Clubbing

 

So what do you do in central London? Many things, but I like to go clubbing, this time 'round the good old National Liberal Club, No. 1 Whitehall. So, pull on a blazer, straighten your tie, wrestle with annoying but cool miniature shotgun shell cufflinks, give those loafers a brush and head off, it's not far.

Pass through Russell Square and admire the British Museum without going in, then take a left on Museum Street and go south, myriad memories. Then, as if by instinct, perhaps it is, muscle memory, you find yourself on the Strand.

Cut down Villiers Street and rushing masses of people getting off work. They're heading for home via Charing Cross, going to a pub or some kind of restaurant or all three, but you're going to the club. That in mind, take a right on the Embankment and stroll far from the madding crowd to Gladstone's 1882 setup overlooking the Thames and Embankment Gardens.

Walk through that storied portico and there you are. "Good evening," says someone at the door and you offer a sunny hello as you head to the bar. And there it is and there they are, the Nat Libs, having fun in a stunningly beautiful Victorian interior, some say the best in London, right there in the heart of the city.

The bar's congenial, the Terrace is great and the dining room's lovely. The Smoking Room's perfect too, except for the annoying fact that you're not allowed to smoke in it, but you can smoke on the Terrace, so all's not lost.

After a few drinks at the bar, head across the room for dinner. It's not bad and the club's proud of their chef, though I thought it a bit fixy. More trad club staples, please, and less Frenchifying. Still, a minor complaint and the company was good. A retired Colonel, a shooting salesman, several entertaining people from Ireland, think Parnell, and a retired civil servant with an interest in late antiquity. Far out, we talked Theodoric, Belisarius, #2A, Ireland and Army. Nice.

Eclectic and you can imagine the conversation at the table, also imagine that I was on my very best behavior. Well, it's hard not to be when you're sitting under life sized portraits of Gladstone. Dinner over, retire to the bar, chat with friends and then head home to Mecklenbugh Square, a good time had by all.

What a lot of fun and yet again haunted by ghosts and memories. Of my Father, who was a member, Gladstone himself and the Empire on which the sun never set. Today, this club's mostly for socializing and finding a place to relax in the midst of the rush of the city, but it was once a political powerhouse. And that's just it, was once.

Go there if you can, it has great reciprocal rights.

By Gladstone's Axe,

LSP

Wolf Interlude

 

Make of this what you will,

LSP

Back to London

 

It wasn't raining, weirdly, as I stood on the the platform to catch the 9.29 am train from Aberystwyth to Birmingham International and thence to London Euston. And that was fine as was the journey itself, long and slow through the Welsh countryside and then fast into town. It'd been years since I rode the rails, so the trip was an adventure in itself, not too pricey either but be sure to book tickets in advance.

Then there you are, at Euston station. Stride out of that Avanti West carriage like a pro and walk with urgency through the hideously (1970s?) redeveloped station. Pause to look west towards Regent's Park and recollect the many times you've walked along this very same road, many years ago.

Nostalgic reverie over, cross the road and nav a few blocks east to Marchmont street, thanking Progress that your suitcase has wheels. Go through the Brunswick Centre, marveling at its apparent prosperity since the last time you were there, in the '90s?, all the while mourning the disappearance of its all day breakfast cafe. These, by the way, are pretty much gone in London, replaced by annoying coffee shops selling ludicrous pastries and lukewarm "Americano."

Whatever, its a short walk east to Guilford St, past Corams Fields and Lamb's Conduit St., and there you are, in Mecklenburgh Square at the Goodenough hotel, mission accomplished. Check in and behold your just as advertised rooms, beautiful and a far cry from the scourge of corporate hotelistry.

So well done, Goodenough, for providing a relaxing place to stay in a Georgian house in Bloomsbury, what a perfect setup. Next step? Amble over to Lamb's Conduit St. and the People's Supermarket, it's still there, remarkably, for provisions and then go back for tea and a quick scan of Private Eye before going out to meet an old friend at the Lamb, right 'round the corner.

Several pints later, fall back to base for claret, space rock and conversation. Great fun, and word to the wise, try not to spill red wine on the tastefully light carpets of your Regency living room as you listen to Golden Void. If you do, shaving foam is your friend; I learned that in the Army, curiously, makes you wonder what's in it.

That aside, it was great to be back in my favorite part of London, a short walk to most everything central and, for me, filled with memories. But more on that later, in the meanwhile check out LL's incisive thoughts on Biblical exegesis and Genesis in particular.

Your Buddy,

LSP

Aberystwyth

 

Brother LSP with local farming folk

There you are on the Welsh/English border, on the very Marches themselves. So what do you do? Head for Wales like a bat out of hell in your brother's BMW station wagon while D peels off in the faithful Tigra for Bury St. Edmunds.

Off we roared down the country lanes of bucolic Wales, and it is bucolic, and two laned, hard to go fast down those little roads though we did our best. First stop? A bizarrely intact Jacobean country house. The owners bought it in the '70s, restored the place to original spec, no electricity, and live in a farmhouse on the grounds. Remarkable.

Then on to Llanddewi Brefi and its New Inn. We weren't greeted by several countrymen speaking Welsh at the bar but perhaps they were wary. Back in the '70's this pub and its rain washed village were home to an LSD factory which produced an estimated 60% of the world's psychedelic favorite. That's right, 60%.

Lo and behold, the Law zeroed in and closed down the millionaire hippies in the UK's biggest ever drug bust, Operation Julie. No more White Lightning at the New Inn today, though there is a musical. Several pints later we were on our way to Aber.

zoom in, how is this even here?!?

What a good little town. Yes, Pier Pressure's been hideously renovated, so don't go there, but there's plenty of places to relax in the chill Welsh wind as you look across the sea to Ireland and its raiders. When that becomes exhausting, fall back on family for delicious chicken enchiladas or go for a negroni, or both.

Speaking of which, we were strolling through the darkened streets of this seaside resort when a blood covered tackhead got in front of my brother and started shouting. We moved through, like a Panzergruppe, then the tackhead circled 'round and thumped my brother on the back.

Brother LSP turned around, he's large, and advanced aggressively to contact. I stood on the wings in reserve, "Hey, you gonna go him?" But it wasn't necessary, tackhead sensibly ran off into the night only to be picked up by the cops in one of their downtown vans.

I texted a friend, "We were in a fight, in Aber." And he replied, "Welcome to Wales." But it was just a minor skirmish and all was well. As is the town itself, lots of shops, restaurants and pubs, a beautiful seafront and the general atmos of a pre-internet town, old skool. 

Go there if you can, just don't go to Pier Pressure, it's rubbish and ruined.

Your Pal,

LSP

Musical Interlude

 

There you go. How 'bout that.

LSP

Ludlow

 

Shrewsbury's great and part of its greatness lies in its proximity to Ludlow, a mere 40 minutes drive away. So off we drove down the winding roads of Shropshire to what's, to my mind, one of the best market towns in England. Betjeman described it as "probably the loveliest town in England" and he had a point.

typical Ludlow street scene

With the walled town dating back to the late 11th century, Ludlow has an unconscionable number of late medieval, Tudor and Jacobean buildings, to say nothing of a castle and a remarkable church, St. Laurence, which somehow escaped much of the vandalism of the Reformation. 

Ignore useless Knave Altar, look up at Angels and note late medieval rood screen sans rood

Beautiful, but don't think for a second that the place is some kind of half-timbered tourist trap. No, it's a working market town. Viz. Ludlow, population 10,266, has 3 butchers, 3 bakers, 2 cheese shops, a fishmonger and several green grocers, to say nothing of the market itself. So here's what you do.

Stroll from your pal's house, people have lived on the site since at least the 12th century, through the last remaining gate to the town, past elegant Georgian facade hiding medieval interior town houses and into the heart of the place. And there you are, what next?

what?!? a butcher! note game birds

Go to a butcher and get the best pork pies you've ever had, buy some delicious cheese, then head to one of the bakers for the kind of bread you'll be hard pressed to find anywhere in the States. Being on a mission, you pick up some veg from an actual green grocer. Huh, they still exist, and stare in wonder at a real live fishmonger. When was the last time you saw one of those?

some kind of pub

Exhausted by the wonder of it all, patrol through an ancient alley to one of many pubs and have a pint, hey, you've earned it, and then fall back to your pal's castle for lunch. Delicious cheese, bread and pork pies that melt in your mouth. Result.

In the evening you have a choice, stay at home or make the arduous five minute walk into town for a night at the pub, we chose the latter and a good, good time was had by all. I tell you, what a beautiful town, it even has a salmon stream and I'd like to get on those fish one day. Who knows, maybe next year.

excuse me?

In the meanwhile, enormous thanks to S&K for such great hospitality, come to LSPland and I'll reciprocate.

Your Traveling Friend,

LSP

Shrewsbury

 

I know you'll laugh but I'd never been to Shrewsbury, and last week that all changed as we drove off the stormy highlands of the Scots/English DMZ into lush, verdant, pastoral Shropshire. Well done faithful Tigra for making it so far, and well done D for driving.

And there it was, Shrewsbury. Turn right over the river into the half-timbered heart of the town and nav through the narrow cobbled streets to the Prince Rupert hotel, GPS is your friend. Then check in, drink a comp glass of sherry, thanks, Prince Rupert, and try and find your room.

This wasn't easy, on account of the hotel being a maze of corridors in a series of interconnected houses, but it was worth the search because the room was pleasant, overlooking ancient awesomeness. You could even open the window, a rarity in today's hermetically sealed hotel rooms.

That night, an old friend came in from Ludlow and we set off in search of adventure, finding it in an unreconstructed 1980s pub, half-timbered of course, complete with a juke box and "we only take cash," another rarity in disturbingly cashless Britain.

The next day we met with an old friend I hadn't seen in several decades, and he was on fine form, what a blessing to catch up with people you haven't seen in many, many years and even more so to find them just as fun as they ever were, perhaps more so. Great fun, and I introduced GJ to Negronis, such a good drink, at a pub on the river; big hit.

Later that evening, I found myself at the bar of the pleasantly old fashioned hotel and fell into conversation with a retired policeman who felt the country had "gone to the dogs." Perhaps he had a point, but Shrewsbury seems to have escaped the wrecking ball of modernity. 

Close run thing too, apparently some commission told the town's elders that if they persisted in destroying historic buildings they'd lose their heritage status. So they stopped. Good.

random street scene

So visit Shrewsbury, it's gorgeous, and stay at the Prince Rupert, a pleasantly old school hotel. Go too to the Hopping Friar pub where beer's three bucks (parityish) a pint. Next stop? The amazing, remarkable, can't speak too highly of it Ludlow.

Your Touring Pal,

LSP

Edinburgh

  

York's great, no doubt about it, but D and I were on a mission to get to the Athens of the North via Vauxhall Tigra. Would the four wheeled runabout make it up the hills of the scenic route? It did, mercifully, and we stopped at Bremenium, a Roman fort north of Hadrian's Wall. Not much remains today but you can see traces of its walls and triple ditch. It once held a significant force of 1000 men.

Then on to Edinburgh to meet an old friend who, among other things, is President of the fabled Ghost Club. He gave us a great tour of the city, New Town, the Royal Mile and much, much more. Excellent, what a great place until... 

You get to the Scottish Parliament building, which is hideous and cost 400M GBP. They say architecture reflects the soul or spirit of the people who build it; northern parliamentarians, take note.

That aside, I was struck by the place, street after street of Georgian houses in New Town and then the old medieval city by the castle. Beautiful now but it must have been a noisome place in the days before plumbing made its way into the tall tenements and courts, gardyloo.

So go to Edinburgh if you can and enjoy the architecture, history, pubs, restaurants, museums and galleries of the city. It was great to be back after nearly 30 years and great to meet up with our ghostly friend, what a good man.

Was haggis involved? Yes. Were there pipers? Everywhere. Did I wear a kilt? No, I did not. Were there ghosts? Possibly at the Arthur Conan Doyle Center. Next stop? Back south to Shrewsbury, Ludlow and Aberystwyth.

Cheers,

LSP

Road Trip #1

 

Yes, London is awesome and I love its imperial greatness, the Embankment, Whitehall, Jermyn Street, Harvie & Hudson, the sheer greatness of the place. Tip of the top hat to our Victorian forebears and their Regency parents, there were giants in those days.

That said, movement is a sign of life, so we climbed into the motor, Vauxhall Tigra(!) and drove north from Aldgate East, to Edinburgh, via York. Sure, it's not so far but UK roads are slow so we broke up the journey. York's great, all these little shops in medieval buildings and the Minster itself.

We didn't go into the Minster but did go into a pub for a hearty Yorkshire meal of roast beef and all the rest, delicious. A friendly prof from the university joined in, he specializes in African archeology, what a good guy.

So that was fun, and so was the hotel. Just a short walk from the gates of the old city and the fleshpots of the Shambles. The place was hosting a wedding reception as we pulled in, a lovely young bride, her groom and guests, beautiful.

The next day? On to Edinburgh, the Athens of the North.

Cheers,

LSP

Some London Churches

 

London isn't just about pubs, whether in Tower Hill, Soho, Marleybone, Fleet Street or anywhere else, it's also about churches, and I took the time to visit a few. Corpus Christi Maiden Lane, just off Covent Garden, stood out. A beautiful catholic church, full of the beauty and sense of holiness.

As soon as you enter this hidden away gem of a church you're struck by the hushed reverence of the place, a haven from the secular rush outside. You'll note Corpus Christi doesn't have a knave altar. I lit a candle and prayed.

Corpus Christi

St. Mary le Strand is Church of England and stands on the Strand opposite King's College, it's an architectural masterpiece designed by James Gibbs, replacing an earlier church which was demolished in 1549 to make way for Somerset House. The new St. Mary's was consecrated in 1724 and, curiously, I'd never been inside, despite walking by it daily while at King's. What was it like?

St. Mary le Strand

Stately and perhaps intimate English Baroque, a very medium sized congregation would feel at home in the nave. Was there a sense of the numinous, the holy within? Not compared to Corpus Christi and perhaps that was because of the Vicar holding some kind of planning meeting, under the pulpit. There they were, planning away. Still, a beautiful church and a haven from the rush of the Strand.

St. Bride's

Walk a few minutes east to Fleet Street Street and St. Bride's, the journalist's church. I'd never been there before, oddly, and was somehow moved by the calmness of the place, its sense of reverence, and lit a candle. After visiting the church you can visit a pub, the Old Bell, built by Christopher Wren and pleasantly unspoiled.

St. Anselm & St. Cecilia's

Heading back west, walk north up the Kingsway to St. Anselm and St. Cecilia's, a Roman Catholic church and yet another shelter from the storm of people rushing, in this case, into the vastly expanded maw of LSE (London School of Economics). It's an austere, simple church and I prefer Corpus Christi, still, Christ is most definitely present

Then return to your set up on the Strand via Lincoln's Inn, get ready to meet old friends and wonder at the sheer number of churches in this small section of the city, the above's just a snapshot. 

They weren't built from a lack of faith, may that return again.

God bless,

LSP