Posts Tagged ‘London’

Sunday, 13 July 1975 continued

After the Petticoat Lane and Club Row markets, I took a bus intending to go to Hampstead Heath, but it passed by Hyde Park and then I remembered, seeing the crowds—Speakers Corner!  So off I hopped and strolled around the park a bit.

Hyde Park, with the lawn showing the long drought.

view from Hyde Park

And then I walked into the thick of Speakers Corner.


It was 3 o clock then and I did not leave till 10:45 PM!  At Speakers Corner on Sunday, all the oddballs and thrill seekers come out to a) save the world, b) talk politics, c) give speeches about the inferiority of anyone non male or non white or non Gentile or d) spread their religion or e) scream and yell and argue and verbally cut up everyone possible. 

The corner of the park is full of various sized knots of people, either one speaker with lots of  listeners,  or (most common) one speaker with several hecklers, or an argument with lots of listeners craning to see if it will break out into a fight. 

two bobbies keeping a watchful eye

There were some nice speakers, like an old woman leading a sing along.

 Something about it was glorious, perhaps because the audience was loudly heckling and not letting the mean speakers get away with saying nasty things.

I wondered if some of the men giving mysogynistic speeches dispose of their misogyny here without doing anyone physical harm.  I really saw the disgusting side of people.  Lots of “anti-commies”.  I was shocked at the anti-Semitism, as I observed in three groups.  I yelled something in objection and a speaker told me, “If you are Jewish, your day is over.”  In one group, a heavily made up orangey-powdered woman was told by another woman, “You’re a Jewess” (made to sound vile). “I’m a cockney born in London,” the highly offended target screeched back.  I started to rethink my desire to live in London!  My romantic image of the city had been well cracked.

This German man asked me to take a photo of him and his daughter and mail it to him, so I did.

Later in the evening, I witnessed another incident.  While walking around a religious group, and returning for the second time to listen in amazement to an Indian man talking about American women (although when an American woman tried to tell him he was misinformed, he yelled at her to shut up as she “didn’t know what she was talking about”), I saw a huge pink and orange flower being held up in the centre of another group.  I wormed my way up to its source and found a man who had gone absolutely beautifully insanely gloriously mad.  He used to be William, he made no secret of that, but one night he was standing by the window of his flat when lightning filled the room and he knew he was the reincarnation of Jesus. 

His best friend Marko agreed.  Now this tall young man with stringy blond hair, an ugly-beautiful smile, a soft voice, dressed in tattered wizard clothes, holding an enormous paper flower and a sign which read “WE ARE INOCENT  I NEED HELP TO REMAIN ON THIS PLANET AND MAKE PEOPLE HAPPY  I AM A NATURAL PERFORMER  ALL THE SAME AGE.


He looked gorgeous to me.  He had hecklers— one an old, eccentric man, one a middle aged man in a suit who had a similar cohort.  The man in a suit kept making mildly obscene motions (lifting Jesus/William’s robe and so on) and making mildly amusing remarks. 

William/Jesus’ audience

The main in the suit kept on pawing and shoving and heckling Jesus/William and he did not get mad!  He produced a bongo drum and beat on it and chanted an innocuous little song.  Then the old man swiped his tambourine and played it rather well.


Later, the middle aged suited man swiped Jesus/William’s flute-recorder and heckled Jesus/William to play it and so he did—a lovely tune—lovely. 

Suit man danced, a bit sarcastically, but not entirely so.  By now, Jesus/William had a large crowd.  He held out his long-stemmed flower for us to smell. He had scented it like jasmine.  I smelled it, he smiled at me, and I was moved.  Someone threw him a long pink carnation, which the old man ended up keeping.  A heckler said, “You’ve got them all spellbound!” and it was true.  I was quite smitten with the strange insane prophet of a man because he so sweetly did not get mad at anyone.  He kept asking what time it was, which was rather out of character—as if he had an important appointment to keep.  I felt sad when he left and felt quite like following him home.

Later, a short bearded man wearing a turban stopped me and asked if he could take my photograph.  I’d been taking close ups, rather rudely, all day, click click click, so I acquiesced and he took several.  I felt embarrassed.  Then he said he’d show me his other telephoto lenses and he wanted to take the lens off my camera.  I said no, and some boys who were standing around by then said, “If she says no, she means no.”  I felt better when the boys went away.  He showed me his lens and some of his photos—they were good, not dirty as I had feared (from a learned distrust of strange men).  Unfortunately, he spoiled the friendly moment by telling me he had had only one woman in all his 30 years and that he did not like the way women were always after his money, and that he lived with his parents who would not let him bring any girls home since he did not want to get married, and that he went to a photo school where he “mostly took photos of fashion dresses.” 

I finally escaped him (temporarily) by joining another group listening to a fellow who had previously been talking about police immorality and was now onto cosmic infinity and what is reality, and then I joined another group and an Indian man called to me and introduced me to a group of young Americans, three beautiful woman and two men—very embarrassing.  He then trotted off, delighted with himself.  One of the  American men was so pleasant that we hung around together for a couple of hours.  We wondered if we could start a group, and sure enough, as soon as the pleasant American man got up on a soap box and we started talking to each other in that context, we gathered an audience and two hecklers.  So we let one of the hecklers, an elderly woman, get up on the box.  She started telling us all about politics and religion and unfortunately soon segued into anti-Semitism. She told me that I asked intelligent questions.  “I’m Jewish”, I told her, wanting to make a point, and she suddenly completely ignored me. Her audience seemed to realize the ridiculous nature of her diatribe.  She soon became irked with an incoherent heckler and off she went.  I was disheartened to have been pulled back into the orbit of someone so prejudiced, after the kind nature of the Jesus/William man.

Two young women came to me and said “We’re Christians!” and one poked my headband and said only “artists and immoral people wear headbands in London” and that it looked peculiar.  I extricated myself and was surprised to see how late it was, and returned to the hostel with many gloomy thoughts about the undercurrents of prejudice swirling through the speeches in the park.

[The Speakers Corner tradition still goes on today.  Read this fascinating article about someone who has been following it since 1977.]

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from a retrospective series of a trip to the UK when I was 20, recreated with travel journals, letters home, and photos

Sunday, 13 July 1975

Petticoat Lane Market

I left the hostel at 9:30 for the Petticoat Lane market.  I’d read of it in a newspaper clipping that my mother had given me.  It spread out spider fashion over several streets.  I found a pair of socks for 50p, bright blue and white and I like them.  One vendor was selling multicolour rainbow candles and pottery candle holders. Another, “joss sticks” (incense) for only a few pence.  Other items for sale: “Motzart” records, “Supermarc”, “Tea shirts”.

I remember looking hard for a building where I could climb to an upstairs view.


Petticoat Lane market



Sights like this startled me.


I was more used to this sort of market vendor.



By 11;30, the market had become very crowded.  I felt so sad that I would soon be leaving crazy London far behind. 

Club Row Market

I went up a few blocks to the Club Row market and found that it mostly sold live animals and birds.  There, kittens and fishes, puppies and pigeons and songbirds are sold in one part, and clothes and fruit and veg in the other.  When I came to a booth of shaggy collie type puppies, I saw a lovely scene of three children hanging over the edge of the enclosure.  The cockney stall keeper shoved the children aside saying, “Don’t bother the dogs!” and he then stretched out his arm in a friendly way to avoid, I suppose, giving a bad impression.

[2018: I just read that Club Row market got closed down in the 1980s because of controversy over animal cruelty.  You can read its history in this excellent article.]


Club Row Market

Next: on the same day, Speakers Corner

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a retrospective series about a trip to the UK when I was 20 years old, recreated from journals, letters, and photos (I have relied on old slide captions so cannot guarantee the locations are correct.)

Thursday, 10 July 1975

Arriving in London after a long bus ride from Cornwall, I tried to find lodging at the YWCA where I’d stayed in June, 32 Warwick Square.  At £2 a day, it is more expensive than a youth hostel, but it was such a nice place, all women, breakfast included, near to Victoria Station.  I was tired of the funny looks and “hows” that I keep getting from men.  I tired and tried to call the YWCA, kept getting a continuous high tone instead of a ring.  Gave up and walked over.  But they were full.  Trying to not feel disappointed, I called up the Youth Hostel.  Kept getting that weird high pitched tone until the YWCA woman told me that I should not be dialing the 01 code first.

Called the biggest hostel and was told they had no room, but they would refer me to a private hostel that did.  I called that number and a man said that they did not have room but that if I’d come over, he would send me in a taxi to a hostel that did.  So off I went.  It was near Holland Park on a two train journey on the awesome underground. To get from one train to another, I had to go down the horribly scary escalator at Victoria Station, descending thousands of feet into the pit of hell.  [I’m phobic about escalators, and would always choose an elevator or stairs if I could.]  

After a bit of difficulty with house numbers (they went from 27 to 1 and then started in the 40s after the 1!), I found the hostel.  Oh, my!  In all my sheltered life, I have never been in such a place.  Dirty and disorganized, the hostel took up four houses in the terrace.  It was crammed full of beds.  The kitchen water was cut off because “the plumber is busy” and the back yard was full of tents and people walking around carrying teakettles and looking for water.  The premises overflowed with people in dirty t shirts.  (Just you try to keep a t shirt clean when traveling light!)  I did not like the look of the place at all.  I would not have liked to leave my possessions there when out for the day.

Two other women were waiting for the taxi ride.  A big beefy American man from Ithaca, named Joe, made tea for us.  A nice fellow.  When there were four women needing beds, off we went in a taxi.  Darn, it was a regular car instead of a lovely black taxi!  On the way, I heard the hostel man who had come with us saying something about $600 a day expenses, or was it $600 a month [must have been a month] and at £1.50 a head, $1000 in income.  I was thinking that it was generous of them to pay the taxi for us, which cost £1.20, but later realized that if they were getting £1.50 each from us in their chain of private hostels, it behooved them to encourage our patronage.

I wasn’t pleased when I heard the hostel was in Chelsea.  For some strange reason, I had bad ideas about that neighbourhood.  But when we got there, I was amazed.  It is on the Chelsea Embankment, right on the Thames, about 500 yards from the Albert Bridge, which is beautifully lit at night.  I paid my £1.50  and was shown to my dorm.  The hosteller said “The passageways are a rabbit warren.”  We went up a grand staircase, around a corner, to a room that has beautiful pillars and ceiling, a fireplace,  a balcony with vines on it.  It is so grand that it feels like a small ballroom.  Outside, there is a street clock to one side of the balcony.  The building has an old rickety lift that I was told still works.  There are two bathrooms with three toilets for the whole place.  The third floor bathroom is beautifully tiled.  Women and men share the same bathrooms. [I think now that someone had inherited this place and was running a hostel on the cheap or perhaps the whole situation had to do with squatting.]

Google street view today

view from the second floor; I was entranced by chimney pots

view of the Thames from my room

view from the third floor loo

view from the second floor loo of idyllic flat with greenhouse

I got a bed by the gorgeous huge double door style windows, three across the room.  Had a long wait at the bathroom and then was able to wash my hair.  (I read an old Spiderman comic while waiting.)  I went to bed and slept well.

Friday, 11 July 1975

near the Chelsea Bridge


Today I walked to Victoria Station, bought a Red Rover bus pass, went to the post office and the bank and tourist info, got a map for a present for Bird and some extra tourist booklets, found out about the St Albans market, then sightsaw at St Johns Wood [a fancy neighbourhood, perhaps reputed to be the home of a Beatle or two], the very expensive Madame Tussaud’s (worth it) and the planetarium (not worth it).

Saint Johns Wood

Saint Johns Wood

Saint Johns Wood

Saint Johns Wood

Saint John’s Wood

I saw the Changing of the Guard—great music! (must get there earlier to avoid just seeing people’s backs), Buckingham Palace, St James Park, Regents Park, the outside of the London Zoo (discount price is on Mondays, must decide if worth it), Piccadilly Circus.

Regents Park

Regents Park

I was starving, so I  bought a burger—£1 without ketchup or butter or anything—half raw.  A half hour earlier, I had bought two sausage rolls and thrown the pastry out because it was raw.  But I was so hungry that the burger tasted great.  I overheard an English man saying to another, “She must be an Indian,” and I wanted to reply (but did not), “Must be one of those rude men who can’t accept anyone who doesn’t wear a little suit and tie or a frock.”

The movie theatre marquees here are revolting.  “A Story of Rape.” “How to Seduce a Virgin.” “The Violator.”  [This creeped me out particularly because back in Seattle, I was a counselor and the statistics compiler for the rape crisis centre.]

The only example I photographed. At least it looks consensual.

[I wandered into Soho from Piccadilly Circus, not expecting what I found.] There are scores of sex shops with graphic magazines in full view in the windows and sidewalk stalls and all manner of men standing about licking their lips.

How can a London man ever get an idea of women’s equality when bombarded by this stuff? Also, the job centres advertise for “girls” and shops discriminate in their help wanted signs: “Young lady needed” and “Needed: experienced sales lady.” muttermuttermuttermuttermutter

Got back to Chelsea hostel at 9:15. Signed on to stay here through Sunday night.  Will then decide my next step.  I went to Pan Am today, and I should get the 1:10 flight on Friday, because by then I will be down to my last pence in spending money.  [Even into my early 30s, on the rare occasions when I could afford to travel by plane in the USA, I would come back with just a few coins left, and woe betide if a plane was late and no food was on offer!]

Saturday, 12 July 1975

Today I caught the 9:42 bus to St Albans, arrived 11:05, to go to the market because of Donovan’s song “There was a time…”

On a windy Saturday
St. Alban’s market day
Little did I know
the work I was to do
Or the love I had to show

Lots of clothes were on sale, no crafts, used books, painted mirrors, fruit.  Got a delicious sandwich quite cheap, of cucumber and tomato and cheese.  Ate a juicy peach and some strawberries. [One of my strongest memories of London, one that I did not write down, was how delicious the fruit was…especially the juicy peaches at the street markets.] Took photos. Walked quite a ways looking for the cathedral but got off the track and ended up in the outskirts of town.  Walked back and decided to go up the clock tower.  Very narrow stairs, round and round, getting narrower as I went up.  I did not look forward to going down.  The reward was a view (saw the cathedral three blocks away). 

St. Albans clock tower view

My caption says Verulamium Cathedral, which is not right, per Google. Verulamium is an old name for St Albans.

looking down on the St Albans market

I took a photo at the top of the tower of a young Asian man and an English girl with their instamatic.  Going down, I asked a man coming up if I could go around him on the outside (where the steps were wider and had room for my toes) because I had acrophobia.  He acquiesced. As he went on up, he said to his companion, “What’s agger-phobia, a fear of dogs?” and they both laughed.

St Albans Market


Shops all over the UK have statues of various sorts to collect for charities, from human health to homes for elderly donkeys.

I browsed around St Albans for awhile.

I then took the bus back to London and went on the underground to “Angel” in order to find the Camden Passage Antique Market which is described in “What’s on in London” as having cobblestones, boutiques, and pubs.  Got lost again, figured out later I took the wrong way from the station.  Because of cold rain, I got on a red bus as I had a Red Bus Rover Pass and rode the top deck out to Whipps Cross and back. 

I had hoped for interesting sights but just saw a regular suburb, so I went back to the hostel.  The rest of the day was nondescript although I did take a short walk along the Chelsea Embankment and became so tired that I went early to bed.

Chelsea embankment

on the Chelsea embankment

Chelsea embankment window boxes

Tomorrow: another market day

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It had long been a dream of mine to go to the UK, ever since I had first seen The Avengers with Emma Peel. In 1975, at twenty years old, I was able to go there to meet my friend Mary, who was arriving from Israel, where she had been studying. We had known each other since age 12 in Seattle.

This story will be mostly taken from a travel journal I kept and from letters that I wrote and mailed home to Seattle to friends and to my boyfriend at the time.  I carried carbon paper and made carbon copies on thin airmail paper, to keep a complete record of my journey.  I finally re-read all of it last year. I will illustrate the journey with photos taken on the trip.  I have done almost no editing of the journals and letters, and I am sure there are mistakes in place names and locations.  (The photos were slides taken with a Mamiya-Sekor SLR camera; I had them scanned about ten years ago.)

Here we go:


On the plane:  I did not think this was happening to me till just now.  Read in a magazine on the plane: A book should serve as an axe for the frozen sea within us.–Franz Kafka.

On the bus from the airport into London:  Two friendly English men, Brian and Jack, gave me helpful advice about railroads and travel.  Said not to ride on the top of double decker buses or I would get carsick. I won’t follow that advice.  If all English people are that friendly, I will have a lovely trip.  When I said I was going to Wales, as well, Jack said “The Welsh are lovely people.”

7:30 AM  I can see London out the window.  ENGLAND. [I remember all the terraced houses with long narrow gardens that we passed on the way in.]

10:10 AM  Here I am in the London underground which is like a funhouse ride.  The escalators are wooden and rickety.  The train seems to go 200 miles per hour and make an enormous racket. A cold wind precedes the train onto the platform. The train door slams shut almost before you get in, and there are no rails to protect you from falling on the track.  The trains and escalators and halls are a maze!  [Being from Seattle, I had never been on a subway before.]

on the tube

In London, 12:45 PM.  Went to three YWCA hostels before I found one where Mary had checked in.  Hot! Heavy pack!  Will be staying tonight in Hyde Park Hostel in Marylebone and Bulmore Street near Wigmore.  Am going on a two hour tour of London.  This is an enormous city, hot and crowded.  I look forward to getting into the country.

There is a dog cemetery in Hyde Park, hundreds of little gravestones.

Kensington Palace is right in the middle of London.

I saw a poster for a  Fairport Convention concert at Royal Albert Hall!

There are short telephone booths for short people.

Sign: “We regret any inconvenience caused while building work is carried out.”

Big Ben, I was told, is the name of the clock inside the tower.

Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace

After having checked into Hyde Park House (hostel) and having gone on the tour, I returned and found that Mary was not there! They had mixed her up with another Mary. I did some calling (the phones are really different here) and found that instead, she was at a hostel 5 blocks from Victoria Station where the airport bus had left me.  I made a telephone reservation and was told I must be there in two hours or the bed would be gone.  I went to Oxford Street to look for a bus and there, walking down Oxford street in opposite directions, Mary and I encountered each other!   She had been out walking all day.  We were so astonished that we just stared at each other.  She is so much browner from the Israeli sun!

Oxford Street

an odd scene at a window of an Oxford street store

near Carnaby Street, perhaps

With her help, I was able to get to the hostel on time. In the evening, we took a #2 Golders Green bus out to Golden Hills Park, a lovely huge park better than the Seattle arboretum, with a zoo of peacocks and chickens and other birds, and sheep.  The weather is hot, bright, and cloudless.  The clothes I packed are too warm!  We were going to St John’s Wood but missed the stop and went much further.  On the way back from Golder’s Green, we passed a sign for St John’s Wood and then later we passed a sign pointing in another direction saying St John’s Wood.  I am confused.  This city seems to have no straight streets in it.

For dinner, we went to a seafood restaurant [fish and chips place] and had rock salmon, wrapped in white paper to take out.  Cost 33p and a pepsi cost 10p. Before bed, we went back out to get a double order of chips for the hostel receptionist, who had had no dinner.

I am worried about how long my money will last.

A friend’s mother told me I would have a good time here because everyone speaks the same language.  But they don’t!  It is a different English and sometimes very hard to understand clerks and restaurant folks.  Mary and I can’t make ourselves understood sometimes and neither can the English folk.

view from the Warwick Street YWCA, where I did get a bed


6:30 AM  One must get up very early here for breakfast, which Mary says will be beans on toast.  Last night I meant to catch up on my sleep, but we and the woman who is in our room were talking politics instead.

Everything seems expensive here.  Today we will see if I can get discount tickets for the “Green Line” country buses.  I would like to take a bus to Elephant and Tooting just because of the name.

I bought a big bottle of orange drink, thinking it was fruit juice.  It was so sweet! I later realized it was supposed to be diluted with water.

Later: Today I went to Hampstead and Hampstead Heath, Woodgreen, Hammersmith, on an all day bus pass.  [I think that Mary was exhausted and wanted to rest for the day.] I saw some of the northern suburbs and villages and some of London city.  Met a nice man, a pensioner, on the bus, and he gave me more information about old London than the tour guide yesterday.  The Bank of England, he said, used to be called The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.  I met a friendly conductor on the #12 bus who gave me his stepfather’s number to call if we’re in London on Friday, to reserve a place on a Sunday tour to the coast—only 40p!  Big Ben just chimed two o clock…Good night.

from the scrap book of my trip


Today we went to St Albans and Hitchen and Hatfield on a Golden Rover bus pass which permitted us to ride the country coaches for only 95p.  We saw churches and cathedrals and forgot to go to Petticoat Lane for the street market.

[So many options:]

[I am pretty sure we went north of London to visit a junior high school friend who had moved from Seattle to England, some years before.  Perhaps Mary will remember if my recollection of sitting in a green garden is a true one.]


On the train to Edinburgh!  This morning, Mary got her hostel card  and we left London.  The heater is broken in this train car—stuck on HOT!  When the train conductor came through saying something about “No ‘eat”, I thought he meant we couldn’t eat our lunch here!  Two nice Scottish women shared their barley sugar candy and crackers with us.

Our destination was the Larbet, Scotland, home of our pen pals Maureen and Jean and their parents.  We don’t think we will get there today—will probably stay in Edinburgh.

The English countryside viewed from the train is all different shades of green.  Lovely houses, lots of pastures with horses, cows, and shaggy sheep, many patches of woods.  In northern England, we went through some industrial areas, not very attractive—rows of lookalike houses, smokestacks, smog.

The men in Northern England seem to have longer hair than those in London.  In London, the young men and women wear fashionable clothes and platform heels.

Just now, the conductor walked through the car, calling “Serving afternoon tea and high tea now, please! Serving afternoon tea and high tea!”  It’s 4 PM.

[When Mary and I saw the sign, below, in a Scotland train station, all of a sudden I became “Inter City Kitty” and she became “Ursula”. We decided that we were the traveling Van Heuton sisters, Ursula and Kitty. To this day, she sometimes calls me Sister Kitty.]

A Scottish train station


9 PM: We still have not made it to Larbert.  We were tired when we arrived in Edinburgh so decided to stay two nights.  Our hostel room is a beautiful bedroom on the top floor of a townhouse overlooking parks, houses, cathedrals or churches with towers, and in the distance, high hills and water (The Firth of Forth).

in Edinburgh

Incredible sunset tonight.  And the back gardens between our row of houses and the next row are tidy and colourful.  [I was not a gardener then and so my photos rarely capture the beautiful gardens.] The morning I got up at 6:30!  and watched the world awake, and I think I heard a cuckoo bird.

Our hostel was on this street.

our view

another view from our hostel

I had a thing for “Number 12 buses” because of a Donovan song that went “I saw you today, on a number 12 bus, you were going my way.”

Today, we took a bus for 40p, through Edinburgh’s New Town and along the Firth of Forth.  Then Mary went shopping while I went to Holyrood Park and climbed to King Arthur’s Seat—825 feet.  I was terrified but am very proud of myself for doing it.  I don’t think it was really dangerous—but there was a sign saying DANGER and that the park department would not hold themselves responsible for accidents.

somewhere on the way

from the Salisbury Crags

from Salisbury Castle

Holyrood Park

The sheep looked shorn.

A photo that I cannot quite place, probably Edinburgh:

In the evening, Mary and I walked on Portobello Beach till 8:30 PM.

It was beautiful.  Lots of little snails crawling around and areas with smooth pinkish grey rocks.

[I know that the next day we walked the Royal Mile and went to an excellent Children’s Museum, but sadly I have no more photos of that day. I had a limited amount of film, and I think I was trying to conserve money by not buying more.]


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On our way home from our trip to the north, we spent two days in London.

from Waterloo Bridge

from Waterloo Bridge

Ah, Waterloo Sunset remains one of my favourite songs ever. I have been an Anglophile since about age 12 so it is a thrill to me to see to see familiar place names.  Below:  London from Waterloo Bridge. I would love to see the inside of that round set of windows near the top right.

London from Waterloo Bridge

London from Waterloo Bridge

a street in Waterloo

a street in Waterloo

Chris said this was called the Diver's Helmet Building; the dome was made of copper.

Chris said this was called the Diver’s Helmet Building; the dome was made of copper.

Diver's Helmet building and street

Diver’s Helmet building and street

Covent Garden

Covent Garden

Charing Cross bookshops!

Charing Cross bookshops!

a church in Kensington

a church in Kensington

private gardens

private gardens

Above, private gardens between row houses, with a private park in the centre.  I remember having a raging migraine during this afternoon walk, so I have more memories of interesting peeks through iron gates than photos of same.

Shakespeare's Head Pub

Shakespeare’s Head Pub

I think the Shakespeare’s Head is where we met a friend named Kevin O’Donnel.  He had befriended us while visiting Seattle and we would now visit him in his home, which I recall was in Brixton (another music reference for me by the Clash, whose song Guns of Brixton made me a little scared to go to the neighbourhood…but it was fine).

Or perhaps we met at The Old Shades pub…which may or may not be a Georgette Heyer reference, she who, along with Jane Austen, was a favourite author of my old friend Bryan.

Olde Shades pub

Olde Shades pub

Below, Wyndham’s Theatre, showing The Secret of Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke from the Mystery! Sherlock Holmes series;  we went that evening.  It cost nine pounds and fifty p.

Secret of Sherlock Holmes

Secret of Sherlock Holmes

Wyndhams Theatre

Wyndhams Theatre

Jeremy Brett poster

Jeremy Brett poster

Charing Cross Bookshop by night

Charing Cross Bookshop by night

Silver Moon bookshop

Silver Moon Women’s  Bookshop

Motor Books

Motor Books

I had read an article in the New Yorker about off-beat galleries to visit in London, so here we were at the One-Off.

One Off Gallery

One Off Gallery

One Off had furniture made of metal.

One Off had furniture made of metal.

Here is a photo of Chris in the gallery; up til now you have just seen his back in photos.

in the One Off gallery

in the One Off gallery

Portobello Road

Portobello Road





taxi rank café, Portobello

taxi rank café, Portobello

And there ends a wonderful trip to England.  Some relationship problems have remained as faint memories, some still sharp, but the pleasure of traveling with a Leedsman has remained as a very good memory.

in a shop window, desirable objects, another favourite photo

in a shop window, desirable objects, another favourite photo

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