Perhaps you know the feeling, sometimes you have to get away because things get samey, and my solution was this. Fly to England with Ma LSP for a well needed break, which is exactly what we did. First stop, DFW Terminal D, next stop, Heathrow Terminal 3 followed by a fast train to Paddington.
"There", meant the NatLib, two doors down, and dinner in the club's monumental dining room. There you are, enjoying an autumnal menu under larger than life portraits of statesmen who shaped the world in their time. It's not hard to reflect on the scale and grandeur of the Empire in that setting, and by the same token, who are we now compared to them? Pygmies in the footsteps of giants.
Speaking of which, London's grown pretty gargantuan over the last 20 years or so, but has it grown better? Good question. There's certainly many more secular cathedrals of glass, concrete and steel rising out of the city's eastern skyline; St. Paul's is dwarfed in comparison, and I guess that's a sign of wealth. But are the people any richer?
Some are, obviously, no doubt about it, but lately London seems to lack the vibrancy of the mid '90s when you could feel and watch a tidal wave of wealth roll into the city, to say nothing of talent. Remember, ahem, Britpop? Still, the place is clearly running on multiple cylinders, to say nothing of hordes of Japanese and Korean tourists.
Regardless, the first week of the trip was all all about entertaining old friends, not least my Mother's, who are a step above, and then, after a weekend at the EIC (East India Club) and Mass at the Brompton Oratory, climbing aboard a train to idyllic Ludlow. This sits on the Welsh border and shouldn't be missed.
After several convivial days with SH and K, my brother drove in from Aberystwyth and off we went to the Welsh coast. It was good to be back in this rainy seaside resort and good to see my brother, who's a good man, but I only stayed a night, sadly. The next day I sped back to Town on a slow moving Transit for Wales train to meet old friends, setting up at an AirBnB in Soho on Frith Street.
Part of this may have involved a Techno Rickshaw around the storied streets of Soho, another part of it certainly involved a lot of Coach & Horses, French House and Bar Italia. One friend, we'd gone to dinner at the NatLib and immigrated to Soho, accused me of inverse Milton, "From Paradiso to Inferno, Padre!" Quite.
Then, Soho tomfoolery over, a sideways move to Bloomsbury and a pleasant little flat on Coptic Street overlooking the British Museum. Ma LSP joined me there for the last few days and we closed up with lunch at the Prix Fixe in Soho, followed by a glass or two at the French House and then, after a sensible rest, drinks and snacks at the Museum Tavern. And now?
Back in the great state of Texas. It feels good. We may not have real bread, butchers, pubs, architecture to speak of, cobblers, butchers, fishmongers and clubs with imperial ceilings and portraits of Gladstone and statues of General Outram or Gordon. True enough, but we do have this, big skies, trucks, guns and NO NANNY STATE.
So forgive the lack of comms, I've been busy. Stand by for further correspondence.
Your Old Pal,
LSP
