And So To Home

 

All good things, bar heaven, come to an end and so did this exeat to London and the UK. A final trip to the all day breakfast on Grays Inn Rd, thanks PA, a foray to St. Albans, Holborn, and a few pints at the Lamb and the Rugby followed by a plate of carbonara at Ciao Bella on Lamb's Conduit Street. So tasty.

Then back to LHR, Terminal Three, a total nightmare, and onto a sardine can masquerading as an international flight. I tell you, getting the bus from Victoria to Chepstow in the 1980s was more dignified and comfortable, which isn't saying much.

some rando curry house onna Strand

10 hours later you're back home in the Texas Free State, and that felt good. There's an expansiveness and freedom to Texas which England just doesn't have. That said, it was heart-wrenching to leave the Old Country. Partly because it's my homeland, especially London, and also because of its great beauty and interest. Everywhere you look there's something to stay the eye.

Texas? Yes, the same, but here everything's new, right down to the newly pioneered land of the place, to say nothing of noxious strip malls and the appalling DFW metrosprawl we call a city. Still, good to be home in the free atmos of the Lone Star State. There's air to breathe.

Look, my olde flatte!

So what's the scoop, the story on the UK? Well, their government's imploding, coffee shops are ludicrously abounding, the Pound is hideously weakening, cigarettes are stupidly pricey as is petrol. Red Bull is cheap, wine is cheap too, but you can't afford to get a house unless you're stupid rich, and... everyone believes in the vaccines, big time.

"Oh, better run off and get my booster," says one quondam anarchist and off xe goes to burn incense on the Altar of Big Pharma Pfizer. Climate Change too; everyone's convinced the Ice Caps are gonna melt and flood Martha's Vineyard in a few years. Quelle serious disaster, go tell the Obamas.

Look, a meat market the asset strippers are about to shut down

So, globalist agitprop looms large over the Sceptred Isle though they'd call it common sense. Mask up, vax up and toe the NWO line of your elite overlords. That aside, all's normal except for all these ridiculous coffee shops, beer at 4.50 a pint++ and hordes of electric bicycles and scooters in London. Oh, and it's getting hard to pay with cash.

Cash, gentle readers, is being phased out in England. What could possibly go wrong.

Your Expat Pal,

LSP

London Churches

 

Clubbing's great, no doubt about it, but let's not forget London's churches. That in mind, I walked out of Mecklenburgh Square, took a left on Guilford St., right on Gray's Inn Rd where there's still an all day breakfast shop, miraculously, then crossed over Clerkenwell Rd. and took a right on Leather Lane. Objective? St. Ethelreda's, Ely Place, former London chapel of the medieval bishops of Ely.

You can get to this gem of a church via Bleeding Heart Yard, but first you have to navigate Leather Lane, which seems to have become an open air food zone, all kinds of stalls offering sizzling meat on sticks and more besides. It smelled delicious and the smoke of charcoal grilled scoff hung over the street and its hordes of hungry punters. No kidding, the standing room only crowd was a solid six deep around those mobile food emporia.

But I wasn't in it for the food, I was heading for St. Eth's. So, jink behind the food wagons and their crowds and cut left off Leather Lane to go down Greville St., admiring its diamond and jewelry shops. Not dissimilar to parts of NYC, when you think on it, though on a lesser scale. Diamonds and emeralds aside, turn right into Bleeding Heart Yard, you're nearly there.

It's as you remember it, a cobbled yard with a wine bar/bistro setup at one end. Look at that and wonder why you've never been inside, then look at the menu and the cost of lunch. Curiosity satisfied, walk to the side of the yard opposite the pricey restaurant and there's a cobbled alley, leading to Ely Place and the church. Years ago, I helped a stone mason relay the cobbles in this alley, here it is:

Hard work, I tell you, those 18th century(?) maybe older cobbles are a beast. Big, heavy and irregular, think twice before you take that job on and then, stone masonry reverie over, walk up to the church through a passageway adjacent to the crypt where a business lunch is in full flight, up a flight of stone stairs and  into the church itself.

Calmed by the silence and reverence of the place, venerate the Sacrament and kneel for a time in humble adoration as you give thanks for the many times you've worshiped God in this church and found union with the sacrifice of Christ in the sacrifice of the Mass. No small thing and, back in the '90s, maybe now, in Latin with a 4 part choir which lifted the soul to heaven.

It's hard not to linger but time marches on and with it people to meet who you haven't seen in years. So you leave, uplifted in mind, body and spirit. What a good church, and so good to see it again after a space of some twenty plus years! Go there if you get the chance, well worth searching out and the journey there's fun too, Clerkenwell Rd, Leather Lane, Hatton Gardens and Bleeding Heart Yard itself.

Oh, after making your devotions in the church you can head over to the Mitre pub for a pint. It's ancient but last time I looked corporate makeover ruined. I didn't go in, maybe next time.

God bless you all,

LSP

Ce Soir Danser

 

Nous sommes ici par la volonté du peuple et nous n’en sortirons que par la force des baïonnettes

Triannon,

LSP

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