England and Scotland for Dad's 70th
Day 4 - Sunday - England
Once again we all awake to a glorious sunny morning
(how long will this fabulous weather hold out?). It's Sunday, and
Francesca has begged off another day o' fun with us to "read" at her
church (she welcomed us to go to her church, but pointed out it would
be mostly in Latin and blow a hole through our day's schedule), but she
will be cooking a swell Italian dinner for us at, shall we say 8?
So I make a few calls, one to Greenwich tourist
board to see if things are open today ("Oh, yes, it's our busiest
day!") and one to Edinburgh to see if our hosts Rod and Rhona are still
wanting us to visit (a heavily accented Scotsman who used to be their
little boy Alasdair told me they were off at church and took a message).
Greenwich, here we come!
I plan to show Dad a little of Harrods, but it's
closed on Sunday (geez! how do they sell anything with their
hours?). Then we catch the Piccadilly line at Knightsbridge
Underground to Green Park station where we catch the Jubilee line to
Charing Cross and catch the BritRail train to Greenwich with 2 minutes
to spare. We get to Greenwich in 16 minutes, and wander about the
streets looking for the tourist center, where Dad stumbles over some
uneven sidewalk and a local says "Whatcher step, mate" and Dad smiles
and tells him he wished he'd told him earlier!
On our way to the tourist board to get directions to
the Cutty Sark, we pass the Cutty Sark and take several pictures -- Dad
in front of the Cutty Sark from several angles, Dad at the bow from a
couple of angles, groovy pictures. The crew shot off a tiny
cannon, which made a big noise, and after some more looking, we leave.
In search of the tourist board for information about
The Royal Observatory, we find the Royal Observatory instead.
We're at the bottom of the really big hill and wait and wait and wait
for the shuttle bus, which passes us. Dad and I stand in the
street, looking at each other, and the shuttle bus stops and the driver
smiles as we get on. Then as he leaves, he passes more people who
are frantically waving at him and he laughs, then stops and lets them
on.
The Royal Observatory is all sorts of fun for
picture taking opportunities. It's the home of the Prime
Meridian, where the Eastern Hemisphere meets the Western
Hemisphere. Lots o' cool pics o' Dad on that, with one couple
taking a picture of the two of us standing on both hemispheres.
While checking out the exhibit possibilities, Dad meets a guy from
Sydney (home of the next summer Olympics) wearing an "Atlanta 1996"
Olympic hat, and they chat about being an Olympic city and how long it
takes to fly to London from their homes.
Back on the landing, we're both curious about this
big dome thingy they're building in the distance, and Dad finds out
it's the "Millennium Dome."
"Oh, that's right!" I say,
realizing all the banners hanging everywhere saying 2000 - The
Millennium Begins Here! "It's here before anywhere else! Except
you and Wayne say it's not the millennium." (Before we left Atlanta, we
got in a no-win discussion on whether the millennium begins at 2000 or
2001 -- I am of the camp that states day 1 is the beginning and you
just don't discount those 365 days before 2001).
"If they say
it's 2000, then it's 2000!" Dad proclaims.
Back inside the Observatory to view some more
navigation telescope thingys (Dad knew it from his days in Navy flight
school -- "I taught it and hated it. I never wanted to do it
again.") and clock thingys and the gift shop.
We caught the shuttle down hill and through town
where we unsuccessfully attempted enjoying some tea and scones (the
shuttle driver recommended an icky place, the second place which
actually had "afternoon tea" in its name didn't have any hot water--I'm
frantically expressing how I've never had so much trouble trying to get
tea in England!), and finally went back to the bottom of the
Observatory hill where we acquired some lovely afternoon tea and
scones, cream and jam in their Park Teahouse.
Then, rounding out the afternoon with The National
Maritime Museum, before it closes I hope. So we go in (yea!) and
Dad really enjoyed the models of the 20th century ships and aircraft
carriers, and we both really really enjoyed the floor dedicated to Lord
Horatio Nelson. They even had the clothes he died in - the
uniform from the Battle of Trafalgar with the fatal bullet hole.
Most impressive for me was the amount of stuff they had for Lady
Hamilton, his true love (the posters promoting the exhibit featured a
painting of Lady Hamilton and the caption "Doubtless, he also said
`Kiss me, Emma.'") -- the gold ring he gave her, a gorgeous
necklace of miniatures owned by Emma and their daughter Horatia, a lock
of his hair.
Rush to the gift shop where they had NOTHING of
interest for me on Lady Hamilton, so we left.
Trained back to London where I finally got a train
map between London and Edinburgh (the guys at Charing Cross and
Greenwich stations didn't have one) and Stratford-Upon-Avon (our
intended stay-over between hosts) wasn't on it. Bizarre!
When we arrive at Francesca's, she's furiously
working and cleaning (she's hosting yet another friend the following
weekend while we'll be in Scotland).
After I return from going in search of a copy of The Sunday
Times at Sloane Square (sold out or stores closed -- NOTHING's
open in
this town on a Sunday -- should have grabbed one of the many at the
train station on the way back), I nervously call Rhona to check on our
Scottish weekend plans (do they still want us?) and she stuns me with
her itinerary they've planned for us. Since the first time I
stayed with them (as a student in 1989), I was asking them all
the details on where my all-time favorite movie, Local Hero, was
filmed. They named all sorts of locations for both Local Hero and
Chariots of Fire (my second
all-time favorite movie -- followed by Breaking Away and Animal House), the latter being the
only one with locations in
Edinburgh. Unfortunately, the Local
Hero fishing village is way
the heck up on the north coast, and the beach is way the heck over on
the west coast, both requiring personal car driving, something beyond
my means during both my previous trips to Scotland. So she
proceeds to tell me that Saturday, they were thinking of driving us up
through the highlands and over to my Local
Hero beach! I'm aghast
and shocked and thrilled. I tell her I figured we'd just knock
around
Edinburgh (I didn't dream they'd want to drive us around the
highlands!), and she proudly says, "Oh, but that's not Scotland!"
I can't stop smiling.
Dinner time! And Francesca serves us her
fabulous meal -- baby spinach salad with toasted pine nuts and shaved
Parmesan in an olive oil, lemon juice and mustard with thyme dressing,
and browned zucchini, smoked Canadian bacon and grated Parmesan in
penne pasta with a sour cream sauce. De-lish! I even joined
her and Dad in some red wine ("After all," Francesca pointed out, "It's
Italian.").
During dinner, we had all sorts of cool
conversation, from how Francesca can taste ingredients (she figured out
the salad's dressing recipe from a few orders at a restaurant, and one
evening nailed 8 out of 9 ingredients of her friends' secret recipe at
a dinner party) to stories about Italy during WWII (from her parents'
point of view, obviously). Her mother's father moved them to the
farm so they ate and traded food and survived while so many Italians
were starving -- all Italians loved the Americans after the Marshall
Plan (a statement she made after I told her the basic American take on
the world is everybody hates us). She also told me that since my
last visit, the British
trains have been privatized and that's why my London-to-Edinburgh train
didn't have Stratford-upon-Avon on the map -- I'm going to have to slog
through different train companies! What a pain!
A chauffeured trip to the Local Hero beach! I
go to sleep with that smile on my face.
England and
Scotland for Dad's 70th
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