England with Bucher

Wednesday, 12 June

We built up to the Great Excursion gently. Took TACA to Miami the day before we were to leave for England.

We telephoned the ship’s agents to see if, by chance, the Wee Scots Captain were in port—Capt. Thomas Dickson, currently of MV Domburgh, formerly of MV Westkust, which Bucher and crew had salvaged when she was aground on our reef in March. The Capitan was in port, but the ship was to sail that evening. Bucher said there was no way he would disturb a ship’s Master before sailing.

That was about 4:30 in the afternoon. By 5:30 we were in our car just to drive out on Dodge Island and see what sort of ship the Domburgh was. We found the ship and there was no loading activity—or activity of any sort around her. Bucher decided to go aboard. A few moments later he was back, motioning me to join him.

That was a gentle way of summoning me to scale a narrow gangplank hanging onto ropes, cross a bulwark, and then leap down into a narrow well of deck (which appealed to me more than walking a narrow catwalk over the holds). A very large, nearly naked young man met us as we entered the quarters and bellowed, “You must be the Scotts. Thank God you’ve come. The Captain has been in a most fearful temper thinking he had missed you.” And about that time Tommy rounded the corner and enveloped me in an enthusiastic welcome himself.

We went on up to his stateroom—a large saloon with bedroom and bath off it—and caught up on what each had been doing. Quite naturally, the Captain got out his bottle of Scotch and he and Bucher reminisced about their toddies on the Westkust. Engine trouble was holding him up, so he was in no hurry and we had about an hour’s delightful visit with him.

Thursday, 13 June

In the morning, Bucher went out on business and I hit the stores briefly. Best purchase—a tiny Convert-a-volt so that we could use our coffee pot on British current. Regrouped for lunch in the room, a nap, and an unhurried departure for the airport around 6:00 pm.

Checking in was traumatic in the extreme although we were among the first, just seeing all that red-white-and-blue and listening to the lovely accents of the counter clerks (pronounced clarks). Of course, trying to select a seat on that monstrous plane was awful but I congratulated myself on getting a pair just behind a bulkhead where we would have a modicum of privacy for sleeping.

Going aboard, I was frisked for the first time. Men and women were cut into separate lanes in a smooth operation and three no-nonsense young women went over us from head to toe—literally—by hand, while another stood by with one of those electric gadgets. Among those near me was a nun who was patient but obviously unsettled by the ordeal.

By the time we had walked several miles back toward our seats, the stewardess took our tickets, clucked several times, and said that we would hate those seats and wouldn’t we like to select others. Seems my lovely bulkhead was a wide aisle in front of our seats, right by the galley so that there would be lights and activity the entire flight. She found us a marvelous cubicle, just behind the bulkhead of First Class. And since there was a storage cupboard across the aisle we felt quite private, with lots of leg room and those great wedge-shaped, cushiony footrests. She explained that we would have to move back to other seats to see the movie but the plane was not crowded so that would be no problem.

First lovely touch (which Callie Young had described from her BOAC flight) was an offering of ice-cold towels to cool our fevered brows and touch our hands, which really had not had time to become soiled. Then another hostess came around with earphones that plug into the armrest and provide 6 channels of music or entertainment and also have the sound for the movie.

The earphones are lightweight with tiny plugs, but gradually they bothered slightly. Furthermore, I do not enjoy music while I read. So I sat hour after hour with the earphones putting pressure on my eardrums and distracting my reading, just because I had them.

Soon after taking off we had drinks, then a beautiful dinner. And about an hour later we moved back to the section behind our seats for the movie.

The movie was Sugarland Express—a wild and funny and sad chase about a delinquent couple trying to reclaim their baby, which had been put up for adoption while they were in prison. I enjoyed it; Bucher did not.

Moved back to our seats and Bucher was asleep before I could cover him with his blanket. I dosed fitfully through the next three hours.

Friday, 14 June

Awake for breakfast about an hour and a half before landing. Exceptionally clear day so we could see the outer islands, Wales, and part of England perfectly as we approached Heathrow.

The British do this Immigration-and-Customs thing beautifully. Chop chop—and the Customs officials smile and nod welcomingly as the porter wheels one’s unopened bags past them.

Outside, no trouble getting one of the matchless, huge, and practical British taxis. Saw my first Bobby, who was all that a Bobby should be.

 

On taxis—one enters comfortably, stepping upward at an easy angle and literally walking across a floor to the seat. It is like a mobile small room. The driver, of course is separated by glass, though the chatty ones keep it open to talk. Amazingly, this majestic vehicle can turn in its own length, like Alex’s Volkswagen. The drivers we had were unfailingly courteous and capable. They ranged in age from the twenties to one who might possibly have been in his eighties (but probably wasn’t).

This is a good time to discuss London traffic. It is courteous. It moves smartly; streets are well-marked once you figure out the signs; and the traffic, in the main, is surprisingly genial. We noticed—with initial dismay—that our taxi, deciding to turn right, would make his move from the farthest left lane and simply cut across two or four or six lanes of traffic, all of whom slowed to let him pass without sounding their hooters.

 

Our first view of the Park Court Hotel was lovely—a great long stretch of gracious old mansions built one against the other, newly painted the softest grayish green with white trim, with gardens and pools and walks across the front and a white wall separating the garden from the street. Across the wide thoroughfare was Hyde Park, lushly green of lawn and shaded by stately spreading trees.

Turning off Bayswater and around to the entrance on the opposite short street was a shockingly inappropriate entry of chrome and glass and a functional lobby of stripped-down modern of the Prosaic Period. I was absolutely sick since I had looked forward so to one of the old, dignified London hotels.

The lobby was a madhouse with a minority of the people speaking English. When Bucher went to check in, the girl got a horrified look, flipped frenziedly through some sheets, then gave the sole bellboy a key. We went up and he showed us to a room—twin beds. Old Kate said that there had been some mistake. The boy seemed quite nonchalant about it and packed us back down to the lobby, baggage and all.

The girl at the desk looked quite ill when we returned, scurried through more papers, and gave the boy another key. Up we went to the top floor. Down a hall. Into a room. With Bucher and me in it, the boy had to push the baggage ahead of him since there wasn’t space for luggage and him both.

After sitting up all night, this was not quite as I had expected my arrival in London to be. However, standing on tiptoe I could see out the high small window across the street below to the lush grass and greenery of Hyde Park. Decided to worry about things later and flopped into bed for a two-hour nap.

 

The room would have been quite all right for one person; actually it was rather charming. Obviously started life as servants’ quarters up under the eves. The decoration throughout the hotel is the same—sunny yellow walls, white Formica bed-and-night-stand combinations, white Formica vanity-bureau, armchair upholstered in the same burnt orange as the bedspread. Duller shade of russet for the carpeting.

The little window was pretty, with two panels that opened into the room, the way our living room windows do. Only problem, they hit the sloping ceiling and did not open fully but extended over the edge of the bed on my side; to get into bed, I had to be very careful to duck under them. There was a narrow walkway around the foot of the bed and enough room for Bucher to get into bed on his side.

The bathroom was somewhat more gracious with a huge tub and toilet on a riser that obviously housed the pipes but made it a foot-dangling throne. Ample hanging wardrobe in the “hall” opposite the bathroom.

The window looked out through the battlements at the top of the old Victorian building and there was ample room for someone to walk from one window to the next—which made me nervous since there were no screens. But it was quaint and I was determined not to let it worry me.

 

We got up in the afternoon, bathed, dressed and went out. Walked up and down Bayswater a bit, enjoying the hotel garden, the street, and the park across the way. Finally caught a double decker bus—top deck, of course, and rode down through Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, to Parliament Square.

We walked past the Parliament onto the adjacent bridge over the Thames and looked back at the magnificent building. Despite years of having seen pictures of The Mother of Parliaments, I was unprepared for its magnificence. My first feeling was that it was incredible to accuse the British of being unimaginative and pedestrian with this heart-lifting inspiration of a building. Every bit of carving is a grace-note of hope and courage.

As we have read, the British are doing an Herculean job of cleaning the dirt of centuries off their main buildings. This is not completed, but is beautiful where done. However, even grimy, these buildings are beautiful. We walked back slowly, admiring every inch.

The House of Lords was in session, or, rather, just breaking up, and there were beautiful limousines with uniformed chauffeurs waiting in the yard for their lords to come through the stone archways.

We walked on over to Westminster Abbey, which is just across the square, but found all the doors closed. Finally hit the main entrance and discovered it had been a memorial service for the Duke of Gloucestershire, who just had died. There was quite a crowd so we could not see which troops were at attention, but recognized the Archbishop Michael Ramsey with what we took to be peripherally Royal ladies, who paused to be photographed.

We walked on up the wide main street (can’t find my map and have forgotten the name) to Downing Street and down to No. 10 to gawk with a handful of tourists at the simple entrance and bored guard. Went on to catch a bus back to the hotel.

 

We had tried, both when we checked in and when we left for our jaunt, to speak to Jennifer Dawson, who had been so kind about making our reservations. She is the assistant manager of the hotel and the sister of our friend Scott-Cowper. She had left a call in our absence and we were able to say hello, thank her, and invite her to meet us for a drink when she was through work.

We found a beautiful arrangement of flowers in our room when we returned—tiny yellow roses, yellow glads, bits of coral-colored flowers, which matched the decor perfectly—from John and Anne Gratton. I forgot to say that we called them as soon as we were settled in our room. So I called back to tell Anne how delighted we were with the flowers. Being able to dial direct from our room was blissful.

We also had received a letter from the Stauffers on our return saying that they would arrive on the Saturday (next day). The Grattons had hoped we would go to them for the weekend but I had explained that we could not.

 

We went down to meet Jennifer around 6:30. She is a most attractive brunette of about thirty, quietly capable when working, and an amusing conversationalist. She was absolutely seething—as Bucher and I had predicted to each other. We had not told her about the room mix-up but obviously she had found out. Seems they had given away the room she had saved for us and she had nothing complimentary to say about that particular reservations clerk. We told her that it was perfectly all right, but she said orders were in for us to be moved the next morning. She really was most upset about and it, and we didn’t want her to be.

Had a very pleasant visit and Jennifer suggested that if we did not plan to go out, we have dinner in the adjacent restaurant, the “Charcoal Grill” at White’s, which is a separate hotel, connected to the Park Court by an inner corridor, but operated independently. It is the sort of hotel we thought we were going to and while it is a little more expensive, Bucher and I think we might try it if/when we return to London. It is quiet, with more service and none of the travel-tour crowds that the Park Court caters to. Anyway, the Grill is lovely and quiet with continental chef and staff and perfectly delicious food. We had prawn cocktails (shrimp), grilled Dover sole because that it one of the things you must have (got that out of the way—ten thousand hair-like bones and not one bit better than any other fish, which is on the bottom of my list anyway), wine of course, and the most glorious fresh strawberries with thick cream for dessert.

 

Dinner put us in a glow of happiness at being in London and we decided we could not put off seeing the Grattons. When we got back to the room, we called for the third time and asked if we might go down for lunch next day. Anne was delighted and gave full instructions for finding “Fir Trees, Camberley, Surrey,” which I wrote down verbatim.

Saturday, 15 June

Had a nice breakfast in the very crowded Park Court dining room. Breakfast is included in one’s room rate and no one misses. We were seated with a slightly older couple and had a very pleasant talk. They were from New Zealand and on a round-the-world cruise. They had left the ship at Southampton and were going to motor through England, down to France, and catch their ship either there or in Italy, as I remember. He said he had spent his 70th birthday on the ship in mid-Pacific and was just getting over the celebration. Made one interesting comment that Bucher and I think is fairly close to the truth. Said that he had observed that the same item tended to cost the same numerical amount regardless of the currency involved. That is, despite the wide variations in value of different currencies, a pair of shoes that would cost him £30 in New Zealand were $30 in the States and £30 in London. And it is so similar in our experience—a bz$10 pair of shoes is us$10 in the States or 10 Pesos in Mexico, for example. In other words—you can’t win.

 

We had much more trouble about renting a car than we had expected because it was the weekend. The Hall Porter (equivalent of Bell Captain except that he seems to do many more helpful things) finally located a small independent car-rental place that had one car left, so we took off in a taxi to Sloane Square. Got the car and set off for the Grattons’ at least an hour later than planned.

London was a very easy city to get around in—since we did not have to find obscure little mews and terraces and lanes. Bucher quickly was comfortable driving about.

Since we were leaving from a different point in London, we made some exotic turns and twists before settling onto the proper highway. And then the helpful map reader directed driver right through the middle of two small towns at high noon on market day instead of taking the bypass routes because those weren’t shown on her map. And from the center of one of the towns, she shot straight out on the wrong side until husband became suspicious as road turned into country lane. All very time consuming. It was almost one before we reached the Grattons’.

John and Anne look marvelous and exactly the same. Felt we had seen them only yesterday. Their son Robert was there, a handsome, pleasant young man, now a commodities broker. Their house is charming, set back in a nice-size lawn and protected by high trees and bushes from neighboring view. It was a lovely sunny day and they had put lawn chairs out on the sunny side.

Champagne to celebrate. Leisurely luncheon and Anne insisted that we examine the place mats—the same place that made our tray from the nautical chart for our Bay Islands trip (“Exercise Bay Rum” in 1965) took some of the Grattons’ color pictures and blew them up as insets in heavy plastic mats. All sorts of scenes of the Bay Islands trip, of all of us, and of their boat and other Belize scenes. Delightful.

It was a lovely visit and we found it very difficult to make ourselves leave. Robert had drawn a map of our return trip and we belted back to the hotel in one hour flat.

 

I had left a message at the Stauffers’ hotel to say we would be out of town but would call around five. They were there and while they had been disappointed to miss us, they had enjoyed a nap since Muriel had arrived on that same sort of schedule from the States and Don had flown in from Holland. We arranged for them to come on over to us for drinks. The hotel had moved our things to the new room in our absence, so we had a nice room with double bed and two arm chairs—not huge by any means, but adequate.

Muriel and Don also looked exactly the same. No, Muriel looked better. She has put on a shade of weight, which she needed; her hair is lightened and set in a very becoming style; and she is far more relaxed. Don started out relaxed but by our last evening he was spinning out in the old way, we were sorry to see. Anyway, we felt as if we had been together day before yesterday and started trying to catch up on each other.

Decided to go to one of Don’s favorite restaurants, an Hungarian one about two blocks from our hotel. It is upstairs (since there was a fire downstairs not long ago) and seats perhaps two dozen people. There is a trio—middle-aged men with violin, cello, and a strange middle-European sort of xylophone with metallic strings played with padded hammers—and they were good. So was the food.

Don was able to make recommendations, so we got some peculiar things we otherwise might not have. It was fun being with the Stauffers; the restaurant was entrancing; it was all very strange and glamorous.

After dinner Don insisted that we needed a nightcap and suggested that we go to the Post Office Tower, which overlooks all of London, much like the top of the Regency in Atlanta. We took off in his car and learned the Stauffer secret to driving in London. The person sitting up with the driver is commissioned to say, “Think Left” every block or so.

I don’t know how long we careened around London before Don located the P.O. Tower—it was a hair-raising expedition. Fortunately, London traffic tapers off after dark quite decidedly and the streets are fairly wide and easy to negotiate. When we got there, we found that it was open for dinner guests only. So Don decided to take us to “The Angel,” a very old pub on the Thames on the site of Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. It was on the other side of the river, just under one of the bridges.

One problem…too many bridges and Don didn’t remember which one. I feel that we crossed something like five bridges two to three times each, back and forth swinging madly around to go back the other direction. It was chaotic. Finally Don decided to find the street closest to the water and simply drive along that. Sure enough, by the third bridge we passed at right angles, Muriel was beginning to find remembered landmarks.

The Angel dates from the fifteen or sixteen hundreds. While the boys were getting beer, Muriel showed me all through the building, through small rooms, up tiny staircases, into funny little rooms and balconies, up a step here, down two there, duck through a doorway almost too small for me. Age-darkened wood, pitted and split and worn. Benches that must have known ten generations of bottoms.

It was packed. While most of the crowd were well-dressed 18–30 year olds, there were others of ages or styles that made one realize that it was a pub in the true British sense of a local gathering place. We took our beer out onto a large platform built over the river and watched boats and tides and lights and tried to believe that it was London and we really were there.

Would you believe that I have read since? A recent British detective story had a group gathering at The Angel, and I knew where they were heading before the name was mentioned because of the description of Rotherhithe Street surroundings.

Sunday, 16 June

Dining room too crowed to accommodate everyone so were directed to the Charcoal Grill. Walked through the long corridor to White’s and had the same breakfast in far more congenial surroundings. Tried this several times but finally were informed that, as Park Court guests, we really were to have breakfast there. A tip changed the headwaiter’s thinking on the subject and he invited us back.

 

Don and Muriel picked us up at ten to drive to Greenwich and Canterbury.

We happened to pass where the Queen’s Horse Guard were being mounted so stopped to see the show. Two lines of mounted guards in elaborate uniforms facing each other across the courtyard, the current guard and the ones relieving them. With properly British concern for the tourists, a mounted guard rides through the gate and stands outside so the tourists can take pictures. Our young man appeared about l8 and from the gray tint of his complexion we decided he was given the duty as punishment after too long and vigorous a Saturday night. His face stayed expressionless but he was gulping rather pitifully. Perhaps the fresh air helped. Eventually he looked a bit recovered. His enormous black mount was completely quiet under the unsolicited pattings from stray hands.

When the troops moved off, Don belted around the way to Buckingham Palace and we were there as they trotted past and on into the Palace grounds.

We drove down to Greenwich. By this time we had an in-joke, after our pelting around looking for The Angel the night before—no matter where were going, we went through or past Elephant-and-Castle. That’s a section of London on the other-side-of-the-Thames, a working-men’s district. We were in and out of it constantly during our bridge-crossing phase, and the drive to Greenwich began with our driving through it.

 

We went to the home of Trevor Lloyd-Jones, manager of the Hercules London office, which is in Don’s regional group. Apparently Don had set things up with him and, while Bucher and I were embarrassed to absorb most of his Sunday as we did, there was nothing we could do. Trevor was a dour but delightful Welshman and we enjoyed him more and more through the day.

We went first to Greenwich, known from Alex’s pictures. Saw the actual date line and stood with a foot on each side thereof as one is expected to do. The Cutty Sark was closed to visitors but we wandered about the outside of that and the Gipsy Moth IV.

From Greenwich we drove to a little town called Sevenoaks for lunch. This was off the main highway and on a pretty country road that curved through villages, past small fields, and through lovely woods. Our destination was a beautiful Elizabethan Inn, the home of William Pitt the Younger. Again, an unbelievable old place that we explored thoroughly. We were allowed one glass of sherry as an aperitif and then shown into the old dining room. It was so totally and correctly Elizabethan there is no point describing it—you’ve seen it in dozens of movies. The waitress were dressed in period dresses and the food was very good.

 

Trevor went back home and we continued down to Canterbury through the unbelievably lovely Kent countryside. I have heard of the Downs but did not realize that there are three fairly high escarpments paralleling the coast with great rolling fields in the long valleys between.

Canterbury was a quaint old town with cobblestone streets, high boxy buildings with numerous chimneys and chimney pots. And the Cathedral, set on a lushly green lawn, is glorious. Cathedrals are Cathedrals when it comes to wandering inside, but I loved it. Bucher has a limited tolerance for strolling there. I am more interested in the feeling, the architecture, and the general atmosphere than of the specifics of history. I did a lot for my general sense of well-being by deciding ahead of time not to flail my memory with more facts than it was prepared to cope with.

We drove about Canterbury before leaving, past the ruins of Roman forts, and then back to Greenwich.

 

We picked up Trevor and he took us on a pub-crawling tour back to London.

First, in honor of Visiting Americans, he took us to “The Mayflower” in Greenwich. He says that the Pilgrims left from there on their first trip, the one that took them to Holland before they returned to England and set out for the New World again. He made me walk down the narrow, steep stone steps from the street almost to where the Thames was lapping against worn treads, green-velveted with algae.

Inside, the pub was one of the ancient ones with tiny rooms, low doorways, smoke-darkened wood walls. Tables were tiny, scarred dented, and worn from generations of customers. Across the river were the East India docks and, as at many pubs, there was a large platform built veranda-like over the river so that you could watch the boats going back and forth, see the lights of the city, and watch the water boil past.

From The Mayflower he took us to “The Captain Jones” near the new tower bridge, a similar old pub. And from there we walked along the Thames toward the bridge to another well-known pub, “The Angel.” This I remember mainly as red brick set on a bright green lawn with a terraced walk approaching it.

We parted company with Trevor there and the Stauffers dropped us back at our hotel around nine at night.

Monday, 17 June

Today began Bucher’s working days. He had an appointment with his solicitor at 10:30 and we wanted to do some essential shopping first. It was drizzling, just a cold, misty rain. We returned our rental car, got a wonderful London cab. We intended to buy Bucher a raincoat and said that we wanted to go to Burberry’s. The driver gasped with pain and explained that we hardly could get there—“Big Ben has been bombed and the entire area is sealed.” We both were stunned, of course, especially after having gloried in that magnificent building just a few days earlier. I told the driver what we wanted and asked him for a suggestion.

“If I were you, Madam, I should go to Harrod’s.”

So off we went to Harrod’s, the pinnacle of London stores, where one even may see the Queen shopping on a good day.

We entered a typical department store, more conservative in decoration than a U.S. store, but with similar departments laid out in similar ways and with familiar merchandise. The prices, however, were distinctly unfamiliar.

Found Bucher’s Burberry (obviously that’s a trade-name for one of the fine ones) and, as I remember, he bought the first one the very gracious gentleman showed him. The palest beige, belted. The clerk—pronounced clark, of course, and far too elegant to be called one in the first place—explained about a personal Export Card. UK has a deal permitting you to buy things that you will be taking out of the country, taking them with you, and having the store refund your Value Added Tax (VAT) later. Of course, this hinged on buying everything in the same store, to a total of £100 (which was not what we had planned to spend). However, offered a good deal, what does a red-blooded American do? We instantly were put in the position of having to spend money to make up our £100.

Next we went to get Bucher a document case (a flat, envelope-style briefcase that can be carried under your arm; he finds an attache case too large for most use). Found the department after ascending the narrowest wooden escalators ever seen. I had forgotten that the steps used to be made of wood. There is much polished woodwork in Harrod’s and the escalator matched. There was a sign saying that pets must be carried up in arms.

Found the luggage department, found the document cases, picked out a gorgeous one first off. Looked at price tag. Bucher turned on heel and started out. Kate grabbed him by back of new Burberry, saying that there must be others. Found a handsome one in cordovan with zipper and brass lock for only twice what we intended to pay. Smothered arguments by referring to the Export Card.

Time was running out for Bucher to make his appointment, so once we were in the process of writing up the sales ticket, I told Bucher to take the document case and go while I took care of paying. Off he went in his new Burberry with the new document case under his arm. And guess who had both sales slips? The clerk was distraught when he couldn’t find the document case and I casually said Mr. Scott had left with it. He was not a very sensible man anyway, though he had a pompously distinguished look. I reassured him by explaining that the store security authorities certainly would check with him when they arrested Mr. Scott for shoplifting, and he obviously felt much better. I didn’t. Apparently all export items have to have an explanatory sticker on them. I left the poor fool wailing and Bucher had no problems. Can’t imagine even a British security gentleman intercepting as distinguished a personage as Bucher looked that morning.

 

I had planned to meet Muriel at the National Gallery. Knew it was not too far so decided to take a bus. Harrod’s doorman, an elegantly uniformed individual, directed me to the proper stop. I got myself mildly lost but found a fascinating little alley with a greengrocer and other tiny shops in the process of getting to the proper street.

Security was very tight because of the bombing and our purses were searched when we entered the gallery. Uniformed and plain-clothes police were everywhere. They outnumbered visitors.

Muriel is an artist so she was a wonderful person to visit the gallery with. Not having too much time, we started with the Impressionists, which she especially wanted to revisit and eased on through adjacent rooms. There was one marvelous moment when I was waiting for Muriel and happened to glance around, discovering that I was literally surrounded by Rembrandts. Muriel, who has been living in Holland, said that they weren’t especially good ones, but that didn’t dampen my delighted awe.

 

We took the Tube to the Tower of London. It was my first experience. Muriel is a pro. I did well traveling with Bucher and then her. He’s an expert on buses and she loves the underground.

When we arrived at the station, Muriel decided she was starving. Set off looking for a restaurant. It was a very business-y area (if it isn’t in The City, it is on the edge of it) but two obviously office workers returning from lunch passed and, to Muriel’s horror, I stopped them to ask. They seemed delighted and couldn’t wait to explain in detail how to get to a lovely sandwich bar nearby. They left. Muriel and I looked at each other and took the next turn in the opposite direction…and stumbled onto “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese,” one of the well-known old pubs, under an overpass.

We hardly could push our way in through the downstairs, mobbed with upright men, and to the narrow stairs at the back. Upstairs there was a very pleasant lunchroom where women were welcome. For the only time on our trip we had a surly, deliberately rude waitress, which made both of us uncomfortable, but the lunch was pleasant.

I knew Muriel had been to the Tower twice before and didn’t care that much myself about the full tour. What I really wanted to see—and so did she, since she always had missed them—were the crown jewels.

They are beautifully displayed. You start through a large room with glass cases of old swords, copper, brass vessels of various sorts, costumes, honors, etc. Included the various uniforms that the Queen wears—the Garter regalia, things she was painted in, etc. Then you start walking down. And down. And down. Just as Muriel remarked that it felt like going into a bank vault we turned a corner and there were the great vault doors, open.

After enjoying the crown jewels, we wandered around a bit; Muriel commented on what we saw, based on her earlier visits. We saw the armory, encountered narrow, winding, stone staircases, climbed far down and far up to the tower.

I was tired, so we headed home.

 

I was ready for dinner before Bucher returned from his meetings. We met the Stauffers at “The Britannia” and dined together at “Simpson’s.” Don then suggested we go to a wine cellar he knew of and we careened around town until he found it, just before closing.

Tuesday, 18 June

After the full and tiring day before, we were both ready to take it easy. We didn’t see the Stauffers, who were returning to Brussels in the afternoon. Bucher had more meetings, but came home early. While he was away, I walked down to Queensway on a few errands. We had a quiet supper in the cafeteria.

That evening, we sent a TELEX to Alex, who was working on an oil rig off Scotland, to see when we could get together.

Wednesday, 19 June

Spend a leisurely morning. Much of what we wanted to see was off limits because of a bomb scare and heightened security. As we wandered, Bucher carefully steered me away from shops.

We took the Tube to Madame Tussauds, which we found to be all tacky-ed up with psychedelic pin-ball machines, vending machines, etc. Enjoyed a quick run through the exhibits.

Bucher asked if I would like to go to the zoo around the other side of the park. I was touched by his thoughtfulness, but declined.

Tube to Queensway, where we made dinner reservations at an Indian restaurant.

When we return to our hotel, Alex telephoned from the rig to say that he would come to London late Thursday or early Friday, depending on whether he got in on time from the second chopper.

We had a marvelous Indian dinner and an early night.

Thursday, 20 June

Shopped for presents at Harrod’s. Bucher spent the happiest time browsing in the meat and cheese departments.

After lunch in a pub in the theatre district, we took in a matinee, No Sex, Please, We’re British, which was light and amusing with marvelous comedic timing.

As on most of our leisure days, we watched the World Cup on TV in the hotel room.

We dined at the Charcoal Grill so that we would be nearby in case Alex arrived.

Friday, 21 June

Alex arrived about 10:00 am. He looked marvelous but thin.

We all took a taxi to Sloane Square to get a rental car, then set out on a tour of the Royal Docks. I was surprised to discover that they are locks. A horse and rider on a small bridge in the dock area looked bucolic. When he discovered that I was having a guided tour of Limehouse, he kept suggesting that we stop at the pub, much to Alex’s dismay.

In Greenwich, we toured the Cutty Sark and then went to a lovely old pub now named “The Gypsy Moth.” A highlight for me was a Cockney man whose Golden Retriever picked up its own leash to follow him and then sprawled across the threshold.

We ended the day with dinner at Simpson’s.

Saturday, 22 June

Leisurely day. We visited Westminster Abbey and did some exploring, but the Abbey itself was closed for a service.

We stopped at a discount department store that Alex found in Queensway. Alex bought three pairs of slacks and I bought a gold necklace that is just right to fill in the V-neck of my tan Orlon shirtwaist.

Jennifer met us for drinks in the evening and we gave her the shawl I bought for her at Harrod’s as thanks for all her help with our accommodations. After that, Bucher and I took Alex for dinner at the Hungarian restaurant that Don had introduced us to.

Sunday, 23 June

We left early to drive to Camberley and from there, set off for Winchester with the Grattons in their caravan. John took us on a lovely drive on country roads. We stopped in a beech wood for a wonderful a picnic lunch—salmon, green salad, sausages, potato salad, strawberries.

We saw Winchester Cathedral and then Winchester College, with boys in their college robes. (John is an Old Wykehamists, as former pupils are called.) My impression of Winchester is flint buildings outlined in brick throughout the area.

 

Back at the Grattons’ for the night. Anne and I visited in the kitchen while cooking and the men talked boats, etc. over drinks. Highlights of the dinner were lamb chops and then the fresh strawberries for dessert. It was a delightful visit throughout the evening.

We spent the night in a pleasant guest room with bedding appropriate for below-zero weather, in concession to the Scotts.

Monday, 24 June

We said goodbye to the Grattons and started early for our drive through Southampton to Portsmouth, where we caught the ferry for a short, smooth ride to the Isle of Wight. On the island, we stopped at an old but touristy pub. Drove along the coast. Saw the harbor, which interested Alex. On to the tourist area for a lunch of the most amazing—and excellent—prawn-on-brown-bread sandwiches.

Drove around half the island through gorgeous country, past beautiful farms, then close to the coast where we could enjoy views of the sea and the chalk cliffs. Periodically we were unnerved to meet huge “luxury coach” tour buses at curves on narrow roads. Bucher was concerned at their apparent lack of structural strength because of the large windows.

We returned on a larger, newer ferry, where we had drinks in the spacious bar of the top deck, enjoying the view.

We drove along the coast to Old Bosham, one of several small peninsulas between Portsmouth and Chichester, where we spent the night. The old inn was full, but we found a beautiful small hotel in an old building. The entrance was white throughout with white carpets. Each room was decorated like a private guest room. Ours was red with red-pink-and-green flowered full-length draperies over glass curtains. The large bath was trimmed with a line of decorator tiles. The floor-to-ceiling window next to the john was a bit unnerving.

After settling in our rooms, we met for drinks on the lawn at Alex’s request. He spent much of the time investigating a small boat on a trailer nearby. The bar was attractive, white with bamboo and yellow trim.

We shared a beautiful dinner and then Bucher and I had an early night. Alex told us the next day that he had stayed up a bit longer, watching TV in the lounge next to his room.

Tuesday, 25 June

Another early start. After a nice breakfast in the hotel, we returned to Portsmouth. First stop was the Portsmouth History Dockyard, to see Admiral Horatio Nelson’s flagship, H.M.S. Victory. The crowds were so thick that we did not go aboard, but walked around her to see as much as we could. After that, we toured the National Museum of the Royal Navy.

The drive back to London was lovely, mostly through woods with some long vistas of the Downs. We stopped in Chelsea at Alex’s request. Found some houseboat moorings along the Thames. The houseboats were lovely with many elaborate “gardens” of pots and planters.

At dinner in the Charcoal Grill, Alex took one bite of his Filet Bearnaise and said, “You mean you had me listening to Gypsy violins when this was here all the time?” We ended the evening with Irish Coffee.

After dinner, we went back to our room, talked, and watched TV; by chance we caught a gloriously English show on traditional sculling races.

We said goodbye to Alex, who was to leave on the 6:00 am plane on Thursday and the next day had to see a solicitor about leasing a flat.

Wednesday, 26 June

We spent a leisurely morning on this rainy day. Turned in our rental car. Stopped by Harrods to get a gift for the Grattons. After much searching, we found a Royal Doulton black cocker spaniel— unfortunately male. We hoped for a figurine that looked like the Gratton’s cocker, Eartha, whom we had come to know when they lived in Belize. No problem! Anne later wrote thanking us for sending the “husband for Eartha.”

I continued shopping to use up the balance of the £100 that we must spend to qualify for the Personal Export VAT refund. Found a beautiful long coral-print dress with pleated skirt.

The afternoon was devoted to packing. By late afternoon, the skies had cleared and we returned to the Indian restaurant for dinner. This time by chicken tandoori was beautifully tender.

Thursday, 27 June

More rain. Jennifer insisted that we leave early for Heathrow because the previous day there had been a snap inspection, searching all incoming cars, passengers, and baggage. We learned later that this was repeated as part of security for some international dignitary (Rabin?) who arrived a couple days later.

A nice young taxi driver took us to the airport. We encountered no security—I’ve never been through an airport so rapidly. A young British Airways man took us to the Customs officer for inspection of our personal export items, which were all together in Bucher’s briefcase, except for the Burberry, which he was wearing, of necessity.

The British Airways flight was delightful. We left London at 11:00 am local time and arrived Miami at 5:30 pm local time. That meant we’d get a full night’s sleep. We watched a good movie, had an excellent lunch, another movie, and a drink. We were served tea far too soon after one drink and two hours before landing. Those last two hours were very tiresome for two tired elderlies.

We checked into the Columbus, our favorite Room 704. TACA was closed so we were unable to reconfirm our flight back to Belize the next day.

Friday, 28 June

TACA reported they had no space for one week. TAN had no space until Tuesday. TACA from New Orleans had no space until Tuesday or Wednesday. We were already packed, so we went to the airport to try to go standby.

Five minutes before departure an official announced that, “Probably all 30 of you standbys will ride.” Then doors opened and 30 late ticketed passengers arrived. Bucher retrieved our bags; I check us into the International Airport Hotel.

 

We should have tried standby on TAN’s 6:00 am flight the next day but didn’t…We eventually made it home. The problems on this last short leg didn’t tarnish the glow of a wonderful trip.