Day eleven: 10 May: London and thence home

St Pancras station looks like this from the air.
Showering in my 'hotel' (I do not use the word advisedly) was entertaining, as I had no towel, and in all the excitement of seeing Anna and Kieran I had forgotten to buy one. Okay, and I'm too mean to spend the money. Katy has since pointed out that I slunk through Richmond without visiting her, so now I am in trouble with all John's daughters. I will make it up on my next visit, by which time there will be more grandchildren to admire. But I digress. I was about to have a shower. The shower cubicle I selected was in a room with a toilet, rather than in a room with another shower, because I was keen to shower alone. I placed my toileteries on the toilet seat, there not being anywhere else suitable to put them, and ventured inside the shower, carefully stepping over some old soap left by someone else. I remained calm in the face of adversity, telling myself that a shower was a clean place, so it didn't matter if someone dirty had been in before me. It was slightly reassuring to think that at least no-one would have peed (shouldn't there be another 'e'?) in the shower, as the toilet was so alarmingly handy. I had to hold the shower head in my hand, as when it sat in its holster the water aimed directly at the wall in such a way I couldn't seem to get between the wall and the water. So I held it with one hand and with the other attempted to reach the soaps and shampoos on the toilet seat and generally make myself squeaky clean. And when it was all over I dried myself on my sarong. I have had better cleansing experiences than this.

I can almost hear Hong Kong Kate giggling as she reads this....

After the showering fiasco I packed up my bag and started to skid it down the several flights of stairs. Not surprisingly, a young man appeared from nowhere and offered to carry it down. I could tell by the state of the carpet other people had called him this way. Where was he when I checked in I wondered. Then he charged me a quid to leave my bag there for a few hours while I inspected London. I locked both my bags and tried to look menacing rather than ripped off, but I don't know if I managed it.

Last time I visited London Anna gave me a nice Oyster card to use, so the day before I had bought one of my own, as part of my new independent adult identity. The way I read the instructions it had a daily cap of about seven quid, so I paid ten quid for it, but then had to top it up with another ten. Turns out if you don't swipe it properly it charges you the maximum journey cost. I have never had a cheap card that cost me so much before. Finally I realised I could top it up with my credit card (as I was running out of cash), and stopped worrying and started living. So I stuck twenty quid on it, and there I was, all over London with my Oyster card, swiping in and out of St Pancras, in and out of Kensington and in and out of everywhere else for that matter. It was marvellous. I love Oyster cards and I visited all the undergrounds stations I could, riding up and down the escalators and generally having a good subterranean time.

The funny thing about London is that there is no agreement about which side of the road to walk on, because although the cars drive on the left, on the tube (I am au fait with the local slang now) they stand on the right. I couldn't work out why I should stand on the right, but did as I was told, but when I got above ground I was quite flummoxed because there were no instructions, and people were walking all over the place. I decided to walk down the middle.

I visited a church in St Pancras in case my ancestors' names were in the cemetery. One of these days I will get a surprise and actually find an ancestral name in a churchyard. My mother was a Browne, and so was her father and his father before him, who was born in Stepney, which is in Hackney (i.e. not St Pancras). But it was fascinating looking around the Eurostar station and seeing people arrive from France with their bagettes and cans of snails. It made me hungry, so I bought some wonderfully hot and strong coffee and some porridge at a Pret a Manger, which was one of the few places I could find a decent gluten-free breakfast.

Then I inspected Hammersmith where I used to live in Biscay Road, and where I heard Jethro Tull and Joan Armatrading play at the Odeon (not on the same day though) in the seventies. Let me just say now that the seventies were great, and if you are old you will agree, and if you are young you are probably listening to the seventies music, and still agree. Then I took the tube to St James Park and took the Birdcage walk to inspect Buckingham Palace, just after the morning guards had gone for an early lunch. There were all kinds of film crews and police around, so I guess they knew I was coming. Feeling a bit resentful, I swept my red cape around my shoulders, put my head down so they wouldn't recognise me, and wandered into the midst of it all. I avoided the horses by staying close to the fence. Turns out (as I discovered later) that Mr Brown (not my relative) had popped in to see the Queen and tell her he was leaving Downing Street because no-one had voted for him (sour grapes I guess), and Mr Cameron, just 40 minutes later, was on her doorstep offering to take over the reins of the country. Pshaw. If the British used MMP instead of FPP they might have had a government that had actually represented what the people wanted. As it is, they now have a well hung parliament, which on reflection is not such a bad thing for the British, and I'm sure it hasn't happened before.

All the excitement was making me tired, so I walked to Hyde Park corner to see Apsley House, which didn't really grab me (luckily), and then wandered around Park Lane and up towards the National Art Gallery near Trafalgar Square. Actually I can't remember exactly where I went, but I was getting pretty knackered, and my pedometer was showing about 30,000 steps, but I do recall going past where I had my first ever coffee and cake after a movie, somewhere near Park Lane, and noted that it was now a Starbucks. Eventually I staggered into the art gallery and up to Seurat's Bathers, but there were too many people with the same idea for me to enjoy myself. I took in a couple of old time favourites such as Picasso's Child with a Dove but I was just too tired. All that rice risotto at Horsley Park had left me in a protein deficit state and now I couldn't even walk around London. So I took a tube back to the hostel, got my bags, and went to Heathrow to unwind. I had a plane to catch and movies to watch.

After several hours of writing postcards, drinking tea, and recharging everything that could be recharged, I headed to the Emirates departure lounge to wait for my flight.

Here is how I knew I was nearly home: there was a guy strumming his guitar in the departure lounge of the flight to Sydney, women without make-up, and and ordinary looking people with faces like relatives heading home. I was very happy to be going with them.

Day ten: 9 May: Horsley Park to London

I had spent at least three hours on the internet looking for a nice cheap B&B in London and eventually decided it was a waste of my precious time, so put a deposit on a place with wifi in Bayswater. The wifi was quite an issue, as heaps of places didn’t have it, and some had it for a ridiculous add on price, while others had never even heard of it. Anyway, I consoled myself, Bayswater is a nice area, so it would be worth paying $100 for. Ha bloody ha.

Francoise directed me to what seemed like a very nice habitation, but on arrival I was told my room had been sold, and I would have to go to their sister place along the road. It seems the three hours on the internet was not well spent after all. Fair enough I said, but how was it that I could book a room with a deposit and not get one? Then I remembered my days as a hotel manager, and knowing the answer, decided not to push it. The sister place was such a close relative that I was asked to pay straight away, but in cash. That really irritated me, as I had fifty quid left for my last day and was planning to spend it wisely on visits to castles and lots of wine. Alas, I was forced to spend it on a lousy hostel, which is what my nice habitation turned out to be. Françoise and I walked to the sister hostel, then up three steep flights of stairs to my room, which turned out to be so far away from reception that wifi couldn’t get to it. In fact it was so high up I got vertigo just looking out the window. However, it had a bed and a basin, a mouldy patch in the corner of the room, and no soap or towel. Here's a review I found of it - it's pretty accurate. I found other reviews that were far worse but I don't want to depress you.

The West Two offers basic accommodation and the furnishings are old and tired. It is poorly maintained, facilities are poor and the atmosphere is depressing.

I sat down and wondered why I hadn’t gone to stay with my lovely cousins in Richmond and then remembered that I had decided to be an independent adult now, this being my third visit to London in three years, and it was probably time I tackled the place in an unsheltered way, on my own, paying for meals and beds and stuff and learning how to get around without advice (except from Francoise). But when I thought about it, I realised none of these features was offered as a virtue by either Socrates or Plato, so perhaps I could lean on rellies after all - just a little.

So I sent them a message to say I was in town, and if they had nothing better to do, I would visit them and return Kieran’s book, The Spiritual Tourist, a wonderful dissertation on various spiritual persons and their astounding feats and personal habits. Then I went and looked for the shoe shop in Kensington High Street where I bought some lovely black boots when I was 22 and lived here, but which finally fell apart at the Hamilton field days a few years back (the boots that is, though I was somewhat under the weather as well). Amazingly it was still there, but selling Mr Clark’s shoes. I also found a marvellous good food shop of several storeys, and was caught photographing the cheese room – apparently the market is so good the owners don’t want anyone to find out about it, and don’t let us take photos. So I can't show it to you. I promised not to. While strolling around Kensington I suddenly remembered my text to Anna, opened my phone, and lo there was a response from her saying to hurry around and say hello. So I scampered back to the B&B to get the book and asked Francoise to take me to Richmond, which she did. I think she likes Richmond.

It was wonderful to see them again, though I only saw two year old Bella very briefly, it being her bed time. However, I did get a chance to catch up with Jeanette, the mother of my cousin’s daughter, and we had a bit of a chat on Skype. It did seem odd that I had to travel to London to talk to her, as we both live in Auckland. She doesn’t see Anna and Kieran and Bella as much as she would like to, and even asked Anna to show her the new bump, which will in due course hatch as another grandchild. Anna and Kieran are very entertaining and welcoming. Kieran cooked up lashings of protein for me, which was a huge relief, as the chefs at Horsley Park thought rice risotto was an adequate evening meal, which I disagreed with, but couldn’t seem to do much about.

By the time I had quaffed a few glasses of wine (Kieran had to go for more supplies), talked to Jeanette, gossiped, mused and attempted to interpret various aspects of life with Anna and Kieran, I realised it was my bedtime, and I had to go 'home'. Kieran wanted to send me in a taxi, but I was brave and took the bus and underground, and in due course Francoise and I found ourselves back at the B&B. I had been clever of course, and asked Francoise to make a note of the location, so we had no trouble finding it again. I have my moments.

I quite like London. I lived there for 18 months in my youth, and was looking forward to seeing other places I would recognise, such as Hammersmith station, St Martin in the Fields (I was in the choir), Charing Cross Station, a number of pubs, and the National Gallery. So even though my ‘hotel’ was cheap and nasty, I was a happy camper and fell once again into a deep and meaningful sleep.

Tomorrow: St Pancras, Park Lane and the gallery, all on ten quid

9th May: Lancaster to Edinburgh to Forres

I got up early and said goodbye to Edith, Mac and Lindsay. Edith suggested I didn't leave it another 27 years before I visited them again. I was sad to say goodbye and decided I would try to visit every couple of years. I took a taxi to the station to catch the early morning train to Edinburgh. I was very nervous about this journey as there were two options, neither of which I fancied. One was to take buses most of the way, which meant restricted movement and a slower journey, and the other option meant changing trains in Glasgow, which included a run (or fast walk) between Queen Street and Central Station. British Rail loves to dig up the railway lines and has been working on the Glasgow line for a year or two apparently. I suspect they are actually trying to build another wall between Scotland and England and are using the railway excuse as a cover for their subterfuge. Anyway, I studied the map for the Glasgow walk several times, but was not confident I could do it in the 30 minutes allowed for it, as I knew deep down I would get lost. I decided to use the bus instead. Well, a bus disguised as a train – you pay for a train and get a bus, which departs and arrives at the railway station, travels according to the train timetable and basically behaves like a train, but it’s a bus. That’s one part I couldn’t figure out. Trains go really fast in England (the gauge is wider there) and I couldn’t see how the bus could go at the same pace unless it went along the railway line. I wasn’t going to put up with that because of the safety risks, so I had to consider the whole thing very carefully. I decided on the bus, with the proviso that I would change to the train if the bus drove along the railway line. Well it didn’t, and I ended up stuck between a very chatty lady and a loud snorer. I will never complain about Rodney’s snoring again. The lady prattled about all kinds of things to do with her life, her family, and her aspirations, and I politely grunted now and then so as to be courteous while at the same time cleverly discouraging. When we finished the journey, she thanked me for our pleasant talk, which I though a little odd, as I had not said more than half a dozen words. However, I guess they must have been pleasant ones.

The bus ejected me at Edinburgh station, which must have been a great relief to the driver, as he had got lost and had to ask if anyone knew Edinburgh. Fortunately someone did. The station was incredibly busy and I clutched my handbag and cases territorially in case someone tried to take them from me. I sent a text to my friend Betsy to tell her I had arrived, then headed off to ‘Upper Crust’ to buy a baguette. I don’t remember seeing baguettes in England or Scotland before, so I suspect they came in the last French invasion, and not William’s one. They are very good.

Betsy rescued me from the station and drove me to Forres where she and her husband Sven live. Although I knew them both, I had not visited their home before, and was pleased to have the chance to journey through Scotland in pleasant company. We talked all the way about all kinds of things – women have a lot of things to talk about. I don’t think she’s a Gemini but she sure can talk, and so can I. It was great. I love Scotland – it looks a bit like the Mackenzie country in places, so it must be okay. We passed through old haunts from my skiing days: Newtonmore, Kingussie, Pitlochry, and various other rather Scottish sounding villages. The stone buildings are beautiful in those parts, so I took a couple of photos. I was pleased to be back in Scotland, even though I’m not a Scot, and my ancestors aren’t Scots. I’m an English-Irish blend with Huguenot on the Gillett side.

Betsy showed me around the working area when we arrived, including the beautiful house they had restored from what appeared tohave been a few crumbling stones. It's just amazing what a few good masons can do. They were living happily in their caravans and huts, and I must say, I enjoyed the minimalist life-style dictated by cramped living. Sven kindly gave me his cabin to sleep in, which had some wonderful books and musical instruments in it, along with the best internet connection I had had for a few days. I stayed up half the night catching up on my work emails. Anyway, it was still light until around 10.15 and the sunset was very clear and pinkish. I was very pleased with Scotland. The air was good.

1st May, London

The trip in the plane was fairly uneventful except that for some unknown reason I was not given a plane with individual entertainment possibilities between Thailand and England, so I became bored and contemplated making trouble by getting drunk or pretending to be claustrophobic. That certainly would have ensured they put me on the right plane next time but I remembered I was representing my employer and my country (can’t remember either of their names for the moment) so I behaved myself. I am sure my mother would have preferred this choice as well as the airline.

I was surprised to be able to walk directly out of the terminal. I had heard about terminal 5 and was wondering if my bag would be sent to Italy (apparently quite a few bags got sent to Italy to resolve where they should go, the English not being very good at those kind of conundrums ) or even if I would be mistaken for a bag (the system being computer operated, and not necessarily able to discriminate between old women and bags) and scooped up. However, none of this happened. I collected my bags, ticked the ‘no, I don’t have anything I shouldn’t have’ boxes, and walked straight out, pulling my 20kg suitcase and 10kg hand baggage behind me.

I mounted a train to Kew Gardens and after only three unnecessary changes, I was there. It is a little challenging negotiating around a system that involves constant changes of train and station, complicated of course by stairs up and down from the platforms, which resulted in a sort of alarming thumping sound as my bag banged down the stairs behind me. People offered to help me but as I had not been introduced, I politely declined. My mother advised me not to talk to strangers, not to let anyone touch my bags, and always to keep my handbag done up when in a strange city. It would have been easier if I had followed my cousin’s directions and changed at the correct stops, but I took a short-cut that turned out to be a long cut. However, it was a pleasant enough journey.

My cousin’s daughter, Anna, had a cuppa ready for me when I arrived after the 10 minute walk from Kew station. I had my trusty PDA with directions: walk out of the station and continue walking for 10 minutes until you reach number 43. Anna is a ballet dancer (Royal Ballet) turned clinical psychologist and is a PhD sort of doctor. I find it confusing that a psychologist is a doctor that can’t fix broken legs but she is quite relaxed about it. She is very good at analysing people and providing explanations for possible confusions in their thinking, so she is very entertaining and informative, in a speculative sort of way. I suspect she has me figured out but I tried to look like a social scientist with a sort of absent minded demeanour. It wasn’t difficult.

After several cups of tea and information exchanges, we went to Richmond village to meet up with her sister Katy, and therefore the other daughter of my cousin, and went out for a pub lunch and on to the Tate Gallery. Richmond and Kew had me thinking England was very nice thank-you, tidy and clean, plenty of trees, no graffiti, and pleasant shops. More on that later. There’s a new Tate since I was last in London but Anna and Katy must go there regularly as they knew their way around and were familiar with many of the paintings. I liked a Kandinsky best – it looked like dancing figures – very energetic. However, I recognise that anything Kandinsky does is a mere accident of the brush, and my view of what he did is in my imagination. But it was good. We had more cups of tea and some cake. We ate Thai that night, with the spouses Kieran and Sam, and a couple of friends, maybe a Lisa and another Sam. I mentioned to the waitress that I had been in Thailand that morning but she was unimpressed. I guess it happens all the time. I mused to Sam2 that as my plane came into London and I looked at the rows of terraced houses, the grey, and the dirty Thames, and I thought about the English food, the terrible weather, and the idiosyncracies of the language, that it was a marvel that England, a small island off the coast of Europe, had attracted so much interest and so many invaders over the years. He explained that English men were the main drawcard, thereby explaining the hordes of tourists visting London every day.

Katy and Sam talked about their forthcoming trip to Paris for the weekend. Must be good living so close to Paris and not having to take a boat to get there.