A Passage (Underground) to India

Yesterday, Cy and Elizabeth wanted to visit two of London’s Indian communities that they had not already visited. But they were a little (and unnecessarily) nervous about getting here and there on the Underground. So, I happily volunteered to be their subway-gurkha.

We went to the Green St. neighborhood first, exiting the tube at Upton Park way on the east side of London. We ended up walking to East Ham. Elizabeth called it a “little Bombay”–so, if I ever am lucky enough to visit India, I wonder if Bombay will seem a “big Green St.” to me. We ate a terrific Madras/Sri Lanka breakfast at a place called “Chennai Dosa”–it’s a chain, but very good and very popular, it seems. Lots of street shops and business taking place on the go. Extremely friendly and helpful people–the fact that Elizabeth speaks Hindi and Cy knows several southern dialects no doubt helped people be even more helpful. In fact, everyone spoke English with a far more la-di-dah accent than I. We then went all the way to the west side of London, three exchanges, exit at Wembley Central. The shops here seemed a bit more upscale to me, spectacular gold and fabrics as well as food and spices.
By far the most spectacular single sight is the Hindu temple that is under construction and so sadly closed to the public. What I thought were Christmas lights are decorations left-over from Divali; everyone seemed perfectly happy to let them stay up for anyone who wanted to use illuminated tea and rice advertisements for celebrating Christmas too. Om y'all!

A daeg to remember

"Nu sculon we herigean". . .Winchester.
Today was a gloriously elegiac day, windswept, cloud-covered, moody and muddy. It sang of the West Saxons.
Sorry.

Winchester was recently voted one of the most desirable places to live in England. . .kind of the Fayetteville of Wessex. And, if it can be so attractive on such a drear day, it must be spectacular in Spring when all the gardens re-green.

Of course, I started at the (Norman/Gothic/Perpendicular/Victorian) Cathedral. I was the youngest member of the tour group. . .sad that. So, I fully unleashed my gee-whiz childlike enthusiasm. The guide knew and deeply loved everything about the Cathedral--the longest knave in medieval Europe dontcha know. He observed that I was especially entralled by the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre. . .so after the tour finished he unlocked the door to let me have a closer look. I was giddy. But, coming out, I was quite embarassed because some other tourists tried to enter, but my lord-guide dispersed the rabble. Jane Austen is buried in the Cathedral's floor; if she had paid another 10 quid she could have been much closer to the high altar.

There's little if anything to see of Alfred the Great's greatness in Winchester these days because "lif bith laene." But the town's museum has some quite interesting displays with the Roman finds of Venta Belgae on the top floor, then the Anglo-Saxon and Norman artifacts on the second (a.k.a first) floor, then the modern crap on ground. And, mirabile dictu, this museum is free.

Very little remains of Winchester Castle because Cromwell could be so pissy at times, but the Great Hall is a Victorian resurrection with its great bronze blob of Queen Victoria herself. The Round Table hangs above the former site of the hall's thrones, well a round table.
Henry VIII had it painted with the Tudor rose in its center and a Slim-Fast self-fashioning of himself enthroned supposedly. Actually, the table itself is quite old and has been carbon-dated to the reign of Edward I. I asked but got no answer as to why the seat to Arthur's right is reserved for Mordred.

The town itself is just lovely to walk around. In addition to all the regular stores, pubs and the market, a Christmas fair was being set up on the Cathedral close. Although my feet were already screaming "We yield!" I had to walk the mile or so along the Itchen River to the Hospital of St. Cross where I received my Wayfarer's Dole (a piece of bread and a thimble of ale) from the Porter. The hospital was founded as a Norman almshouse for the elderly by Henry de Blois, a grandson of William the Conqueror. The Hospital still houses about 25 brothers. When I first arrived at the Porter's Lodge, she was on the phone and I heard her say "We've been in business since 1132."

“Ah,” as in “Bath”

Aquae Sulis, a.k.a. Bath Spa, is a bit of a haul from Cambridge. Because of problems with the London Underground connection between Paddington and King’s Cross, it took almost four hours each way. Still, I had about six hours to explore the city itself. It rained through late morning, but then turned into a beautiful, mild afternoon.

I would have been happy to travel all that way just to see the Roman baths. Yes, this site has been all froo-frooed up by the Victorians. And the museum’s audio-tour seems a bit Disney-Worldy, but the omnipresent school kids seemed to love it, and, miraculously, not one of them ended up in the water though I myself slipped awfully close to having a much more exciting blog entry. The guided tour was excellent; I think the docent was a grad. student in archaeology. She explained especially well the uniqueness of this site as both a temple of Minerva and a Roman public bath. The boar may represent the 20th Legion who constructed the bath. . .Sooie,-orum, -is, -os, -is. There was a good deal of geology too. . .I kind of zoned. But two stories really captured my attention. First, was the medieval survival of the site–I guess it’s no surprise I rallied for this. The main pool that the Romans used as a public bath was not the sacred spring of Minerva. The temple pool itself was sacrosanct. . .and besides its water temp. was a rump-reddening 115 F.; the bathing pool run-off cooled to about 95 F. But the public pool’s ceiling collapsed probably soon after the Saxons came, and the drains clogged, and the main site was buried in mud. But the medieval monks of Bath continued to use Minerva’s higher bathtub for the aqua therapy of invalids. . .ahhh; this story reminded me of the Colosseum being used as a hospital. My second favorite story was about a drunk student pushing the (quite modern) statue of Julius Caesar into the main bath. . .somewhat less inspiring.

Next to and above the now excavated bath site is the “Pump Room” where I tasted some of the water with its 43 minerals and 8 unspecified trace elements; it was not so bad as advertized. Starting from the Pump Room, I had to dedicate the rest of the afternoon to a Jane Austen pilgrimage. I walked the Gravel Path (which is now paved, harrumph),
and visited the Jane Austen Centre on Gay Street, but several houses down from No. 25 which is now a dentist’s office.

The abbey church is quite bright and beautiful, totally fake medieval, but quite inspiring still. Its floors were lined with art students today.
On the way back to the train station, I stopped at the Pulteney Bridge which the brochures call the “Ponte Vecchio of Bath.” Well, it’s much smaller, no gold shops, and it’s hardly so “vecchio,” but it is charming, as is the whole eighteenth-century neat and orderly, polite and polished look of this entire city which Jane both loved and loathed.

My only gripe: not a single mention of Alison.

Banquet at the Penguin Palace

Last night, Elizabeth and Cy Pulapilly prepared an Indian feast for twelve of us poor lost souls at Wolfson from hither (Australia, New Zealand), thither (Singapore, Malaysia), and yon (Norway)–and, oh yes, England and the U.S. too.

The curry was incredible. . .literally. Our kitchen facilities are just one step above camping out. Yet, somehow Elizabeth and Cy pulled together the best meal any of us have had this Michaelmas term. Elizabeth must own a copy of the “Multiplication of the Loaves Cookbook.”

How do you thank such a couple? Cy was once hugged by Pope John Paul II. Elizabeth was once spanked by Mother Theresa (though she almost admits she had that whack coming). So, I volunteered to baptize the dishes by immersion. . .oh, yeah, there was a lot of wine too.

Hastings Pudding

Today, I went to Hastings where I discovered that the Normans must have invaded England from New Jersey. Hastings today is a combination of Paramus and Seaside Heights. The train trip from London is quite pleasant, but it takes awhile because there’s a stop for every whistle. I was greeted by the squall of exuberant seagulls as soon as the train doors opened; they apparently were quite happy to see me. . .or the pastry in my hand. I just meandered about for about 30 minutes, put my toes in la Manche. . .that sounds so dirty, but then most things French do. Then up the cliff on the “West Hill Lift,” a cute little tram, the cutting edge of eighteenth-century technology which is going to be moth-balled next month I fear. The wind was blowing at about 30 mph–inland fortunately or I might have invented the sport of “body para-gliding.” Of course, I went in the dungeon, and wept over the monastery, and cursed the sea (rather than Henry VIII, this time) for swallowing about 60% of the thirteenth-century fortress.

And then I went three trains-stops back towards London to the place where the battle actually took place. . .at Battle–clever that. I walked the field the short way, the long way, sideways, climbed every remaining inch of the monastery (curse you Henry VIII!). William had to pay for the Benedictine priory (Pope’s orders) as penance for all the Saxon mothers’ sons he killed.
There's a slab marking where the high altar used to be which marked where William marked the spot where Harold got shot in the eye...or stabbed...or both.

During a melancholy moment as I perused Senlac hill, the field was invaded by hoardes of young public school girls. And I was privileged to witness the real reason why the Saxon shield-wall finally fell. . .the incredibly pudding-like mud. England fell when Harold slipped I bet...and there's a casino or two back in Hastings that would give me odds

Fancy Pants

Well, last night was formal “Guest Night.” I had no guests to invite. . .weep, weep. But I did get to play dress-me-ups.

The food was quite spectacular and the wines quite nice. I particularly enjoyed the company of several junior fellows; we talked a good deal about American soccer as tragicomedy.

At dessert (which means cheese and fruit but mostly PORT), I had a fascinating conversation–more of a listen actually–with a mathematician; I think I understood what he was saying most of the time, though it may have been the port.

Oxbridge

Tuesday, I went to Oxford. To get from Cambridge to Oxford via London takes two to three hours each way depending on connections. I needed to register on arrival and wanted to spend as much time as I could at the Bodleian Library, so I set my alarm for 5:00.

I woke up on my excited own, however, at 4:30; so I web-camed Tricia who was still on-line for a quick "good morning/good night" and then ate as big a breakfast as I good stand for the trek.

I left at 5:30 to catch a 6:15 train to King’s Cross. The fog was the heaviest I’ve seen as yet, so the walk through the fen was especially Vincent Pricey. I whistled “You’ll never walk alone”–which is a rather difficult whistle.

Train blah, slightly delayed; King’s Cross to Paddington underground, blah; train to Oxford (skipped local, waited for fast train), blah; then Oxford itself. . .the Ur-University of the Anglophone Cosmos!

The city of Oxford is much more bustling than Cambridge. The bus drivers all seem to be retired dive-bombers. From the train station, I immediately went into that city-smart walk like you know where you’re going mode. . .for about five blocks, but then stopped to ask an older gentleman (like me) where the Bodleain was; he pointed across the street.


I went into the Clarendon House to register at the admissions office. Last time, I had to wait in line for an hour; this time there was no wait at all. Out the door, to the right, through the court to the Old Library, and into Duke Humfrey’s Library, all painted timber and stalls and vellum. . .Yum!


Again, I wanted to look at some manuscripts of Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde. My interest no doubt seems rather dubious to real bibliographers and codicologists–and probably is. I’m much more interested in book design than text. Whereas an editor transcribing the poem itself might spend a full day on a page, I sit there happily flipping through page after page looking at layout, decoration and marginalia.

Seven to eight hours with four manuscripts, one coffee break, had a small box of raisins on the train home, fell into bed about 22:30.

BL and the Temple

Monday and today, I went to the British Library; I looked at six manuscripts; I came back.

Amplificatio:
I "commuted" to London so I could look at the manuscripts of Troilus and Criseyde. It only takes about 50 minutes each way on a non-stop train, but it's the forty-minute walk to and from the Cambridge train station in the cold and dark, over the river and through the fen. . .of my!. . .that has tired me out--that and the pint in my hand. You exit (the rather dull) King's Cross Station turn right and walk past the (spectactularly Disney-like) St. Pancras Station, and ecco qui!

The registration for a reader's card is amazingly efficient at the BL--I mean, not more than five minutes, but perhaps that was because I was renewing. I now have about eight new I.D. cards to carry in my wallet.

And, then, really, I just studied the manuscripts. And, yes, I think this is capital "F," capital "U," capital "N."
I finished, or quit, or despaired in fatigue at about 2:30 today. I thought about just coming back to Cambridge early, but decided to try to see the Temple Church. When I asked for directions in the Underground, the teller said "On a DaVinci Code quest, eh?"--curse you Dan Brown!

So I went to the cleverly named "Temple" stop on the Circle Line. The courts and law offices are really quite impressive, but none of the locals seem to know where Temple Church itself is. It's best to just follow the other tourists or, like me, pray to S. Vagans Perditus.