Postcard from England, part III (subtitled: punting on the Thames)

Remember when we sent actual postcards, in the post, when we went on holiday? They always arrived long after we came home but that was part of the charm, sort of (what wasn't so charming was writing dozens of them, trying to write something different in each one as if the recipients were bound to compare them and would be disappointed if the same phrase appeared on different cards...)

This is the modern version; it also arrives long after my return, so there's a bit of nostalgia for you right there.

On my last vacation day I went up to Henley-on-Thames. They had a "traditional boat festival" going on, however, I was seeing a friend who was participating with a vessel that was neither traditional nor a boat.

And I totally forgot to take a picture of the thing,

so this is a pic I stole from his facebook page, 

totally without permission

(hope I'm forgiven? :-)

I did, of course, remember to take a selfie.

Goes without saying...

That, my friend, is an Alvis Stalwart - an amphibious truck used by the British army from the mid-sixties onwards. Very cool thing to have sitting on your driveway.  And it lets you see the town from a different angle:

The Stolly wasn't the only amphibious vehicle around. There were quite a few, including this stylish one: 

aaaand into the water she goes

This makes a nice change from the usual

Sunday drive down to the pub, I think

One thing I love about England is they do events like this so well.  You can always be sure to see a couple of elderly gentlemen, totally dressed the part.   And find a nice place to sit down for a cup of tea. Or a glass of Pimms.  And there is always, always catering for your canine friend as well :-)

Alas, end of journey. The evening was spent on the terrace of an airport hotel, wine in hand, interrupting an otherwise interesting conversation every 2-3 minutes with "ooohhhh, LOOK - a PLANE!!!"

More travel to follow. Autumn plans include Hamburg, Berlin and, of course, the United States.  Can't wait :)

Postcard from England, part II (subtitled: all the pics I didn't take)

Waaaay back in the days - 2006 or thereabouts - my then-boyfriend gave me a camera. A pink Sony point-and-click thing, which proved remarkably durable.  It got clogged up with sand in Dubai which messed up the shutter mechanism; then about a month later I dropped it on the medieval streets of Carcassonne in France which not only did the camera survive; it fixed the shutter thing as well. Awesome little pink gadget.

The pink camera and its blue successor were my trusty companions on all the trips I took the next 6-7 years. But then I strayed. I bought an iPhone. And the camera mostly stayed home.

I love my iPhone to bits and pieces, and where would I be without Instagram, Snapchat, etc. etc. etc. - but I've never quite mastered taking good pictures on the run (mostly when driving) the way I did with the camera. Or at least, the successrate is remarkably lower.  Also, I'm way better at taking pictures on the sly when I'm using my camera instead of my phone :)

So whilst driving around the Cotswolds in my own terrific company, there were hundreds of pictures I didn't take.

And therefore, you won't see

...the lady who had lunch with her cat in a pub (it had its own plate and everything)
...the man who trimmed the edge of his lawn with scissors (a variety of garden pedantry I invariably associate with the English although it may be more widespread than I realise)
...the impossibly beautiful landscapes that are everywhere
...the pile of horse dung advertised for sale at the edge of the road, and the horse that made a contribution to it the very moment I drove past
...the man who told me he was in room number 4x4 (and no, I didn't go. Not only was I not tempted; I also didn't quite catch whether he said 404 or 414 and with my luck there is no doubt I would have ended up in the wrong room) (which would have made for a very interesting blog post indeed - but, no. Just no)
...the Indian family who had dinner at one of the hotels I stayed at. Never have I seen such gorgeous saris; never have I had a heartburn so bad as the extremely spicy curry they shared with me resulted in. Hot food and me clearly don't mesh well.

But you do get to see the gorgeous market hall (1627) in Chipping Campden





And the NatWest bank in Evesham (now, why doesn't my bank live in a building like this??)

You can see the canal in Lower Slaughter...

And one of the houses I might buy there

This WWI memorial totally reminds me of Downton Abbey.  I have no idea where it is - downside to driving around without an actual plan or route is that you tend to forget where you've been :/

....and ze family butcher (which always makes me want to pop my head round the door and ask, "how much to do mine?"   (please tell me I'm not the only one with such a bad sense of humour)  (hello??) 

Postcard from England, part I (subtitled:because I'm worth it)

I don't usually travel much during the summer months. Something to do with the garden being too lovely to leave, something to do with being intoxicated by the very thought of three whole weeks with absolutely zero schedule to adhere to, and something to do with every man Jack and his extended family also being on vacation and crowding hotels, flights, and any sights I may want to see.

But not so this year. Related mostly to the previous post's "hearts broken:1 and hearts mended: .25"; the latter hovering more around .05 at the time, I felt very much in a shampoo commercial because I'm worth it frame of mind and decided to cash in some miles for a ticket to London.

A similar train of thought had me on a hellbent I'll show him  myself the whole world I can do whatever I put my mind to mission and with that particular thought in mind I abandoned my trustworthy (ahem) ally British Rail and rented a car.

It isn't so much the whole driving on the left thing. I've done that before - albeit ten years ago, and in New Zealand. But I've spent more than my fair share of hours in the passenger seat in Britain and I know that many of their roads (at least, the ones I like to explore) date back eons. Well before anyone had thought of cars, much less two cars passing. What they had thought of was hedgerows. Tall, beautiful hedgerows, hugging the side of the roads snugly.  In other words; English country lanes are NARROW.

....so I went out and rented the least narrow car I could get my grubby little hands on. But of course.

And now that I'm safely home, I can say with total confidence and more than a smidgeon of pride (possibly a dash of arrogance as well): aced it.

It was an absolute beauty to drive, and boy-oh-boy you should have seen me confidently gliding through rush-hour traffic, roundabouts, roundabouts with traffic lights in the middle, and double-roundabouts (because that's how the British roll - you can't really have enough of a good thing).

Of course, sticking mostly to aforementioned country lanes, I didn't have to worry too much about keeping to the right (left!) side of the road, there only being space for one car.

(So when I came up to this farm vehicle which had blown a tyre and dropped hay bales all over the road, I graciously told the farmer I had all the time in the world and did not at all mind waiting while they crawled back to the farm at snail's pace.  Well, it was either waiting or reversing a quarter of a mile down a winding lane, so not a difficult choice ;-)

First real stop was the teeny tiny village of Slad. Mostly because I liked the name and also because it was the home of the writer Laurie Lee whose book "Cider with Rosie" I read many many years ago and don't really remember anything much from, except the inexplicable longing for England it awoke in me.

I had lunch at The Woolpack (don't you just love the names of British pubs!), caught a glimpse of a lady sharing her lunch with a kitten, and chatted to a man who used to live on a house boat but now owned a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere and kept chickens (instant friend!) and did odd jobs for a living. And then I drove on, with the sat nav off.

'

This area, the Cotswolds, is awash with rolling hills - decoratingly dotted with flocks of sheep -, cottages built in Cotswold stone which has a certain yellow-ish hue to it so that even on a rainy day they seem to radiate a quiet sort of glowing coziness, and village after village with enchanting names. Broughton Poggs. Great Rollright. Shipton under Wychwood. Lower Slaughter. (And Upper Slaughter of course)

My travels took me fairly close to the Welsh border and I was thus able to enjoy the melodious tunes of BBC Cymru. Very delightful; of course I didn't understand a word of it but it was thoroughly fascinating all the same (I have fond memories of Wales. One time I climbed Mt Snowdon wearing sandals. Not 100% sure why I'd embark on something so foolish, but someone told me it would be an easy stroll and that I might be able to catch a glimpse of Ireland from the summit. Of course, it was so foggy at the top that I couldn't even see the path, nevermind Ireland, but I made it. Then I caught a tiny, rattling train back down again, went to the station where a drunken Welshman I'd met earlier was loitering (with intent). He snogged me and made a number of interesting suggestions not suitable for mentioning here -or in fact anywhere-, whereupon I caught the first train out and ended up in a very rainy Birmingham. As I said, I like Wales)

It's been said that if you have a garden and a library, you'll want for nothing more. I would submit that a passport should be added to that list. But then I reckon you'll be just about covered.

Mere nørderi (ja, jeg kan sagtens blive ved)

Da jeg lagde linket til indlægget om IoW på facebook i går, skrev min ven Jens i en kommentar "er med i vognen, men en anelse bekymret".

Det er min mentale tilstand han hentyder til, går jeg ud fra, og den skal han naturligvis ikke gå og bekymre sig om helt uden grund, så jeg haster med at bringe endnu et indlæg, som kan skubbe mig langt ind i rækkerne af Håbløse Tilfælde.

I dag skal vi nemlig besøge Leinster Gardens i Bayswater, London.  En rimelig kedelig gade - med et særligt herligt fænomen ...

@ N ~ aye, we continue down the old railway tracks. One of my friends (only the one friend. I swear ...) thinks I may be a little nuts, and I don't want him to think that for no reason. So, here is a(nother) reason.

Today, we're on a little excursion to Leinster Gardens in Bayswater, London.  It looks an awful lot like most other streets in that part of the city, except for the houses at number 23 and 24 ...  Notice anything special?

Dette er nr. 23 & 24 Leinster Gardens.

Kan du se noget særligt, hva'-hva'-hva'?

Det er bare en facade - vinduerne er

malet på!

They're "dummy houses"!

Scroll down for an incredibly

fascinating explanation.

Hvad er nu det for noget sært noget, tænker du nok. Da især hvis du kender kvadratmeterprisen i London. Hvis du kender den, sidder du faktisk nok og dåner lidt lige nu, for TÆNK hvad en bygning kunne generere af lejeindkomster i det område - og så står der bare en pap-facade. Well, pap og pap. Jeg tror muren er over en meter tyk. Men ikke desto mindre en facade.

Det skyldes - og her giver vi så fri luft til begejstringen igen - at undergrundsbanen kører lige nedenunder!!!

Og her taler jeg ikke om de små tog, som kører i ægte "tubes" meget langt under jorden. Jeg taler om en af de første linier, som køres med det, der kaldes surface stock. Vi afbryder lige med en meget kort teknisk forklaring. Kig på toget til venstre herunder - noget større end det til højre, bemærker den kvikke læser straks. Det tog kører på en af de første linier, hvor konstruktionsmetoden i grove træk gik ud på, at man gravede gaden op, lagde jernbanespor ned i en "grøft", byggede tag henover, og gen-anlagde gaden ovenpå dét.  Og i starten - tager I noter, drenge og piger? - var det damplokomotiver, der trak hele herligheden.

(from wikipedia)

On the left: SURFACE STOCK.

The first underground lines were built

using the "cut and cover" method. They dug

up a street, put down railway tracks, roofed

it over, and re-paved the street.

Originally - and this is important - the

trains were pulled with steam locomotives.

Like this one:

Picture borrowed with kind permission

from Going Underground

(the best blog about the London Underground)

Damplokomotiverne var udstyret med noget kondensator af en art, men af og til skulle de af med dampen, og derfor har undergrundsbanen (the surface lines) kig til himlen hist og pist.  Og altså blandt andet bag den falske facade i Leinster Gardens.

Men pænt skulle det jo se ud, så derfor byggede man de nydelige dummy houses som falder smukt i med bygningerne ved siden af.

Og nu tænker du nok: og hvad så??? (eller også er du allerede gået).  Og jeg kan ikke helt forklare, hvorfor det gør mig så begejstret. Men jeg kan bare så utrolig godt li' at vide, at de er der. Og vide hvorfor de er der.  Baggrundsviden er meget sexet, i min bog.

Hvis man går om i gaden bag ved, kan man faktisk godt se ned til togene. Hvis altså man har en lille trappestige med eller er en hel del højere end din ærede blogger, for der er en mur langs fortovet (højst generende hvis du spørger mig).  Så jeg stillede mig på tæer, straaaakte mine korte arme alt hvad jeg kunne, og knipsede løs når jeg kunne høre at toget kom.

@ N ~ so, the thing about Leinster Gardens is that the Underground passes directly underneath! Needless to say, this thrills me to bits.

The first Underground trains were, as mentioned above, pulled by steam locomotives. They did have condensers to reduce fumes in the tunnels, but there had to be open-air sections to allow the trains to let off the steam, and behind Leinster Gardens is one such section.  (There is another reason and that is that people generally weren't keen on living right on top of the railway lines - hence the cut-and-cover method, where the lines generally followed the roads on the surface. The London Underground has some incredibly interesting curves in places, I can tell you)

And to keep things looking neat, they built the facades to match the buildings to the left and right.

I walked over to the street behind Leinster Gardens, and had I been a lot taller than I am (or thought to bring a step ladder) I could have peeked directly down on the tracks. As it happens, they've put a wall there to block my view, so I had to stand on my toes and just point my camera when I could hear a train.

It worked sort of okay - you can just see a train disappearing into the tunnel on the left-hand track :-)

I'm not 100% sure why I find this so incredibly exciting. I think it must be something to do with my love for trivia - I just *heart* knowing that this exists, and knowing why it's there.

Also, it's one of the countless, charming little quirks that make London, well,  London.

Kan I se toget, der lige forsvinder ind i 

tunnellen i det venstre spor? :-)

Jeg kan i øvrigt berette, at huset til højre har ét vindue, der vender ind mod åbningen. Jeg forestiller mig, at der sidder en støvet gammel mand deroppe og kigger ned, mens han på sit lommeur holder øje med, om togene nu går til tiden ...

Så, Jens - er du nu for alvor bekymret? :-)

@ N ~PS: I cannot make up my mind about what works best - having the Danish text + pictures first, and then the translation (or rather; your custom made version) at the bottom, or mixing it all up like this.  I imagine it must be a bit tedious to look at the photos and then having to scroll down to see what it was all about   -  but doing it this way does make for rather a schizo reading experience.  What to do, what to dooooooooo?

Begejstret selvsving

Kan I huske, hvad jeg skrev for nylig - at hvis jeg bliver begejstret for et eller andet, skal I partout også udsættes for det, for sådan er Reglerne?

.

Det er noget med tog.  Folk uden nørde-tendenser må gerne stige af hér og komme tilbage en anden dag.  Jeg lover, jeg vil ikke bære (ret meget) nag.

Fik jeg fortalt, at jeg var i England for nylig?  Rent bortset fra, at de som os er en anelse tilbagestående hvad angår implementeringen af forår, version 2013, var der dejligt. Det var flere år siden min sidste visit, så der var meget at indhente.

Fish & chips, a pint, and all the ketchup,

tartare sauce, HP sauce, etc. etc.

etc. etc. etc. your little heart desires

And a cooked breakfast.

YES, the tea is supposed to be that milky.

Det var naturligvis ikke kun dét, jeg skulle have indhentet.

Første stop på turen var Isle of Wight, som ligger nede ved sydkysten. Om IoW er der meget godt at sige (så meget, at jeg vender tilbage en anden gang, når vejret er godt), men i dag vil jeg nøjes med at sige dette:

DE KØRER MED GAMLE UNDERGRUNDSTOG DERNEDE!!!

Vi lader den lige stå et øjeblik, så I rigtigt kan sunde jer. 

Der er én tilbageværende togbane, Shanklin-Ryde, og materiellet på den er tog fra London Underground, fabriksnye i 1938.  Yep, '38.  Fra før 2. Verdenskrig.  

Det siger sig selv, at det var en omvej værd. Og jeg blev ikke skuffet.

Kom med - først skal vi på bustur tværs over øen.  Jeg skal beklage tvivlsom billedkvalitet - de er ikke gode til at pudse vinduerne på øverste etage. Og som en ægte britisk dobbeltdækker rystede og bragede køretøjet så det var en fryd - men det er ikke godt for skarpheden...

@ N ~ you've always wanted to see the Isle of Wight, right?

I am here to fulfil your wish.  Join me on a tour of the English country side, by double decker bus and - joy of joys - ancient old rattler from the London Underground marvellous piece of 20th century railway engineering feat.

I should probably tell you that the Island Line which runs from Shanklin to Ryde on the Isle of Wight is operated with 1938 London Underground trains, and yes, I did write 1938, and yes, they're still running.

And yes, I do (as you may recall :-) have this love affair with trains, so of course I made a little detour to include this in my itinerary. 

I love English country lanes, 

especially when I'm not

the one driving ...

DUNG SALE - what's not to love?

Dung suppliers?

Godshill.

Ye shall look no further,

for I have located Him,

and He lives right here

on Ye Olde Isle of Wyghte

At long last, Shanklin.

At this point, I was very nearly beside

myself with excitement.

Yes, I live a sad life indeed.

(no, not really. Mine is the

most thrilling of existences, as this

blog post testifies)

Ah, here she comes.

I'd like the record to show

that I did not wet myself.

But I did squeal.

Go ahead, judge me (but be kind)

I post this picture to show just

how cool, calm and collected I was.

(in every.other.photo I look goofy. but ecstatic.)

Ohmygosh! A train depot! A whole

family of these (rattling, cranky) beauties!

The other terminus is Ryde Pier - you step

right off the train and onto the 

Portsmouth ferry

Go on, admit it. You're glad I posted

another picture of this glorious,

magnificent train.

Hva' så - er I ikke bare lykkelige for, at I var med så langt?

Hallo?





... er der nogen???

...And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Engang, for mange mange år siden, da jeg var en lille pige, havde jeg en engelsklærer ved navn Fru Mørkeberg. Fru Mørkeberg var den dejligste lærer - et smittende humør, stor forkærlighed for Monty Python, lige så lav som Kylie Minogue og med lige så stor sangglæde. Fru Mørkebergs repertoire var dog en lidt anden stil end Ms Minogue's, knap så meget ass-shaking og noget mere fællessang. I de mørke julemåneder hev hun et mindre kompendium i English Christmas Songs frem, og så sang vi ellers af hjertens lyst/karsken bælg/indsæt selv passende beskrivelse.

Min absolutte yndlings var (er!!) The Twelve Days of Christmas, hvor hukommelse og tungetwistighed sættes på prøve når man pisker igennem 10 Lords a-leaping, 8 Maids a-milking, 5 gooooolden riiiiiings and a Partridge in a Pear Tree. Så stor var glæden, da jeg opdagede nedenstående perle af en korrespondance:

Day 1: Dearest Darling John, I went to the door today and the postman delivered a Partridge in a pear tree.What a delightful romantic gift. Thank you my darling for the lovely thought. With deep affection, your everloving Agnes.

Day 2: My Dearest Darling John, Today the postman brought your very sweet gift of two turtledoves. I am delighted, they are adorable. All my love, Agnes

Day 3: Dearest Darling John, Oh how extravagant you really are. I must protest, I don't deserve such generosity, three French hens, I insist you are too kind. Your loving Agnes

Day 4: Dear John, What can I say? Four beautiful calling birds arrived with the Postman this morning. Your kindness really is too much. Love, Agnes

Day 5: My Dear John, What a surprise, today the postman delivered five golden rings. One for each finger. You really are an impossible boy, but I love you. Frankly all the birds are beginning to squawk and get on my nerves. Love, Agnes.

Day 6: Dear John, When I opened the door this morning, there were actually six bloody great geese - laying eggs all over the front step. What on earth do you think I can do with them all? The neighbours are beginning to complain about the smell, and I can't sleep because of the noise! Please stop. Cordially yours, Agnes

Day 7: What is it with you and these fucking birds? Now I have seven swans a-swimming in my bath tub! Is this some sort of god damned joke? The house is full of bird shit, oh, and the racket !!! I am becoming a nervous wreck. It is not funny anymore, stop sending bloody birds !!! Agnes.

Day 8: OK buster, I think I prefer the birds. What the hell am I going to do with eight maids a-milking? It's not enough with all the birds, now I have eight cows a-mooing and shitting all over the house. FUCK OFF !!!!!!! Agnes.

Day 9: Look dickhead - what are you on ??? You're having a laugh. Now I have nine pipers playing shite music constantly !!! And Christ do they play.... When they aren't playing their sodding pipes, they keep chasing the maids through the cow shit. The cows keep on mooing and are treading all over the fucking birds !!! The neighbours are threatening to have me evicted. Agnes.

Day 10: You fucking bastard !!!! Now we have ten ladies dancing. Though how on earth anyone can call these whores "ladies" is beyond me, they're pulling the pipers all night long !!!!! The cows can't sleep and now have diarrhoea. My living room is a sea of shit and the landlord has just declared the building unfit for human habitation. FUCK OFF AND DIE JOHN !!!!!!!

Day 11: Listen shit face - what with eleven lords a-leaping about the house, shagging me and the maids senseless, I shall probably never walk again. The pipers are now fighting the lords for all the crumpet and resorting to committing sodomy with the cows, the birds are dead and rotting, having been trampled during the orgy. I hope you're satisfied - you c**t. Your sworn enemy, Agnes.

Day 12: LAW OFFICES GOLDSTEIN, SILVERBERG AND O'REILLY

Dear Sir: This is to acknowledge receipt of your latest gift of twelve drummers drumming, which you have seen fit to inflict upon our client, Miss Agnes Haversham. The destruction, of course, was total. All correspondence should come to our attention. If you should attempt to reach Miss Haversham at the Charter Glade Sanitarium where she is now residing, the attendants have been instructed to shoot you on sight! With this letter, please find attached a warrant for your arrest.

- Den findes i forskellige versioner rundt omkring på indernettet; denne er kopieret fra en bog min tidligere chef i London fik forærendes engang i tidernes morgen (nok anno dengang jeg lærte at synge sangen. My God, I'm getting old)