Don and Patty have spent the night on the way up to their cabin for the season. The weather has been horrible - rainy and not warm - but it has given us a little longer to chat and to play with their new puppy, Maggi, as we wait for it to clear enough to take the ATV in to the cabin.
Advertisements on the BBC news home page look amazingly tailored to have been designed for a general audience. For example:
Winnipeg Downtown. Competent therapists a short walk from the office - help is close by.
This is the international version of the page, but it seems rather close to home. Do the same messages appear on the screens of viewers in South Africa of Finland? Even worse, have "they" been observing my viewing history and concluding that therapy is in order? But if that is the case, they have failed to note that I am retired and not at the office. Perhaps it is random after all.
JAWORSKI TRAVELS
We live our lives forever taking leave - Rilke
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Sunday, 28 June 2009
Monday, June 22/2009
Dinner at Skip and Caryl's. Their son Kurt is up visiting for a few days' fishing so we get to visit with him as well. We eat on their porch facing the lake - and see a beaver swimming purposefully toward our house - where he has already felled a tree, damaging the roof of the pump house.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Saturday, June 21/2009
Awake early to watch qualifying for the British Grand Prix. This year, of course, the political juggling as the series threatens to split in two (so some sportscasters put it, though the reality is more like a hijacking than a split, as the majority of teams are threatening to leave, with some justification).
Stop in town at the drugstore to pick up some tinned salmon, on sale in this week's flyers. No, none left. And the sale was last week. I protest that I'm certain I saw them earlier this week. But it turns out that the fiscal cum flyer week begins on Saturday. So it's now next week. J is waiting outside in the car, chatting with friends. A young man joins the group and admires our car. The car, though, is only an excuse to begin conversation. What he really wants to tell us, his speech a little slurred, is that he has been learning the art of sell-leb-acy. Accent on the second syllable. Tough going, it seems, as he adds "but I still want a woman."
Stop in town at the drugstore to pick up some tinned salmon, on sale in this week's flyers. No, none left. And the sale was last week. I protest that I'm certain I saw them earlier this week. But it turns out that the fiscal cum flyer week begins on Saturday. So it's now next week. J is waiting outside in the car, chatting with friends. A young man joins the group and admires our car. The car, though, is only an excuse to begin conversation. What he really wants to tell us, his speech a little slurred, is that he has been learning the art of sell-leb-acy. Accent on the second syllable. Tough going, it seems, as he adds "but I still want a woman."
Friday, July 19/2009
We have a second free dump pass, so off with the half ton loaded with everything from the old kitchen stove from the rental (from which J has carefully removed everything of value from burners to fuses) to broken window glass and miscellaneous packing foam. It was all covered with a large blue tarp tied down tightly yesterday to protect it from rain, so today all we have to do is drive off - after stopping for coffee at Robin's with Caryl and Skip. The ten mile drive from town is usually not busy but there's fairly steady traffic today as the free passes end tomorrow. Strange smell in the truck - did some small animal die in the ventilation system? Ugly thought.
Dump, of course, is not what it's called as I've noted before. Nor tip, nor garbage disposal. It does appear in the town directory under waste management, fairly enough I suppose. The actual place itself being Hidden Lake Landfill Site. In the age of politically correct wording, it's become almost impossible to look up facilities. And sometimes there doesn't seem to be much actual change. Thus the term "retarded" has become so thoroughly offensive to many people that I haven't heard it in years. Yet literally all that it means is slow or delayed. As in the French "en retard." Which sounds a great deal like the currently acceptable "developmentally delayed." Both of them implying an optimistic assumption that the development will eventually occur. Then there's the replacement of disabled with "differently abled." That makes a fair point, perhaps, but at the cost of a fair bit of awkwardness.
But I digress. We reach the dump, and the expected queue is down to one small truck. There's a spectator gallery of gulls lining the peak of the roof of a storage garage, hoping, no doubt, for smellier and more interesting goods than one is allowed to bring here on the free pass. On the left is an enormous collection of blue and clear bags full of recycling. All the containers that we put out on alternate Wednesdays cheerfully assuming that they are being reprocessed for a guilt free existence. And some year this may happen. The centre mountain is "general," with a separate, slightly smaller white mountain of appliances. And spots for wood, used batteries, etc. The cathartic effect of disposing of a truckful of refuse somewhat diminished by seeing it added to the enormity of everyone else's grubby mattresses, dented fridges, broken bicycles and plastic toys.
Dump, of course, is not what it's called as I've noted before. Nor tip, nor garbage disposal. It does appear in the town directory under waste management, fairly enough I suppose. The actual place itself being Hidden Lake Landfill Site. In the age of politically correct wording, it's become almost impossible to look up facilities. And sometimes there doesn't seem to be much actual change. Thus the term "retarded" has become so thoroughly offensive to many people that I haven't heard it in years. Yet literally all that it means is slow or delayed. As in the French "en retard." Which sounds a great deal like the currently acceptable "developmentally delayed." Both of them implying an optimistic assumption that the development will eventually occur. Then there's the replacement of disabled with "differently abled." That makes a fair point, perhaps, but at the cost of a fair bit of awkwardness.
But I digress. We reach the dump, and the expected queue is down to one small truck. There's a spectator gallery of gulls lining the peak of the roof of a storage garage, hoping, no doubt, for smellier and more interesting goods than one is allowed to bring here on the free pass. On the left is an enormous collection of blue and clear bags full of recycling. All the containers that we put out on alternate Wednesdays cheerfully assuming that they are being reprocessed for a guilt free existence. And some year this may happen. The centre mountain is "general," with a separate, slightly smaller white mountain of appliances. And spots for wood, used batteries, etc. The cathartic effect of disposing of a truckful of refuse somewhat diminished by seeing it added to the enormity of everyone else's grubby mattresses, dented fridges, broken bicycles and plastic toys.
Monday, 8 June 2009
June 8/2009
Funeral of M.E. today, and exactly what a small town funeral should be. Standing room only, which in Sacred Heart Church means well over 300 people. A wife, four children, seven grandchildren, and dozens of friends, relatives, and former colleagues. Interesting that a former conservation officer (read game warden) should be beloved of so many people. But then he wore many other hats - from volunteer fireman to credit union board member, and at the reception after the service the hats themselves with their various logos are on a table next to the photographs recording a lifetime.
Cremation had taken place before the memorial Mass, and the priest uses, more than once, the term cremains. The meaning is obvious enough, but the word itself unfamiliar. At home I check it on the internet and find, as well as the expected definition, the following:
Carbon copies: Pencils made from the carbon of human cremains. 240 pencils can be made from an average body of ash - a lifetime supply of pencils for those left behind.
It seems it's a bit more than waste not, want not. More of a memento, or even memento mori, with the name of the deceased stamped on each pencil.
Cremation had taken place before the memorial Mass, and the priest uses, more than once, the term cremains. The meaning is obvious enough, but the word itself unfamiliar. At home I check it on the internet and find, as well as the expected definition, the following:
Carbon copies: Pencils made from the carbon of human cremains. 240 pencils can be made from an average body of ash - a lifetime supply of pencils for those left behind.
It seems it's a bit more than waste not, want not. More of a memento, or even memento mori, with the name of the deceased stamped on each pencil.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
May 23/2009
Drive to Kenora to visit with Susan and Ian. It's finally starting to look like spring, especially toward Lake of the Woods, where the trees are in bud. We're crossing the second bridge on Storm Bay Road when I spot what looks like swans and persuade J to stop. They're not swans, of course. They're pelicans. Nearly the size of swans, though with less neck and more bill, but almost as magnificent. Six of them sailing white against the dark blue water. In the afternoon the four of us go fishing, trolling through silent bays and listening to the white throated sparrows calling. We hear loons, but don't see them. We do see the beautiful pelicans again, taking off, landing, and sailing proudly by.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Wednesday, May 13/2009
Perhaps non-travel time should be a separate blog, but I can't be bothered, and, existentially, I'm not sure that the summers here are any less a part of our travels than the winters when we are on the move.
Right now it seems unlikely that we will ever see spring, let alone summer. The ice is, as of this week, gone from the lake. We had been hoping to take a load of general clean-up rubbish to the dump (conveniently located only 25 km away, following a five year study of where, on this bit of northern shield wilderness, a garbage dump might appropriately be situated). I check online to see when the dump is open - a task made somewhat more difficult by trying to guess what name it is likely to go under. Sanitation? Waste management? Rubbish disposal? Environmental engineering? Landfill? Obviously not simply garbage dump. Eventually it transpires that the information on the town website is wrong. Yes, they know it's wrong but the correct information is to be found elsewhere. The town's website is not easy to change, but they're working on it. All of which reminds us of the time when John D borrowed a friend's half ton to do a major clean-up and haul the lot to the local dump, then normally open on Sundays. When he arrived there was a sign on the gate saying "Dump closed today - open yesterday." But today the dump is open, and J and Klaus manage to dispose of our junk between showers, rather than having to wait for Friday, when snow is forecast.
Right now it seems unlikely that we will ever see spring, let alone summer. The ice is, as of this week, gone from the lake. We had been hoping to take a load of general clean-up rubbish to the dump (conveniently located only 25 km away, following a five year study of where, on this bit of northern shield wilderness, a garbage dump might appropriately be situated). I check online to see when the dump is open - a task made somewhat more difficult by trying to guess what name it is likely to go under. Sanitation? Waste management? Rubbish disposal? Environmental engineering? Landfill? Obviously not simply garbage dump. Eventually it transpires that the information on the town website is wrong. Yes, they know it's wrong but the correct information is to be found elsewhere. The town's website is not easy to change, but they're working on it. All of which reminds us of the time when John D borrowed a friend's half ton to do a major clean-up and haul the lot to the local dump, then normally open on Sundays. When he arrived there was a sign on the gate saying "Dump closed today - open yesterday." But today the dump is open, and J and Klaus manage to dispose of our junk between showers, rather than having to wait for Friday, when snow is forecast.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Monday, April 20/2009
Heathrow by tube. The return trip is perfectly set up with early afternoon departure and supper time arrival, but that is dependent on an hour to make the connection in Ottawa, so when we leave the tarmac 45 minutes late, we know it's plan B. Landing cards have got bigger - but warn that they're not to be folded. As everyone is carrying coats and hand luggage it seems to leave little option but the teeth. And they seem to be primarily obsessed with what food we might be importing. Never mind the gold, laundered money, even drugs. I confess to chocolate bars and they let us through - to wait for a later flight to Toronto and thence to Winnipeg.
I try to phone Susan and Ian to let them know that we'll be late, afraid that they might simply go to the airport straight from work. I'm quite pleased with myself for having prepared months earlier for this eventuality by buying a phone card, supposedly good for six months from first use. I find a pay phone and dial the number on the card, in order to be told that the number is not good - complain to the seller of the card. A helpful young woman in hijab is in charge of the information desk and I ask about pay internet terminals. She shows me one that she has discovered in a corner, and I later decide that well might they wish to hide in a corner. Two dollars for ten minutes. Sounds not unreasonable. In ten minutes I should be able to send the same message to both Ian and Susan, at home as well as at work to be on the safe side. Think again. In slightly over ten minutes - therefore slightly over two dollars - the computer has failed to make any kind of contact with the outside world at all. It won't even load google - which I finally try as a test. In fact the only thing it does at all well is process the credit card. With no real hope, I try the Air Canada desk. As the plane failed to make its connection, could I possibly telephone? Terribly sorry, they're not allowed to make long distance calls, but they do sell phone cards at the little shop. They don't, actually, but what they sell, the shop assistant explains, is receipts. She has to explain it more than once, as the receipt seems to me to be what one receives after a purchase, not instead of one. But essentially it's a cardless card. You pay for the number that you are to use to make the phone call - printed on the receipt. Fine. Five dollars - though I've forgotten that in Canada that means five dollars plus tax. All right, $5.65. I go to make the call, using the number provided. The recorded message on the phone says smugly "This card is not valid. Goodbye." Back to the shop, where the girl is horrified and tries the number herself. On her phone - possibly not Bell - it works, so I quickly take the phone from her before she can feel obliged to say that it's not a public phone, dial Ian and Susan's number and leave the message, and thank the girl profusely. Done.
Flights to Toronto and then Winnipeg. Not sure whether S&I will meet us at the airport or never speak to us again. Fortunately they got the message and all is well. We're home.
I try to phone Susan and Ian to let them know that we'll be late, afraid that they might simply go to the airport straight from work. I'm quite pleased with myself for having prepared months earlier for this eventuality by buying a phone card, supposedly good for six months from first use. I find a pay phone and dial the number on the card, in order to be told that the number is not good - complain to the seller of the card. A helpful young woman in hijab is in charge of the information desk and I ask about pay internet terminals. She shows me one that she has discovered in a corner, and I later decide that well might they wish to hide in a corner. Two dollars for ten minutes. Sounds not unreasonable. In ten minutes I should be able to send the same message to both Ian and Susan, at home as well as at work to be on the safe side. Think again. In slightly over ten minutes - therefore slightly over two dollars - the computer has failed to make any kind of contact with the outside world at all. It won't even load google - which I finally try as a test. In fact the only thing it does at all well is process the credit card. With no real hope, I try the Air Canada desk. As the plane failed to make its connection, could I possibly telephone? Terribly sorry, they're not allowed to make long distance calls, but they do sell phone cards at the little shop. They don't, actually, but what they sell, the shop assistant explains, is receipts. She has to explain it more than once, as the receipt seems to me to be what one receives after a purchase, not instead of one. But essentially it's a cardless card. You pay for the number that you are to use to make the phone call - printed on the receipt. Fine. Five dollars - though I've forgotten that in Canada that means five dollars plus tax. All right, $5.65. I go to make the call, using the number provided. The recorded message on the phone says smugly "This card is not valid. Goodbye." Back to the shop, where the girl is horrified and tries the number herself. On her phone - possibly not Bell - it works, so I quickly take the phone from her before she can feel obliged to say that it's not a public phone, dial Ian and Susan's number and leave the message, and thank the girl profusely. Done.
Flights to Toronto and then Winnipeg. Not sure whether S&I will meet us at the airport or never speak to us again. Fortunately they got the message and all is well. We're home.
Sunday, April 19/2009
Awake early - more or less awake that is - to watch the race, and it's a good one. And out to bring back a fat Times to spend the day with. Fighting off a cold and have decided that it's a sedentary day, wasteful though this is in London. But it's also packing day, and, one way and another that seems to take all day. Mostly because it's a weeding process, disposing of all the things that cannot possibly fit in the little suitcases.
Telephone call from Alexander, friend of Dorothy, saying that Flora has just pointed out it's our last day, and can we go out for a meal. We'd been hoping to meet them, and had spoken on the phone earlier. So they pick us up and we stop on Haverstock Hill at a pizza place. Nice thin crust pizza - ours with caramelised red onion, spinach and fetta. The onion is a definite keeper. A bottle of red, and getting to know each other. They both went to music school at the old Regina Campus of the University of Saskatchewan, where they met D. Flora originally from BC, but having spent more than half her life in England now, and Alexander originally English. Promises to meet again next time - in fact they're insistant that we should stay with them!
Telephone call from Alexander, friend of Dorothy, saying that Flora has just pointed out it's our last day, and can we go out for a meal. We'd been hoping to meet them, and had spoken on the phone earlier. So they pick us up and we stop on Haverstock Hill at a pizza place. Nice thin crust pizza - ours with caramelised red onion, spinach and fetta. The onion is a definite keeper. A bottle of red, and getting to know each other. They both went to music school at the old Regina Campus of the University of Saskatchewan, where they met D. Flora originally from BC, but having spent more than half her life in England now, and Alexander originally English. Promises to meet again next time - in fact they're insistant that we should stay with them!
Saturday, April 18/2009
Try to find THE Abbey Road location, which I have assumed is just off Belsize Road. But when we walk over, the address simply doesn't exist, and, worse than that, the spot where it should be doesn't have the right sort of street number - should be much lower. More research required. Meanwhile hop on a bus headed to West Hampstead. Poke about a bit, but not much going on. Pass a Chinese medical clinic, San Ling, advertising cures for:
Impotence
Stiff Neck
Insomnia
Frozen Shoulder
Indigestion
Stress
Anxiety
Arthritis
All listed on the same large sign. An impressive offering.
Afternoon we take the tube out to Jean's, where we visit until Shanthi arrives to share supper. A nice visit and lovely food. We couldn't pass up the final opportunity, but probably should have done, as Jean has been under the weather all week and really isn't feeling well now.
Impotence
Stiff Neck
Insomnia
Frozen Shoulder
Indigestion
Stress
Anxiety
Arthritis
All listed on the same large sign. An impressive offering.
Afternoon we take the tube out to Jean's, where we visit until Shanthi arrives to share supper. A nice visit and lovely food. We couldn't pass up the final opportunity, but probably should have done, as Jean has been under the weather all week and really isn't feeling well now.
Friday, April 17/2009
Heading into the last weekend. We stop at Canada House to check the mail. Most of the computers are in use, and they try to speed people up by providing only two computers that can be used while seated. The other four are stand-up for the user. I take a stand-up computer and am not particularly annoyed until I notice that the man next to me, who seems to have been sent to amuse hiimself while his wife does the family business on another screen, has given up whining that he can't find AOL and is now playing solitaire. I refrain from pointing out, accurately enough, that he is doing nothing while there is a queue! Cardinal sin. His wife finishes and tells him that he has been talking about. He complains that it's over now. "Well you did want me to check about the tickets, didn't you?"
Friday, 17 April 2009
Thursday, April 16/2009
National Theatre releases some ten pound seats each day for that day's performance, so we head over for 10 a.m. and get 2 front row seats for England People Very Nice. This leaves us over 3 hours until curtain time so we put up our umbrellas and go over to the Barbican library.
The play itself is a sellout and quite funny. It looks, as promised, at centuries of immigration in successive waves to Londons Bethnal Green neighourhood. The point, of course, is that immigrants have always arrived, been resented, and eventually integrated and been replaced by other nationalities. It's sensitive material potentially, but the playwright has taken the modus used in the Simpsons - use outrageous caricature bvut be fair and satirise all groups with equal ruthlessness. And there are the running jokes: periodically a character says that there is no hell and this is all the heaven we'll ever get, to which the answer is "what, Bethnal Green?!" It's a long play, but fun.
The play itself is a sellout and quite funny. It looks, as promised, at centuries of immigration in successive waves to Londons Bethnal Green neighourhood. The point, of course, is that immigrants have always arrived, been resented, and eventually integrated and been replaced by other nationalities. It's sensitive material potentially, but the playwright has taken the modus used in the Simpsons - use outrageous caricature bvut be fair and satirise all groups with equal ruthlessness. And there are the running jokes: periodically a character says that there is no hell and this is all the heaven we'll ever get, to which the answer is "what, Bethnal Green?!" It's a long play, but fun.
Wednesday, April 15/2009
Warmest day so far predicted so we're off for the old city. Off the tube at Chancery Lane and with some difficulty we find Barnard's Inn Hall for the free Gresham lecture at 1. Pass first Staples Inn and a magnificent tudor lookiing building, not quite straight with age, with a tobacconist on the ground floor. They're both 16th century and we imagine Shakespeare walking down the road when they were new.
The lecture is full. The hall only holds about a hundred and we've been warned to be early to get a seat. The topic is interesting - is mental illness all in the genes - and there is some interesting research, but iti's a bit flat. (the genetic answer to the question is "mostly.") The questions are intelligent though and the answers competent.
It's warm (21) and sunny and we wander in the area. beautiful period buildings mixed with some of the monstrosities Prince Charles complains about. across from the royal Courts of Justice is a little pub, the Seven Stars. It claims to date from 602 and to have survived the Great Fire. Hard to say how much of the building is original but it's charming and old and friendly, a long narrow place with flowers outside and a resident black cat with a white ruffled collar.
Quick visit to St. clement Danes and we hop a number 13 bus home. Unlucky 13. Part way its in aminor accident with a small van. Not the fault of the bus driver. Switch buses and home via Finchley Road Sainsbury's.
The lecture is full. The hall only holds about a hundred and we've been warned to be early to get a seat. The topic is interesting - is mental illness all in the genes - and there is some interesting research, but iti's a bit flat. (the genetic answer to the question is "mostly.") The questions are intelligent though and the answers competent.
It's warm (21) and sunny and we wander in the area. beautiful period buildings mixed with some of the monstrosities Prince Charles complains about. across from the royal Courts of Justice is a little pub, the Seven Stars. It claims to date from 602 and to have survived the Great Fire. Hard to say how much of the building is original but it's charming and old and friendly, a long narrow place with flowers outside and a resident black cat with a white ruffled collar.
Quick visit to St. clement Danes and we hop a number 13 bus home. Unlucky 13. Part way its in aminor accident with a small van. Not the fault of the bus driver. Switch buses and home via Finchley Road Sainsbury's.
Tuesday, April 14/2009
A bit of electronic research at John Lewis. Ipods, notebooks, ebook readers. Lots of toys and a quiet atmosphere unlike the chaos on Tottenham Court road. On the way back J spots a mouse on the underground track.
Monday, April 13/2009
Two lovely walks. In the morning we go with Jenny to take the dogs to Telegraph Hill for a run. It's woodland near Claygate village, quite natural and a great place for the dogs to follow scents. In the afternoon we pick up Jenny's mum and go to Richmond Park. It's one of the oroiginal royal hunting parks and a huge park even for a city that is over a quarter green space. We head for the Isabella Plantation, some flowering trees over a hundred years old and fragrant with azaleas and heather as well as brilliant with camellias, oleander and rhododendrons as well. There are little streams and plenty of paths to wander and get lost on, which we do for a bit. Still full light after 6 and Jenny drops us at Wimbledon Station where we get a replacement coach to Clapham Jct - then Waterloo by train and Northern line home by eight.
Sunday, april 12/2009
Easter Sunday. Julia and Neil have coloured eggs and there is traditional Palestinian baking. Emma and Giles arrive with Jenny's mother and baby Jasmine, and then Laura and Nathan with Sam and Kai and baby Cody. Easter brunch is fun. the Clarkes have a traditional game involving the finding of the strongest egg by doing battle conker style and seeing which egg survives uncracked. Sam and Kai have great fun with quite convincing fake eggs.
Jenny's Palestinian aunts arrive for tea. Doug's sister and brother-in-law with son Graham and two granddaughters in tow as well, so by then there are 23 of us including the babies. A lovely time.
Jenny's Palestinian aunts arrive for tea. Doug's sister and brother-in-law with son Graham and two granddaughters in tow as well, so by then there are 23 of us including the babies. A lovely time.
Saturday, April 11/2009
Afternoon over to Jenny and Doug's. It's a bit chaotic transportation because of long weekend maintenance, so Jubilee line not running and coac replaces train between Clapham Junction and Surbiton and everything takes a bit longer. Drizzle as we arrive but sunny welcome. Weather improves and we go for a walk round Thames Ditton with Jenny. Doug back fore dinner and we're joined by Jenny's niece Julia, soon to be studying medicine at Kings college, and Julia's boyfriend Neil. Lovely stew for dinner.
Friday, April 10/2009
A bit drizzly off and on as befits a Good Friday, but quite warm. All kinds of disruption to the transport system but still ppossible to work out alternate routes. Thus we take the Northern to Bank and then Dockland Light Railway to West India Quay to visit the Museum of London Docklands. It's free this weekend so a good time to go. It's much smaller than the Museum of London proper but quite interesting in its own right, covering the history of the Thames and London as a port from pre-Roman times. The history of the bridges is of interest and there are lots of drawings and ship models and a pretty realistic recreation of a slightly sinister dockside area and buildings.
Thursday. April 9/2009
At Barbican check that our return flight to Canada is still at the same time as originally ticketed, mindful of the time the snippy air Canada rep at Heathrow said that departure times changed after daylight savings time began. And this was a consideration they had been unable to anticipate at time of sale? But no cha ge this year it seems.
Holy Thursday Mass at Westminster Cathedral, the last Easter for Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor who is retiring. As we walk from Victoria to the cathedral we see an old man bent over and slowly feeling his way along the wall of a tempporary walkway diverting us around construction. It's quite a distressing sight and I'm hoping he's finds his way to wherever he's going - which he evidently does as J sees him later in the front of the cathedral. It's standing room only and one of the most moving liturgies of the year, in Latin with full choir. The 12 men having their feet washed by Cathedral tradition are 12 pensioners from the Royal Chelsea Hospital of our yesterday's visit, resplendent in their brilliant red uniforms. The church remains open for prayer until midnight when there will be compline and the stripping of the altar, but we leave for home.
Holy Thursday Mass at Westminster Cathedral, the last Easter for Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor who is retiring. As we walk from Victoria to the cathedral we see an old man bent over and slowly feeling his way along the wall of a tempporary walkway diverting us around construction. It's quite a distressing sight and I'm hoping he's finds his way to wherever he's going - which he evidently does as J sees him later in the front of the cathedral. It's standing room only and one of the most moving liturgies of the year, in Latin with full choir. The 12 men having their feet washed by Cathedral tradition are 12 pensioners from the Royal Chelsea Hospital of our yesterday's visit, resplendent in their brilliant red uniforms. The church remains open for prayer until midnight when there will be compline and the stripping of the altar, but we leave for home.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Wednesday, April 8/2009
Wake to hoofbeats - about 60 police horses being ridden and led past our flat.
Chelsea afternoon. We start at Sloan Square and pay a visit to the Saatchi Gallery. Interesting and often witty works, mostly by young artist from the Middle East. a fascinating display with several very convincing life sized men of various ethnic and cultural backgrounds all in motorized wheelchairs circulating in a room - their chairs changing direction as they encounter obstacles. There's a Greek Orthodox priest, a man in Arab headdress and a number of other characters. J tells a small child that only one is real and the boy is sure he's spotted which one.
Then to the Royal Chelsea Hospital grounds, home of the red-coated army pensiones. The grounds are lovely - a mini village with beautiful gardens, though not many pensioners in sight. After this we stop at the Army Museum next door. It's small and a bit randomly organised but there are some high points. There are a number of very good military paintings and a small display examining James Wolfe in images.
The walk down to the Thames is dotted with historic blue plaques - many notables have lived in the neighbourhood, including Oscar Wilde and George Eliot. We're supposed to finish at the King's Head and Eight Bells, drinking spot of Henry VIII, but, though we were once there before, no joy in finding it. Eventually the appalling reason emerges - it's been changed into a restaurant, a Brasserie, complete with a dreadful poodle sign outside. Unbelievable! Still, it has been a good afternoon.
Chelsea afternoon. We start at Sloan Square and pay a visit to the Saatchi Gallery. Interesting and often witty works, mostly by young artist from the Middle East. a fascinating display with several very convincing life sized men of various ethnic and cultural backgrounds all in motorized wheelchairs circulating in a room - their chairs changing direction as they encounter obstacles. There's a Greek Orthodox priest, a man in Arab headdress and a number of other characters. J tells a small child that only one is real and the boy is sure he's spotted which one.
Then to the Royal Chelsea Hospital grounds, home of the red-coated army pensiones. The grounds are lovely - a mini village with beautiful gardens, though not many pensioners in sight. After this we stop at the Army Museum next door. It's small and a bit randomly organised but there are some high points. There are a number of very good military paintings and a small display examining James Wolfe in images.
The walk down to the Thames is dotted with historic blue plaques - many notables have lived in the neighbourhood, including Oscar Wilde and George Eliot. We're supposed to finish at the King's Head and Eight Bells, drinking spot of Henry VIII, but, though we were once there before, no joy in finding it. Eventually the appalling reason emerges - it's been changed into a restaurant, a Brasserie, complete with a dreadful poodle sign outside. Unbelievable! Still, it has been a good afternoon.
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