Friday
Things went wrong from the start, when we were waiting for the bus to take us to Pape Station.
Dark clouds overhead. A woman gasped at something she was reading on her phone. "There's hail in Scarborough!"
It started raining hard while we were on the bus. Sheets of rain were coming down at Danforth. I wondered what it would be like at Dundas West Station, but I said Danforth West Station, which caused confusion.
And yes at Dundas West Station, I expected to see a sign saying: UP EXPRESS THIS WAY, but there was no such sign. I thought we were on Bloor, so I started going west. But, ya know, I hadn't been in that there area in many years. I don't know what happened, but Mary wanted to know if I was right, and I had to admit I wasn't sure. She went inside to ask one of the TTC guys; meanwhile, I checked out a map on a post outside the station, to find that yes, ya know, I was going in the wrong direction, since we weren't on Bloor.
I'd bought UP tickets online which turned out to be useless: -$11.50.
Onto airplane okay.
Saturday
I've no complaints about the plane, save that water was spilled on me twice.
Thinking there was no real difference between the two London airports, I'd figured Gatwick was as good as Heathrow.
We wound up fifty miles from Stepney Green.
Fine, I figured. We can take the train into London.
Following the signs, we got to the station.
National Rail strike. No train to London.
The fine young striker told us we had three options: a coach, regional buses, or a taxi.
Coaches were impossible. Booked all up.
Cab were too much money. Something like 180.
So we got on a local bus, cramming our luggage wherever along with all the other plebs, to get ourselves to Redhill. Red'll.
Another bus took us to Coulston, though they didn't take cash and our various money cards wouldn't work. Kindlily, the driver let us ride for free.
At Coulston, we had a restaurant lunch. Unfortunately, for us at least, soccer was being viewed. Whaoh! Yars! Fook me!
Greater London transit was somewhere in Coulston. We found it, had to buy 'Oyster' cards, but we got on our way. Finally: Stepney Green.
I'll stop miserabiling now, though I could go on.
Sunday
Sunday started out well. (How could a Sunday, or any other day, not start out well? Inevitably, it's downhill from there, boyo.) We had nothing to complain of for quite some time. We found a canal, up which once colliers tugged colliers (former=person, latter=barge). People strolled and cycled this way and that, up and down, down and up. A good mood enjoyed by all: for it was Sunday, and the weather was warm.
We hit some education, though, in a pub. We were still guessing how to get served in Britain. (I didn't mention it in 'Saturday' but we got quite cross about service in Coulson!) We finally learnt our lesson, though of course we made fools of ourselves again, and we vowed never to fool again. (By 'we' in this paragraph, read: 'I'.)
We ended up at the Tower of London, and the Tower Bridge. (In 1408, as coincidentally I later read in 1H4, Henry Percy, then Earl of Northumberland, had his dead head hung from the latter. Bad Earl!) We were too late for a tour. In any case, we were tired. We'd been walking five hours. We went back to Stepney Green, for chicken breasts and asparagus.
Monday
St. Paul's Cathedral is at St. Paul's subway station. No-one recalls which came first.
We find it hard to go in for tours of everything. We're happy to stay outside of it all, though we know we're missing a lot. We stay outside, aloof, able to go where we want to go. And so, we went along to Fleet Street, to find it doesn't really exist anymore.
Something must still exist, we guessed. We've heard of places in London that had famous names. "Oh, look where we are, that's Nelson's Pillar. Oh, that clock: it must be Big Ben." Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, and Bloomsbury Street.
In the midst of it, we found Westminster Cathedral: a Catholic cathedral that had not burned down by the prots or H8. For the first time in my life I lit a candle for someone, and I think I did it wrong. Well, right or wrong, I did it.
We left, found the Oxfam used book shop, and bought a couple books. I doubt anyone can leave that charity without buying something.
All in all: it was very crowded most of the way, and we were part of the crowd.
Tuesday
We felt we'd done plenty here in jolly old London, so today we decided to take it a bit easier. Six hours of walking a day seemed pretty daft to us, indeed and blimey! We knew there was a significant park--Victoria Park--a mile or so away, so we headed in that direction, which was roughly north-east of Stepney Green.
In the park, one of us remarked that kids here are treated a lot more like responsible beings than they are in Toronto. They give plenty of lip, and the parents take it. (A couple yards down, a little boy called his mother a fookin idia, and she took it in her stride.) Still, the other one of us replied, that may be so, but I can't help but think that impregnating a British girl would be hard to do, considering how dirty they all are.
We think we're living kind of cheaply: we eat breakfast and dinner in the airbnb, only eating out for something light with beers. Plus we saved a lot getting here from Gatwick: all in all, just £5 apiece rather than whatever the train would have been. (Plus: we saw people, and Sussexland.)
Wednesday
This was an event day: a Special Event Day. We took a train to Canterbury to visit their cathedral.
(I'll never stop writing like I'm twelve years old.)
Off the train, we followed the crowd, having sighted the cathedral from afar. "It's in this direction," I figured, and it wasn't long before it was in another direction. For we had run into a kind of arcade of shops, a hundred shops selling almost anything, including an Oxfam bookshop at which we had to stop to buy a couple books. Finally we found the cathedral.
I didn't know that Edward, the Black Prince, was buried there, or commemorated there, or both. Also--the shrine of St. Becket isn't there any more, because, of course, H8 plundered it.
It's the centre of the Church of England. All sorts of Protestants were there. I didn't realize it was so important. It was like when we went to Niagara Falls, when I said: "I bet people from all over Southern Ontario come here."
This is a living diary, written the day after. I've forgotten about the earlier miseries. You know more about them than I do. In ten minutes, you've read five days.
Thursday
This was a day of some easiness. We went off to the British Library to see what they had, and it turned out they have a bunch of books. Millions, in fact. We went through their special exhibition and I must admit they had things that were in any event rare. It was free, so that was a good dollar not spent.
We've been in a habit of going out during the day and coming back to the apartment to cook. Strangely, we never have that meal before nine or ten at night. Somehow we get home later than usual, sometimes much later than usual, depending on how far afield we've gone.
In any case, we found a used bookshop at the University of London, a place called Skoob Books. It's a good place with lots to dig through, though I had to restrain myself, buying only one book: The Choirboys, by Joseph Wambaugh.
Tomorrow is a travelling day, by train, to Glasgow. I don't know much about the place except for the Alasdair Gray angle; I hope we can find some murals by him. I'm sure we'll find something. All I have to do is look stuff up.
Friday
Departure day, we left Stepney Green, 'tubed' to Euston Station, got on the train to Glasgow through the extreme stuffing of objects and people into coach car, and the train left London, up some western line, past factories and junkyards, past long streams running parallel to the train's track, where cows lay by the steamside—surprised I was that cows can and do take a load off at the sides of steams, which was something I'd never seen before--and then there we were in downtown Glasgow. A winding way got us to this apartment here, with its two fireplaces, its bay window on a corner, its kitchen, its couch, its bed, its washing machine.
Mary wanted to see the Kelvin area, the area of the Kelvin river, from which (so I discovered) the unit of measurement received its name, called something like Kelvinside the whole district. (I think I'm wrong about that.) After a nice meal at a nice place called FF we went back to the apartment.
Again, it's surprising how late it can get here. The sun goes down an hour later than in Toronto. That messes up your perspective on time. Up late; up early.
Saturday
We did a very normal vacationer thing today; something we thought of doing in London, but when I saw the stops the London one went to and realized we'd already seen them all, we chose not to; can you guess what the thing is? It starts with a b and ends with a t. Oh all right a bus tour.
We came across many things we wouldn't have known anything about, such as the history of the city, the tobacco trade, Glasgow's position as the best or almost the best in anything in Europe and the world, histories of bridges, and pedigrees of concert houses and stadia. It was everything we'd hoped it would be.
In the evening, a special event: the Royal Scottish National Orchestra performing, at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, Verdi's Requiem. I told Mary it was going to be loud, and it was. The place shook during the Dies Irae and its reprises. Big orchestra, choir of 140 or so, good seats, and it was nice to see the Glaswegians quiet and still. We bought some frozen pizzas afterwards and ate them at ten, which is the time the sun went down that June evening.
Sunday
Fewer things happen on Sundays. A nice time to take it a bit easy! This tourism crock gets to be a bit much. Sight to sight, event to event, station to station: it makes a day of rest appreciated. All we had in mind was to go to the area called Kelvinside, near the river Kelvin, from which (as I mentioned) the unit of measurement got its name, to the Art Gallery qua Museum called something Kelvin-ish.
It’s a fine little gallery, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s got plenty of nice paintings, with a good dose or emphasis on all things Scottish and Glaswegian. (Toronto museums don’t have anything like that, mainly because Toronto has no significant history.) They even had schools or groups of painters who worked together, often in Glasgow proper. Plus they had they own design styles. (Toronto lacks both of those.)
Still: I haven’t seen anything about Alasdair Grey, save for two copies of Lanark on display. And I never found much about Kelvin, either. These were things I sought, and neither did I find.
We didn’t go downtown. There’s nothing there but shops. It’s Kelvinside that’s the place to go to.
Monday
We went back over to the Kelvin area today: there's over there a bookstore called Voltaire and Rousseau, or perhaps it's Rousseau and Voltaire, I don't recall. However, the place was temporarily closed--we heard from the guy at the record shop beside it that the proprietor was sickly--so we went up to the University of Glasgow to see what was there.
Founded in 1541, said a sign. A gallery/museum was within, but it was closed, it being Monday and all. (That's when I realized I wouldn't learn much about Kelvin.) We walked around their quads, then we found a grassy spot on the south side; Mary took a little nap, and I read more Shakespeare.
We went back to the bookstore, and it was open, being staffed by a friend of the proprietor. We poked around; Mary found a guidebook to the holiday area (where we'd be going next day), and I found the complete short stories of Roald Dahl. I've never read anything by Dahl save his two most famous stories: Lamb to the Slaughter and The Man From the South, so I figured: Why not?
We then watched a couple episodes of 'Outer Range.' Garbage!
Tuesday
Yet another day of re-location! This time we had to get to Glasgow Central train station, to Wemyss Bay, and from there via ferry to the island of Bute; to a town on Bute, a town called ... Strathroy. (Is that right? Is that where I am right now? Let me check... Nope, it’s called Rothsay. Work on that one, you cunning linguists.)
The train and ferry didn’t take long; we found out place at 25 Bishop Street pretty quickly, and then we went out to find something to eat. This little town, once popular with Glaswegians on holidays, is now a shadow of that time, but it reminds me of other holiday places once popular but slidden into decrepitude. (I’m looking at you, Bala.) Regardless, the people hang on. It’s a large enough island to have significant lakes on it, and the ruins of a medieval castle three blocks away.
It’s insignificating to see common roof tiles older than your whole city. Walls from the 16th century. Vikings settled here, since it was a good place to attack anything from. Before that, inhabited, by--I don’t know--Druids or whatever. Fishing is plentiful. Swings and slides for kids.
Wednesday
Today was Rothesay Day. Mary went off to a Eucharist at an Scottish church while I sat on a park bench and read. We checked out the local museum--local museums are always far better than bigger museums, in my opinion—where we found out information going back to the Palaeolithic era, and the Viking era, and even the Victorian era! That was all certainly worth 10.
Not knowing quite what to do then, I got out a map and found out there was a loch within walking distance, so towards that we went. Mary was beguiled by an old graveyard, so we went into it. Then she noticed there was a gate at the bottom of it, and since the foot-path looked well-used, we went along it. We met another couple, and I asked them where the path led. To the lake, we were told, so we proceeded. After a lengthy road we got to a little anglers' pier, whereupon we crossed the loch by bridge and along an even rougher foot-path we made it back to where we started from.
Children playing baseball. Men without shirts. Cows and horses. Bottles of water. And then yet another bookshop.
Thursday
There's a manor house on the island of Bute, called Stuart House (I think). It's southwest of Rothesay, about ninety minutes by foot. However, there's a bus tour of the island! And it stops at Stuart House! So naturally we got on the bus at noon, for a roll around the island, and a two-hour hop-off at Stuart House.
You go north for a bit, then west. Little did we know that the island, aside from the little towns (of which Rothesay is the biggest), is devoted to farming. Ninety percent of the island is owned by a marquess.
The bus got to Stuart House—but it's closed on Thursdays and Fridays. We couldn't see it at all. Anyway, it was a worthwhile way to see the island, aside from hiking or biking. We're going back to Glasgow in the morning: firth liiiiiife!
(We also, in the morning, walked up a road called Serpentine Road. It twists and turns for quite a long way, tacking back and forth. There's holiday lodges at the top of it which are tempting. Something about Canada is at the top, I'll look it up: nope, no idea. Called Canada Hill. Don't know why.)
Friday
It all happened yesterday. ("Do not speak of a man's character before he's dead," said some sage.)
A leisurely morning. Said I: "When do you want to go to the ferry?"
We caught the one at noon. Mary talked to an interesting woman, while I was busy being blasted by firth breeze. (I don't like boats much.)
The train took us back to Glasgow, then we found the subway. Glasgow's subway is like a toy subway. I shouldn't insult Glaswegians. However, the platforms are three short cars.
The apartment was nice. I wish we'd stayed in it longer!
We went out to find something to eat, and we wound up in a place we'd been to some four or five days before. Then we went to the Rousseau and Voltaire again, to get Noël Coward, Ambrose Bierce, and Gilbert White.
In the apartment, we settled down on some couch to watch a ghost movie, a Yorkshire ghost movie, based on real events.
We had ice cream in the morning, on Bute. I wanted ice cream the day before, but to no avail. Have a cone a' Friday morning, at Cafe Zavaroni. Send me a good bill, and I'll pay.
Saturday
Some times it's hard to figure time. It's Sunday night, 10:30 here, and I'm in my man den, writing this ejaculation. Yesterday morning, at five-forty-five a.m., I was brushing my teeth in Glasgow.
Yesterday, because I was looking for the name of a place on Bute, I got the Google Maps streetview of Rothesay. I see their view pictures. I see the square. Look: I took a dump in that public toilet, that place to the right, don't blink or you'll miss it.
Mary hallucinated it once, and I hallucinated it twice: We're not at home. Where are we?
I'm going through the texts and the pictures, and I can hardly imagine the person who wrote those texts and took those pictures.
It took an aeroplane to get us back.
I've now been to the centre, of English. From current reading:
DAVY. I hope to see London once ere I die.
Scattered applause when the plane touched down. Happiness to see the cats hale and hearty. Wonder to cook at my own cooker. My bed, aah.
My theory, and it is my theory, ahem ahem, has to do with a country's foundation, in the rational, or irrational, ahem!, stages.
