G-G-G-G-Get Out Of London

The first week of February saw me purchasing tickets left and right. Roundtrip to Paris and Rattery…my bank account took a substantial dip. In this spirit of travel, I also agreed to a trip down south departing on the 5th. What were a few pounds next to breaking from the city (even if only for a night and a day)?

Cardiff was our destination, though this was not reached until nightfall (due to a series of mishaps starting with a missed bus). The locals wouldn’t have us in frowns, though. A waitress went so far as printing us departure times for the Newport train; train security advised against roundtrip purchases; and a gent on said train carried my carry on to the front of the station. Gotta love the Welsh!

Though it was getting into the wee hours, the Queens Hotel’s showers provided an incentive to stay up. Now, I promised honesty, and much as I love my dorm-like setup, all of us find the showers lacking. Not only does the nozzle shoot a stream of chilly water every which way, should you try and turn the temperature up, the shower (more often than not) shuts off completely (for fear that we might burn ourselves). To echo the colorful sentiment of a fellow sufferer: “Dear Dinwiddy showers, everyone that lives here is in college. If the water gets too hot, we know how to turn it down. Fuck you and your anti scald technology.”

Thus, the hotel’s perfect pressure and steady warmth made the trip worth it right there.

The next morning came too soon, but grumbles that usually accompany such a time of day were silenced. Why? Big Pit. The mine tour was the reason for the Cardiff stop off in the first place. Though no one else left the bus with us at Pontypool, we were quickly assured we made the right choice once strapped into mining belt and helmet (complete with bulb). In no time, we were 300 feet underground with a former miner as guide. His humor would do the Disneyland Jungle Cruise operators proud and made the dim chambers (when we turned off our headlamps, it was dark as pitch) metaphorically lighter. His tales, however, made the humanitarians of us queasy. Statements like horses were kept in the shaft to pull the carts and eventually went blind (poor lighting) and children were tied up by their arms so as to let in horses and the right amount of airflow were met with grimaces. Still, I’d highly recommend a walk in a coal miner’s hat and belt (though the latter is rather heavy on the hips).

With a bus ride back and a suitcase collected, we doubled back to Cardiff. A pub style lunch later and another bus (this time the hop on, hop off) was missed. Not to despair! I played troubleshooter this time and had us to the Bay in 10 minutes. Boats bobbed near us on water turned quicksilver, and the Bay itself made a suitable substitute for the ocean I had been missing. Ducks inquired about handouts but soon left, dissatisfied. The highlight was a beaut of a swan (pictured) less than an arm's length away, seeking like the ducks had. It may have been unhappy with our lack of crumbs, but its presence enabled many up, close and personal shots.

The day was brought to a close at a favorite chain of ours: Café Nero. Chai for me, mochas for others…all in all, coming from California to Cardiff, I was charmed (contrary to what the local boys warned!).

Nautical Nonsense

Last weekend’s gallivanting took me from Borough Street to Greenwich (through the course of two days). The first held yet another market, but one to tempt the stomach. Costco style samples of gourmet sausages, cheeses, olive oils and so forth tickled my tummy in the best sense of course. My browsing buddy and I settled on soup (she: a vegetable brew and me: tomato basil), and we ate in the shadow of an ornate cathedral, topped with many stylized crosses.

The following day, for a change of pace, was museum centered. Greenwich offered both the Royal Observatory and National Maritime Museum. I was also fortunate enough to have a local chap narrate what it was that I was seeing (his descriptions made the museum plaques’ pale in comparison). First up was Flamsteed House, a brick building sporting a Rudolph nose aka “one of the World's earliest public time signals” according to the Visitor Map. Bordering the House, which was "built for the purpose of finding longitude at sea," were examples of technological advances in telescoping. And as a side note...also set foot on Longitude 0 degrees 0'0'', Prime Meridian of the World. No big deal!

Next up me mateys was the nautical themed museum. Inside were scraps left over from a beauty of a vessel, the Implacable, the Upper Deck Collection (sailors dined in style as evidenced by the silver and gold platters, saucers, etc.), propellers and displays articulating the sea’s hold on man. The highlight was a navy coat worn by “[Horatio] Nelson when he fell at Trafalgar, with the fatal bullet hole clearly visible." He was deservedly a decorated fellow, and Trafalgar Square commemorates Nelson.

Rounding off the day, we stopped at the Trafalgar pub, and I had myself a cider, whilst lit coals warmed my side and Thames aglow captured my eye. Come nightfall, we boarded a river cruise and marveled at central London’s landmarks. Their illumination made for an electrical parade.

Fruit n' Veg

Already I have fallen behind in my blogging duties, and for that I apologize. You’ll be happy to know, however, that I’ve been getting much out of London. Last weekend was the city’s market side, and each had its own charm. Portobello Market had the benefit of location, location, situated in Notting Hill’s pastel district. Items being sold ranged from fruit and veg to old time-y cameras. The market specialized in antiques, and many collectors combed the stalls, in search of housing accents. As for me, I was content with capturing what I could with my point and shoot.

The following day was an East End Markets Tour courtesy of IES. The catch? What an early ‘morn it was! I also traveled in the opposite direction to hook up with the greater group, but managed to make friends along the way. Local guides split us into two, and ours was bursting to tell the history behind every building. (Yet, she was ever mindful of whether or not we wanted such information. Indeed, we did).

First up was Petticoat Lane Market since renamed (shocking to name a market after lady undergarments!) to Middlesex Street (not much better, might I add). Packs of Calvin Klein whitey tighties dangled from a line, and signs promising that nothing was over a £ tempted the passerby. I myself managed to secure a lined, camel colored pea coat for £10 or $16 (at the time).

Spitalfields was next up, but we detoured through Jack the Ripper territory. The story goes that many women, with only a penny to their name, would stay in dormitories and drape themselves over a laundry line to sleep. Better than being victim! As for the market, items were enticing but came with a price. Clothing seemed to be offered the most, and I contented myself with the equivalent of window-shopping.

Last was Columbia Road Flower Market, where sunny “daffs” and flushed tulips stood out in the London grey. A prequel to springtime twenty ten?