you can imagine how much light seeps into the building itself. I thought it must be heavenly in there, transcendent… I decided that the Abbey deserved more than just a quick afternoon gimpse, it would be the first thing on my list of things to do for tomorrow. Sadly, I turned away (wondering at the same time how lovely it would be to sneak inside and sleep there for the evening, maybe a flask of tea and a blanket… but to wake up in that light, in that building… something to dream about tonight, I thought).

Ofcourse, me being me, found the Bath Markets. A long street filled with Chocolataries, Olde Lolly Shopes, bits and bobs shops and everything else you’ve ever wanted to buy but wouldn’t buy because you ‘want’ it rather than ‘need’ it, and get angry at the fact that you cant just bob in and buy what you want, yelling at the logical part of your mind. Santa distracted me from this internal debate, he was waving from the top of another building across from a Victorian style Church. I waved back and he said he’d get me something very nice for Christmas indeed, I replied that a winning lotto ticket would be more than enough… at which point he laughed – so I’m not sure what that meant?!

Bath is built in a valley between seven hills, therefore its quite cold, and quite hilly in itself. I continued my walk from the main area of town only to discover that I was… as one would assume, at the edge of a very large, quite powerful, and most picturesque river. The river runs through Bath – stupidly I had not idea… not realising that maybe a at the bottom of a valley there would be a lake! From the street level you can look down on the lake, but looking straight you see the rest of Bath tearing up the hill. These lavish buldings set out like layers of a wedding cake, and above, the lushious green of the valley and the orange orbs of trees littering the landscape. It was just perfect, just beautiful… To be able to take it all in like this… I wondered if this is what I didn’t like about London… that everything seems so flat, its hard to take in the magesty of London because of its magnitude and situation. But here, you were fortunate enough to take it all in, all in a moment. Another thing to put on the list then, walk along that lovely river… The bridges across the river, bringing one part of Bath in contact with the other, are wide and tall so as to allow room for offices, or potentially homes? The bottom of the bridge, the part that dips into the water, became three large archways, the water flowed peacefully between them. It was all so ancient. I grabbed my pen and then decided it was far far far too cold to take my gloves off.

The darkness was setting in, though I was thankful for how long the light had lasted today. Rather than carrying on away from the centre of town, I made my way back up the hill. Deciding, ‘yes, this is in the right general direction’, I wandered up what seemed to be a main street which would lead me – hopefully – back to my accommodation. I hadn’t intended to infact come back across the Abbey, but from another angle, so I was walking right next to the Roman Pillars leading into the Roman Baths. How simple… people carrying their shopping, chatting to friends, scolding their child… drinking coffee and tea and laughing and being… modern. Didn’t they realise? Did they not know? There were treading ancient ground! Heavens, they should have been in awe… but no, this was their life. I on the other hand, was not being very ‘cool’ about the whole situation. My bag had slipped off my shoulder and was sitting precariously on my wrist threatening to fall to the ground, my hat had been taken off and was hanging off my other hand as I stood jaw-open in shock at what I was taking in… the Abbey, the Baths, the Pillars… all at one time, there they were, for me… they had stood here for 100s of years and here I was. How amazing. How… how my dreams had come true. I was finally in one of those history books that I used to read thinking, wouldn’t it be lovely to be in Egypt THEN, or be part of the Roman Empire… I was hidden in my imagination, thinking of the ladies and lords, but even before them, the Emporers, the Courtesans… the servants, the soothsayers and the gods and goddesses that were part of every day life.

What a day… the night was finally coming in, my stomach and I discussed whether we could do with a sandwich in our room, or whether we’d prefer to find a nice place to sit down and have pasta. Pasta won the discussion and so my stomach and I headed back to our room to have a shower and get changed again and then identify a suitable place for appropriate consumption.

The shower… was…magnificent. After weeks upon weeks of dribbling-sometimes-cold showers at Kelly’s house, I was shocked and unbelievably relieved to have a proper shower. I stood in there for what seemed like an hour, taking in the luxury. I felt like going down to thank the owners simply for having such a lovely shower. If you are reading this, please ensure you never ever again take a good powerful hot shower for granted, it is one of the most amazing mechanical advances of modern society. In looking for a house share at the moment, it will be the first question to escape my lips when I cross the threshold.

Lying down on my bed afterwards, feeling the steam float off my skin and watching my arms turn from red to pink to white again, I got changed into the best outfit I’d brought, put on my red-coloured lip balm and headed out for a dinner date… with my stomach. At first I couldn’t really find anything appropriate, in the darkness Bath seemed like a whole new place, I couldn’t find the little courtyards with the quaint restaurants, or the main Church… I followed a sign that pointed toward a shopping centre and found, to my surprise and joy, a lovely restaurant on the top floor. It was much posher than I had expected it to be. I was greeted by the maître who was quite shocked when I asked for a table for one. They smiled at me, sadly, almost apologetically, which led to my face turning strawberry-like. There was a reserved seat by the window in the corner, he took the reserved sign off and placed it at another table-for-two and let me have the window sweet. I wanted to explain that I was quite alright, I just wanted a nice meal and there was no microwave or kitchenette in my room – but considering he was very Italian, I doubt he would have understood my fumbling mumbling explanation. Instead I sat happily having been offered a glass of wine and bread for free. I was so entirely looked after I thought I should dine out alone more often! I took out my pad and paper and started writing a list of the days events and identifying the most appropriate approach to tomorrows discoveries.

My waiter came back and asked what I would like, I asked for a Pasta Marinara and when served… it was potentially the best marinara I’ve ever had, filled with the most enormous king prawns, succulent scallops and perfectly flavoured muscles. I was in heaven. I was asked whether it was alright, whether I needed more salt, more cheese… more wine… more anything? About three times during my meal – the staff were just lovely.

Once I’d finally finished my meal and felt completely satisfied, sitting sipping the last of my wine and looking at the church through the window, the people wandering about below, the lights and the night sky, I was offered desert. ‘Why not?’ I thought to myself and asked for the caramel covered strawberry luxury cheese cake… and although I could hardly walk home in my nice jeans, it was the most fabulous cheesecake, with whole real strawberries and warm thick caramel syrup… I was then given a free piece of watermelon to clean my pallet and a cup of tea as well.

What a lovely evening and a perfect meal. With the music and the sound of the waterfountain behind me, the lovely staff and the perfect seat. What a marvellous day. I wandered back to my room thrilled thus far with Bath, I watched Top Gear before having an early night at 9pm, ready for an early morning and a day filled with more discoveries tomorrow.

Bath - The Journey

I am currently sitting in First Class on the train to Bath… most exciting, however I am concerned that someone will ask to see my ticket and realise I aught not be sitting here. However there is hardly anyone in the First Class area so I will just feign stupidity – encourage the Australian accent and all.

I had intended to leave much earlier, its now 11.30am and I should be in bath by about 1pm. I don’t have a room booked in the hopes that spontaneity will prove fruitful and I will find the perfect hamlet as I wander the streets of Bath.

My journey here was rather long on the underground and during this experience my new handbag broke with the weight of my laptop. Rather than be frustrated by this I bought a turkey and cranberry pastry and was most impressed with the texture and taste. It cost 30 pence to go to the toilet… I wish I had of thought of that, I’d make a million.

Paddington Station is enormous with people bustling about and everyone appearing to know exactly where they should be going (a female voice just came over the speaker phone and announced that we will be fed soon! How marvellous. I think I could get used to first class).

I am looking out the window now and the sun is blaring down on London. As I make my way out of the main city you see more green opening up. The planes still flitter here and there in the air and I am now moving through a more industrialised area. I cant wait to see fields… I cant wait to breathe non-London air.

My inspiration to go via train was ofcourse an awfully romantic, yet somewhat art house film called “Before Sunrise”. Here two people meet on the Euro-rail and decide to get of in Vienna. They wander around discussing themselves, philosophy, reincarnation and the purpose of existence as a whole. I wanted to be a writer on a train, staring out of the window and taking in the world as it spun past me – such a romantic notion. If only the seats weren’t so comfortable and I’d have slept for more than five hours last night, would improve the experience as I’ve very intention of going to sleep very shortly – if only I could overcome the concern that someone is going to pop around the corner and ask for my ticket! And then throw me off the train for being so presumptuous – I wonder if I’d pass for a quirky rich girl?

Where I am sitting there are four large leather recline-able seats surrounding a wooden table with a long window by my side – I would hate to think what economy is. There is an emergency procedure pamphlet that neither I, nor I suspect anyone else on the train, will actually read. With my phone and camera situated on one and the other side of my laptop, I am typing away almost completely in bliss (still worried about getting moved on… not only due to the potential embarrassment, but also considering my bag is broken and therefore it will be a struggle in itself to get everything together and move to another seat – I don’t see hwy it would cause anyone concern).

Staring out of the window at the moment I can only see blue sky and clouds here and there. The refreshments gentleman has just wandered past and in my most “I’m rich and confident and should be sitting here” voice advised that I didn’t need anything at this time. I am dying to take a photo of myself in my lil chair before someone hauls me back to the lap of poverty!

Ahh and beyond my window England has appeared. We just moved passed a large lake, tudor houses with very large bright green yards, the trees are melting to gold and the small houses pop up here and there, almost peacefully. I cant wait to see more, to see more fields – its wonderful knowing that any minute I will look out my window and see a landscape I’ve only ever read about.

Many Australians, and travellers I suppose, get stuck in London when they come to the UK – I can understand why, but don’t think that’s for me. I have more of a desire to get a train ticket and hop off and on where ever I choose, wander around… from what I hear London and England are two separate entities, almost different countries, for the differences in people, culture… lifestyle. I’ve only been on the train 20minutes and already I see a whole new world with a mansion overlooking ploughed fields, market gardens – and another lake! It is picturesque, I am so lucky to see it in winter with all the colours of the world adorning the earth.

I am going to visit a recruitment agency when I get to Bath and see if they have any work and, potentially, situate myself there. Nigel also suggested that Hove in Brighton might be a better fit for me – I can always come up to London to see a play and visit the nightlife – but I am looking for more of a lifestyle – there is a certain level of embarrassment that I feel that I haven’t fallen for London – I wonder if maybe I just haven’t given it enough of a chance. There is a darkness about it that is hard to describe, with all of its wonders and history, there is still something… negative about it. Maybe it’s the dangerous side, the crime and homelessness, or potentially the echoes of the past. I have been spoilt I think living on a farm and then in the beautiful South Perth most recently. I said to Nigel that I expect Perth is infact the emerald city, being to pristine – but potentially lacking in heart. When it comes to finding the place you belong maybe there is no where completely perfect, maybe its about finding out which part of existence is more important to you. I have come to the initial conclusion that open space is more important to me than a good nightlife – you can go somewhere for a weekend if you are really desperate for that. I am hoping to find somewhere that has a bit of a cultural scene, drama and arts – however also holds some part of the romantic England, for it to be easy to go out into the landscape, to wander aimlessly for hours… I can hardly type now, we came out of Reading about 15 minutes ago and I just want to scream…. Do people scream about landscapes??? I think possibly not, but I’m exceptionally excited. Three trees, the hills, the houses spotted here and there… the boats on the river, the ducks. Oh, my heavens it is beautiful… I cant believe I’m here?! I’m in England – now there is a reaction I have been waiting to get since I got here. I am so glad I’ve done this before finding work – I suddenly feel like I haven’t breathed for the last four weeks and finally air has come flooding into my lounges.

I am going to stop writing for the moment and take in…. England.

Sheep! Mission accomplished, I’ve seen sheep. All of the paddocks are separated by hedges just as I expected… but seeing them brings a smile to your face. The train slides under old arches brown brick bridges. COWS! Now I’ve seen cows too!

Upon getting to Bath I decided to find a place to rest my now-broken bag. I needed accommodation and quickly. There was too much to see and I was getting frustrated that I had to use both hands to carry my pride and joy handbag and therefore was unable to take any photos or spend time perusing the streets. I wanted to “do” Bath and see everything as quickly as possible! There was no time to waste so I headed down a street that a lady at the tourist information place advised was the cheapest area to stay. I found a three storey town house among the guest houses, knocked on the door to be greeted by a lovely man with a ‘blood and bone’ accent. 99.75% of people will not know what I mean when I say a ‘blood and bone’ accent. Basically it refers to a television gardener I used to watch and his accent, he always advised to put ‘blood and bone’ on your soil to make your flowers bloom beautifully. I wish I knew the area, the people really roll their R’s and you mistake them for not being the brightest spark in the fire… infact he was friendly and welcoming and the place felt like home. It was warm, the interior is white and bright. There is a large room with tables and chairs where breakfast is served every morning, a lovely large lounge room to the front of the house with windows overlooking a small garden and the street beyond. There is a lamp post at the front of the house with a swinging sign advertising ‘vacancies at Waltons Guest House’. I’m assuming this was Mr Walton him very self.

After signing the guest book I was taken up the ivory green carpeted stairs, past the prize plates on the wall, the large ornate mirror and blue-white porceline glasses and into room 3, opened with a red key. My red key for the next few days. The room itself… well its like an Australian hallway, but equipped with an exceptionally small closet which acts as a toilet and shower (the settings were lovely however, shining porceline and I couldn’t wait to have a shower under that fabulously huge shower head), wooden dressing table, wooden chair, wooden single bed and television attached to the wall. Hanging from the ceiling was a small crystal and white-steel chandelier.

From the window the sun shone in over chimney tops across the way – I briefly smiled thinking of Mary Poppins dancing on the roof tops – and warmed the room. Ahh, peace… quiet… and safety.

But there was no time for relaxation (I had completely forgotten the purpose of this trip, which was to sit, read and write… not go crazy site seeing like I had been for the last three weeks!). I changed my jacket, brushed my hair, tied my bag together after taking out the dreaded laptop that had been the bane of my existence since I bought the damned thing, and headed out.

After being in London… and may I say… being in Tooting… my first impression of Bath was that it was:
a) clean… very very clean
b) quiet… there were quite a few people in Perth standards, but to me that suddenly felt empty
c) safe
d) easy – I felt that I could walk everywhere I wanted to go, could navigate the streets relatively well, the whole place seemed welcoming and pleasant.
I was happy, but there had been a cloud over me for the past few days… missing people, missing one person in particular. After spending every waking moment with one person, it is so unbelievably, indescribably, difficult to be without them, especially when you are doing things you have never done before, and wanting so much – with every element of your being – to share those moments with them, for me, with him. But I tried to push this to the side, along with all of the emotions that had been welling up for the past few weeks. I had to conquer, I had to enjoy – I was forcing myself but knew I would appreciate it in the long run.

I was off and intent on conquering Bath in a period of two or so days. What a feat – could I manage it? I was still thinking that if I tick everything off my list – ridiculous. I was loosing the purpose of my journey, it was not about ‘doing London’, ‘doing England’ or even getting the ‘travel thing’ over and done with. I have been waiting for this experience my whole life and here I was throwing it away. I needed to calm down – as everyone was telling me – but until this moment, in which I write to you, I didn’t realise what was happening, I was too wound up in my emotions, running in my mind… I was getting so tired and didn’t know why, but looking back I see that I’ve been racing the clock… for no reason at all.

But now… here… in this moment – I was rediscovering my desire and was determined to make the most of it…

Petticoat Lane - Spittafields & Brick Lane

I jumped off the tube at Liverpool Station… I hadn’t expected Liverpool Station to be quite like it was… ENORMOUS! There were people everywhere, and seven different exists that apparently led to seven different places. I stood in the centre of the hall, looking up at the glass paned ceiling and wondering which way to turn – I wanted to get to the markets but had no idea that simply getting out of the train station would be a feat in itself. As familiarity dictates I headed toward the McDonald sign, I assumed if there was a McDonald sign there was bound to be tourists, and thereby, markets… Unfortunately I was wrong.

After exiting the station I went left… and walked, for 10 minutes, realising that I was going in the wrong direction. I turned and went right for 10 minutes – no luck there either. I looked at my map which wasn’t very helpful at all and so decided to take a side street and simply hope for the best. It seemed to work quite well previously, just wandering about and then all of a sudden I’d be where I wanted to be.

Luckily this worked out quite well, as rain started to pour down I came across a sign advising “Petticoat Lane this way”. Perfect. I had heard of Petticoat Lane from a television show Nigel and I would watch most summer evenings, having seen the hubbub on the TV I decided it would be fabulous to be in amongst it all. You cant let the rain deter you in London… if you did, you would never leave the house. So, hat atop my head, and coat securely braced around my neck I followed the sign down another back alley way, and then another, a left and a right and a feeling of concern and frustration – where was it? Surely a key tourist attraction couldn’t be this hard to find? (I was to discover later that this was not really a tourist attraction, but more a place for locals to go bargain hunting…). Along my walk I came across a café called “TIFFINBITES”, finding that quite amusing I took a photo and made a mental note to send it to my sister. With the Georkin Building rising up on my right I was at a loss as to where I was situated. I’d some how thought I was on one side of the river, rather than the other, and not so close to the business district… London is smaller than one originally thinks, everything is within proximity… unusually, I was enjoying working out my bearings when finally, finally… after half an hour wandering aimlessly with hopeful eyes and very cold hands, I came across the back of the market.

Petticoat lane takes up a very long stretch of road, rammed with people running down the centre, taking in the hundreds of food, clothing and tat stalls. I was not overly impressed with the merchandise or the vibe. The people browsing seemed to be there with purpose, knowing where they were going and what they were getting. It was scary at times as well, feeling a little like the minority. I was hungry so decided to grab myself a hot dog and then find somewhere else to wander too. As I took my hot dog from the stall lady a gust of wind blew, the tarpolen roof of the stall slid and water poured on top of me and my hotdog. I was saturated and the poor woman didn’t know what to do, suddenly I was being pressed with toilet paper and an old wash cloth and shivering while advising that “It’s fine, its fine… don’t worry about it”, while the lady tried her best to dry me off. I continued through the market, bouncing off people and getting increasingly annoyed at the situation. I finally found a corned and tucked myself in, under a window pane in the hopes of preventing any further dousing of rain.

Chomping away on my wet hot dog I took a short video to remember the moment. I think that all the good should be recorded, along with all the ironic and the frustrating. I wasn’t mad, so much as concerned, considering it had taken me 45minutes to get here, I wanted to make the most of my day out. I’d made the effort to leave the warmth of the house and I had no intention of going home until I’d made a discovery of some sort.

Wandering along the road I found a sign, “Bishops Court”, this advertising Spittafields Market. Mark had made a comment about Spittafields being a nice area to wander through, not any further information other than that… I, personally, thought it was a very unfortunate name for something that was considered classy.

Well, I thought to myself, cant be worse than this, as I looked over at the rubbish along the road and the sound of fish heads being chopped from their boddies and people heckling over the price of a fake-leather jacket while the wind blew water through the street. Finding a rubbish bin I disposed of the serviets I’d been given to wipe myself off and continued in the direction of “Spittafields”.

As I turned onto a main street, people dressed elegantly and umbrella’s dancing in the air, I saw a beautiful white church at the end of the street, almost overlooking the crowd below. I walked toward it, hoping to take a moments solace in the warmth of the old building, when to my left a surprise greeted me.

A hall opened up, first with stores… flowers, jewellery, paintings, vases… all very to do, with marble floors and open, white, welcoming lighting. Long windowed stores and in the centre, shows of cartoonists and artists, sculpture. People dressed in their best, and milling around with smiles on their faces. As I continued down the white stone walkway I came to an opening, and beyond a great open space filled with beautiful stores with shining merchandise, delicious smelling foods from around the world, laughter and music, bars along the sides, and restaurants on the storey above over looking the hubbub. It was magnificent. For the first time that day I smiled and my heart skipped knowing that I’d be here for hours, exploring the ins and outs of this wonderful gallery. This was exactly what I wanted… but first, I needed money.

I headed across the road to a cash machine at Barclays Bank… the line was phenomenal, never has a line been so long! Or atleast that’s how it felt at the time, I wanted to get in there and play! There was so much to see and do and possibly, buy if the urge hit me. I took my place, taking in the area, looking over at the church that I would investigate later on. To the right of the church there was an entrance to what used to be an underground club, and was now a homeless / youth haunt (I made a mental note not to head in that general direction, the persons in attendance didn’t look overly welcoming).

As the line moved forward and I was the third next, I gave some money to the homeless woman that sat next to the cash machine, she said “Bless you, lady” in a husky voice as she pulled the thin blanket back over her hands. A man appeared from the street, dressed somewhat similar to Michael Jackson – the dark red coat with buttons, appearing somewhat like a member of the Red Coats back during the wars with the Jacobites. He looked slightly worse for wear, hair mangled with grease, face unshaven, dirt on his collar and boots. He wandered up in an unassuming manner with every intention of jumping the enormous cue.

“What you doin’? said a relatively robust woman, “You aint jumping the line”,
“I need to”, was his mumbled response,
“No! We been waitin’ here, you go to the back”, she said, getting slightly closer to the man,
“I need to get money”, he slurred,
“eh! Just because you had a night out, you aint got no right. Don’t make me get all negro up in ya face”, her voice was raised,

I looked at the people next to me, they looked back, shock and amazement. The crowd seemed to move forward to take in the exciting moment at hand. The man just shoved his way infront of her. She grabbed him, and swung him out of her way… He fell, or was forced to, the ground… mud being strewn across his jacket. The crowd continued to look on.
He hobbled back to his feet, slightly swaying after re-erecting himself.
“I’ll go behind you then”, he said, shuffling behind her in the que,
“No you aint!”, she said again… suddenly another, more robust and intimidating man presented himself – seeing his face, he actually looked jolly enough, it was the size of him that was intimidating,
“Come on mate”, the large man said, taking the Michael Jackson cue-jumper by the arm, “Just come to the back, eh?”
The cue-jumper mumbled and pulled his arm back and wandered off to the other side of the street, disappearing around the corner.
The lady who had protected the rights of all polite line standers finally got to the cash machine and started to take her money out when the crowd started to laugh and clapped, some people saying thankyou or commenting on her performance, she bowed and laughed shouting,
“Don’t be underestimating woman, I say”.

Well! What a wonderful show… almost better than going to the theatre. My spirits were high and my adrenalin running, the day was working out particularly well in a very unusual manner.

I headed back to markets, smiling at my compatriots as I left, everyone still discussing the exciting event. Spittafields Markets is lovely, its welcoming and filled with great bits and pieces from wine glasses made from Wine Bottles, to old 78 records, incense and incense holders, games and toys and clothes and oh so much delightful food. There is music playing on every corner. The light seeps through the glass roof, and stars were hanging from the ceiling along with Christmas lights and decorations. It was simply lovely… perfect.

I strolled around contentedly, buying some incense, a small wallet that would more easily fit in my pocket and thereby discourage the potential robber… I tasted different cheeses and chatted to a man selling his photography. A woman from Italy discussed her lovely coats with me, and an asain man with an English accent sold me a white 1960’s hat. My fingers were freezing and so I bought some very cheap gloves before chatting about records and CDs with another stall runner.

It was as if all these people were friends… I know that is the point, if you are friendly you will sell more, but for me, it was nice to feel so welcomed, so un-alone. If you caught another shoppers eye, they would smile back. Since that day I’ve been back to Spittafields twice, each time enjoying the vibe the area gives off, you are cloaked with a sense of relaxation. I don’t much like shopping, but give me a good market and I will be most content.

While taking a breather I’d heard some people discussing Brick Lane Markets,
“It’s just in the street behind”, said a woman
“Oh really? We could go for some food later”, said the gentleman with her.
Taking in this information I thought that I should go and have a look myself, considering I was in the vicinity. Brick Lane is quite famous for its Curry and also, Bars. Was definitely worth a look and I was in the investigative mood.

Heading away from the markets I almost felt the need to say goodbye, as if the market and I had become the greatest of friends. I headed across the street and popped into the church I’d seen earlier.

Chatting to the woman at the entrance she told me that it was a mish mash of different eras, a lot of it had been lost during the blitz and, while trying to keep with its original form, they had had to make use of modern materials. The church was beautiful, displays of gold alongside wood, the mish mash worked, old and new. I thanked her for her time and she gave me a pamphlet which has been safely stored away for memories sake and later – for the journal I will someday make of my travels.

As I headed out I noticed a very popular pub on the corner, there were people waiting to get in, “at this time of the day?” I pondered… “It must be a very good pub”, but as I headed across the road to take a photo of it I realised why so many people were frequenting the establishment,

THE TEN BELLS

The Ten Bells is where Jack the Ripper is said to have drunk, one of his victims frequented the place. It was an obvious tourist attraction, and here I was stumbling across it. How very topical, I thought, remembering my tours in the London Dungeons and London Bridge, where they had discussed the crimes and trial of Jack the Ripper.

I carried on merrily down the road, and just as the couple I’d eavesdropped on had said, there infront of me was yet another market. This one a little more alternate than the last, not so aesthetically pleasing, but filled with fun. Booths of oriental food, loud music and DJs rubbing their fingers along 78s, people dancing away while talking to the stall occupants. There was some beautiful jewellery stalls, and a painter who was sitting and painting as I walked past, I watched as he quickly stroked a blank paper with charcoal… suddenly I was staring at a scene from the market… to be here, to see someone do something like that, he was so intently drawing that I doubt he even noticed me.

I liked the feel of this whole area, like the church, with old and new some how merging, becoming something entirely different, not losing anything to modernity, yet not holding on too hard to the past. Ghosts walked along these streets, memories and imagery, life next to murder, poverty next to wealth, light next to dark… So tangible you could almost feel it as you walked through market halls, streets, next to churches and pubs.


I decided to continue down Brick Lane – do some more investigating, it was getting dark and lights starting to flick and flitter along the streets. Carrying on I looked in at the bars and pubs and restaurants, being stopped on the corner by an asian woman that asked if I’d like to purchase some new release DVDs… 5 for 10pound, she looked up and down the street anxiously, as if concerned the police would be along quickly… I wasn’t quite sure whether it was at all appropriate… potentially not legal, but I had a look at what she had and took a few films I’d been wanting to see, she thanked me, after advising which were better than the other and then pushing me on – I must have been bringing too much attention with my general discussion of what was a good film and what wasn’t. I felt liberated – a little sheepish and quite naughty – but liberated none-the-less.

My phone rang, just as I decided to head off, a girl that I’d worked with in Perth was calling to see how I was. I’d written her an email some time before advising of my London arrival. She was in the city and wanted to see if I’d like to go out for a drink,
“I’m in Brick Lane… is that close”,
“Yeah! Completely! Great”… not one for sentences,
“Umm, ok? So… where shall I meet you?”
“Can you see a place called ‘VIBE’?” I looked up and down the street… and then behind me. A large set of gates were behind me and on the red brick wall neon lights flickered ‘VIBE CLUB’,
“Oh! I’m right there! How bizarre!”
“Cool”, she said, “Go in, grab us a pims and I’ll be there in 15, yeah?”
So I wandered in. The Vibe Club is something out of a movie. As you walk in you are greeted by giant cartoons on the walls, music blaring and… as I entered, a cross-dresser smiling back at me. I smiled, and giggled and couldn’t believe my luck – a night out in London, how especially delightful.
Entering the main area of the club, or bar… or pub? I’m still not sure what defines what as what… there were red leather couches strewn here and there, tiny tables and a small stage. It was dark with red and orange lights bouncing on the broken stained wooden floors, I headed to the bar and asked for a ‘Pims’… apparently Pims can be taken in all sorts of manners, the bar woman told me with a laugh… ‘Lemonade then?’, I said, after being given the run down of possibilities,
‘And… umm, just a house wine for me?’
‘White or Red? Dry or Sweet? Large or Small’… never has it been so difficult to order a drink, I thought to myself.
‘Ummm… you know what? Surprise me’, the lady smiled and gave me the drinks for free, saying that I needed to get out more. She was an aspiring actress and said that this was one of the better clubs to make connections. I was quite excited by that possibility, and headed back into the clubs garden to wait for Julia to arrive.

The evening was exciting and like a dream… speaking to professional actors, writers, singers and dancers… it was wonderment. I enjoyed the tapestry of people that Julia and I met through the evening. When getting home I lay on my bed, contemplating the experience, savouring the possibility of making a group of friends and having more similar evenings, of meeting people with dreams like mine, interests like mine… just having fun.

What began as a very confusing and somewhat frustrating day resulted in being a most pleasurable experience, filled to the brim with discoveries… what a day, what an evening… what a world.

Tate Britain & Oxford Street

It was a cold and windy day but I needed to get out of the house and do something exciting. I was still focused on finding a job, but couldn’t sit around waiting every day, life still needed to be led. I decided to go to the Tate Britain, knowing the array of art there would distract me from reality for a while.

Jumping off at Pimlico I wandered down a tree strewn street completely bereft of any form of life, and took a photo of a small sign adorning a tree; “Beware, Leaning Tree Trunk”, I concluded that maybe Health and Safety was going just a little too far.

The sun came out casting maple leave shadows across the silent street and as I wandered along enjoying the peacefulness of the moment, to my right a grand, pristine white building ascended to the clouds, overlooking the Thames. The building was set back from the street with a wide walk-way and flag poles infront. The flags wavered in the slight breeze advertising the Turner Prize and Francis Bacon. My excitement was renewed as I entered and bought tickets to see the Turner and Bacon exhibitions, each in separate areas of this impressive 18th Century Building.

I initially wandered around the general areas of the Gallery, taking in the classical pieces that were held there, before making my way to the Turner Prize area. I’d first heard about the Turner Prize some years ago when there was an up-roar about it being given to an artist who had nailed a piece of cow dung to the cross – this was one of the many representations of modern art. The Turner Prize considers new forms of contemporary art, pieces that challenge the concept of art, object and taboo, so one can expect to see things that one would never expect to see. My first glimpse into the Turner Prize was a room that was set up as a kitchen, but looking closer the objects in that kitchen were being used in unconventional manners, a mannequin stood with a bird cage on her head… I stood for a while looking at the objects and the formation of everything that had been laid before me… I cant say that I was especially impressed or shocked, I understand that a lot of artists like to investigate the relationship between human and object and work to force the audience to consider the object outside of its purpose – for instance, a spoon just hanging from the ceiling, is it a spoon if its purpose has been taken from it? Personally I far prefer expressionism or surrealism, looking into the psyche and considering human interaction – beit with the world, each other or themselves – the sterility of objects doesn’t really fascinate me.

I moved on and took in a blank wall with a dot in the centre, a group of bricks on the floor, a photo of a woman trying to get out of a stone (I didn’t mind that one so much, the idea of someone battling against society maybe, or herself, to find freedom and there being no hope?). The wonderful thing about art is that nothing truly has an outlined meaning, its all up to the interpretation of the audience.

My favourite part of the Turner Prize exhibition was not actually the exhibition itself, but outside the exhibition there was a small café with tressle tables, the tables were strewn with coloured paper and pens, people were writing their thoughts, their experiences, feelings… general comments on the exhibition or on life in general, and then displaying them on the walls around the café. I wandered up and down reading all sorts of little thoughts. I like the idea of different people with their different lives being in the same place as me. I think there is no reality, only the concept of reality, because everyone has whole different worlds, where they live in their mind – you can never be truly connected to an event because everyone experiences and remembers it in such a different way – aren’t we interesting creatures?

I headed back upstairs while still pondering away and enjoying the random thought process. I’d never heard of Francis Bacon before, but had looked up his work on the internet before I headed out to see his exhibition. Francis Bacon is said to be one of the most talented of modern artists, he may be the Picasso of the 21st Century in years to come (although, he dealt more with impressionism than cubism).

I, apparently, was not the only one who was excited to see the exhibition… there were people milling around every corner of the three allocated rooms dedicated to Bacon, and further people moving through the gift shop. Before entering the main exhibition area I sat to watch a documentary of Bacon, discussing his history, his perspectives, interaction with others… I was spellbound by his honest explanations of what motivated him and what his art meant. I remember when I was in high school and reading about Salvador Dali and was absolutely furious when discovering that much of Dali’s work had no intention to it beyond being aesthetically pleasing and making him money… I’d thought originally, Wow – he really is making a statement about this or that… when infact, he was just a part of some commercialist conspiracy and I just thought it wasn’t right at all. We’ve not been great companions since that discovery – I just don’t know whether I can forgive him his arrogance! But Bacon, Bacon was trying to make social statements, about the Cold War and society in general, about the human condition and each of his paintings had a purpose. The most famous of his paintings is a series called “The Screaming Pope” which is quite traumatic, filled with purples and blues and a pope sitting on his chair screaming, it appears, through bars. I didn’t think my father would like it particularly, but Brett would certainly have appreciated it.

I spent two hours wandering around the paintings, staring absently, reading about them, listening to recordings of interviews with Bacon. Generally I get frustrated in galleries when there are too many people, feeling the sound of chattering people stops me from really appreciating and considering what I’m viewing, but this art was powerful enough to take you out of the room and into the painting, silence descended as I shuffled along the wooden halls.

Eventually I left the exhibition and the Tate Britain, at the same time two school groups appeared and ascended the stairs – I was glad to be going… that would have been far too much for me to handle. I decided I would go there again, but for the moment I was ravenous and there didn’t appear to be anywhere in the vicinity especially nice to eat. I figure that if I am out and about in London and want to eat something, I shouldn’t settle for McDonalds or a dingy café – why not have a decent pasta, a warm Indian… seafood? London is apparently known for its cuisine, so I decided that quenching ones appetite was something to be enjoyed and I’d not eat until I found somewhere particularly nice.

I hopped back on the tube… realising that I didn’t have any idea where I wanted to go next. I thought – well, maybe I’ll just stay on the train until it stops… see where it takes me… - unfortunately it was nearing mid-afternoon which meant the sun would be descending soon and I best stay somewhere relatively central. I jumped off the tube close to Oxford Street and headed to Marble Arch, I knew there was a cinema close to there and contemplated watching a quick flick.

Marble Arch ended up being a VERY scary experience… Across the road I watched as a man helped his 5 year old daughter feed the pigeons… multitudes of pigeons, they almost completely carpeted the white-slated area that was surrounded by rose bushes infront of the enormous arches. I crossed the road (having recently discovered the best way to cross a road in London is to wait until someone else crosses and run quickly closely next to them – hoping that they have more experience in not being run over by cars coming in every direction). I walked to the far side of the small park-like area to take a photo of the man, child, pigeons and arches, thinking it would look very nice in black and white… when… suddenly… like the rolling of thunder, the birds flittered and fluttered and rose up like a blanket being flicked clean at the end of a picnic. The birds, like a swarm of bees, then turned and headed in my direction, flicking past my ear, over my head, across my shoulder, I yelped and ducked and sat – mushroom like – on the ground. It was a near death experience, they were going to kill me – I was sure of it!!! The sound of their flapping was still ringing in my ears as I stood up and saw that five people were smiling – and somewhat secretly giggling – at me. I smiled back, embarrassed, but glad that I’d taken the precaution to duck, not sure whether maybe one of these birds had eye problems and might not have been able to swerve past me… since that day I have a new fear of a pigeon flying straight into my eyes… Do not trust the pigeons… they are evil creatures to be feared… not fed!

Laughing at myself I tottered back to Oxford Street hoping they might have some lights on display for Christmas. The sun had just recently headed to the Southern Hemisphere to create a new day, and left me to enjoy dusk in the city.

After my near-bird experience I was cheered and overwhelmed by what I was now witnessing… not just lights, not just little Christmas displays… Oxford Street was literally lit up, stars and chandeliers hanging between buildings shone down on the crowds madly shopping in the streets. John Lewis was strewn with lights from top to bottom, the House of Frasier was a picture of snow flakes falling from windows, the Disney Shop was a myriad of bright blue Christmas Trees and cartoon characters shimmering happily. Down alleys purple lights hung from string between buildings, flashing and releasing a warm glow on the cobbled road. The windows of shops were little worlds that you could peek into. In one, Santa sat in a bath filled with cleaning products, in another Reindeer sat waiting for their dinner, banging their knives and forks on the table, Santa was sledding down a snow bank, sitting in a bar drinking cocktails and eating candy canes… Everyone was looking, laughing and snapping away with their little digital cameras. It was a sight to see. My heart was singing and so was I, “It’s beginning to look like Christmas” danced in my throat.

My stomach rumbled, bringing me back to the realisation that I was starving and needed to find a suitable place for sustenance and consumption. It was impossible to continue walking up Oxford Street, the crowd was too thick, only allowing for shuffling and squeezing. I took a quick left and breathed in – oh! Oxygen! I took out my little London booklet to try and ascertain an area that would have a few restaurants and maybe a little more peace. Looking around to establish which street I was on I suddenly realised that I was standing silently at the entrance of a courtyard. More purple lighted strings flittered in the wind above me, taking a few steps I was aghast to discover I’d just found the perfect little place, a secret haven… with food!

St Christophers Place is just behind Selfridges and hidden from the main Oxford Street stretch, what luck that I should choose to go down this street? Such a street that led to tiny restaurants ad bars, quiet with people sitting and drinking and laughing, a touch of music whisking between the buildings. It was clean and had such a lovely atmosphere. I wandered down each corner of the square, identifying which restaurant I should choose to sit at. The little Russian place with great ancient tea pots and bubble tea smoke pipes? Or the Italian with mosaic walls, the Spanish café and its salsa background music, what about the Pizzaria with large flamed heating equipment outside and happy looking staff, tiny metal tables? Yes, that will do. I was in the mood for pasta.

I took a seat and within a moment a foreign lady was asking me what I’d like to eat, and would I like a complimentary wine, is the heating close enough? Is there anything else she could possibly do for me? How lovely… add to list of “my favourite places”. I ate my chicken pasta with great enjoyment, watching couples and groups of friends chitter chatter about Christmas, presents, parties and who did what the other night.

After thoroughly enjoying my meal and my discovery I decided the day would be complete with a film. I headed further into the West End making my way to Trafalga Square. It was Friday and little did I realise that meant everyone was out having a few drinks after work. Trafalga Square was filled with people moving here and there, between bars and café’s, all dressed up and ready to dance. I found my cinema and purchased my ticket to “The Duchess”, thinking that one day I would have a longer term job, meet some people and have the opportunity to come here with a group of friends, all dressed up myself. In the meantime a movie and warm ride home was all that I desired.

I quite enjoy going to the films by myself now, it’s a little retreat… and a treat in itself. The film was one that I thought my mother would enjoy – given a box of tissues would certainly be needed.

What an unexpectedly enjoyable day. The chill in the air followed me home, the smile now frozen on my face. I collapsed into the house by 8pm and looked so forward to tucking myself up in a warm cozy bed while remembering the day.