Day 4 -- Bluebell Day

This was to be a railway day in the country. The historic Bluebell Railway runs southwest of London. If you have seen BBC period dramas, you have undoubtedly seen the antique Bluebell and its preserved stations.

Here is the ramp entrance, not to the train, but to an antique railroad car that has been converted into an atmospheric tea room.

We decided it must be tea time. Notice the flowers, so typical of Britain.

This was our English Tea for the week, plain scones with fixings and tea in a flowered pot. Simple and delicious.

One of several informal money-makers for the Bluebell enterprise.

Waiting for the Bluebell, Roy meanwhile recorded some of the old-fashioned fittings.

Old fashioned posters, too.

And here's the Bluebell steam locomotive. I was enchanted. 

Not the best of photos, but I wanted to remember that even the workmen on the train played the historic part, including old-fashioned oil cans, thermoses, and lanterns.

The slow-moving panorama revealed through the train's window was rural, agricultural England.

We passed many farms. Some, like this one, displayed an up-to-date panache. Others were like a scene from Cold Comfort Farm.

More rolling, verdant countryside. The crop had been picked, but the sheep in the distance go right on cropping and picking.

Sheep, sheep everywhere, and power transmission, too.

We passed what appeared to be train graveyards, but were really waystations for old rolling stock waiting to be renovated and brought back into use, a volunteer activity.

 Antique signalman's hut.

 And a signal tower.

Proud keeper of railway peace.

Yes, this is surreptitious, a set the camera on the tabletop photo. The Bluebell's cars were mostly reserved for a seniors' outing, but our car carried a number of young families. This was a sweet grouping, but some others rivaled Willie Wonka's obnoxious families.

A station on the Bluebell. If you have seen even one BBC period drama, you probably have seen a Bluebell train and station, this one or similar.

Everyone left the train at this final stop. The crowd is heading toward a tea room.

Another view of the terminal and two Bluebell trains.

Polite prohibitions are the order of the day in Britain.  

So, if you cannot walk down here to watch the engine being switched, you . . . 

. . . climb to the viewing bridge, stationed midway along the train.

Ready to return toward London, the engineers head for the locomotive. I caught them in mid-stride, mid-arm-swing; you'll have to take my word for it that the man on the right carried an old-fashioned lunch bucket.

Back in London, the Bluebell reality fades into a dream. What a juxtaposition of architectural styles!

Above, is the urban garden, featuring palm trees, where we ate our rural repast --- Cornish pasties (really good), sold from a London storefront. That pilloried jacket in the middle photo is a sculpture.

We rode a bus along the Embankment, eventually passing You Know What landmark.  Roy had climbed to the upper deck, but I was too pooped at the moment to do more than grab the first open seat. In less than a minute, however, I was back snapping photos out the window. Soon, someone passed a note up to me. What is going on here? On reading, it was a message from a Mexican woman asking if I would email her copies of my "pretty pictures".  Her letterhead said "UK Presidency of the EU 2005" (how ironic, post-Brexit), so the message seemed legit. I turned and gave her a thumbs up and we smiled. Later, when Roy came down, I told him about the woman; I turned to look for her but she must have departed out the side or rear door.  I have emailed her -- twice.  No response, as yet.

Revived by the bus ride, we are back on foot headed toward Covent Garden. I don't want to ride a motorcycle, but I've always enjoyed photographing them. These London toffs are wearing raincoats.

There was not as much spectacular fashion as I had hoped, outside the ethnic communities, but I did enjoy following this walking flower garden.

Covent Garden, outside the Museum of Transport shop (we arrived too late in the day to go into the museum).  I was intrigued by these empty strollers.  Where were the children?  There was a loudly singing busker, but no children in sight.

We walked to Trafalgar Square, which would be totally unrecognizable due to scaffolding, were it not for The statue and monument, rising ou of a sea of canvas (not shown).

I will leave you with two lovely stories, which have no photos. 

On returning to Charing Cross Station after our Bluebell adventure, I wanted to use a restroom. It proved to be quite a convoluted hike into the basement, and I arrived only to find entry required 50 p. I showed what few English coins I had in my pocket to a young man who was just about to drop his coin in the slot. He gallantly handed me his 50 p. and smiling back at me he vaulted over the turnstile, disappearing into the men's room. Thank you, kind stranger. As I wrote in my journal that evening, Though hard to find, at least the washroom was clean and fresh.

Earlier that day, I had taken a seat by a well-dressed woman staffing a charity stall in the middle of a busy train station lobby. We struck up a conversation while Roy was buying tickets, and I bought a little stuffed bear in a bag to support those British veterans. Her partner, in uniform, was collecting cash donations a few yards away. Roy had a talk with her too, as he is a British vet, and bought a pen (which had enough ink to write about three words, no more). Later in the day, when we came dragging back through that same lobby, she was there still, perky as in the morning, still selling what was left of her wares.



 


 






 















 

Day 5 - Off to a Non-touristy mecca

My husband's parents are buried in the London Cemetery, and I encouraged his desire to visit their graves. This adventure led to one of our most delightful encounters with the living.

After yet another hearty breakfast at the Imperial College dining hall, we headed for an east-bound train. On the left, notice the now overgrown, former community garden. But notice, too, the wonderful tracery on the columns.

I don' find it easy to photograph the homeless, but this young man was so appealing that I made the effort to capture him with his dog.  The dog lay contentedly by the man's feet, and was provided with a clean dish of food and one of water -- and a loving hand to keep him company.

 

The train ride was followed by a bus ride through a rather rundown neighborhood. This woman's outfit in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures caught my eye.

The bearded gentleman, a gateguard-slash-docent, provided top-grade hospitality at the cemetery. He had traveled to America years ago, and indeed had seen many more parts of the country than I had. And he could commiserate with us about the trick tires on our rented car (from Day 1 blog).  Although the detailed database of the cemetery is not available on weekends, he was able to give us directions to the general vicinity where the Barnacle parents were interred. We set off on foot . . .

The above series is typical of the front, older section of the cemetery. Graves and their stones are sometimes still tended by family, but many are not. You can see a glimpse of one of the funeral chapels. Due to unusually dry conditions, London had experienced an early leaf-fall, especially apparent in this near-arboretum.

Now, we enter the more modern section of the cemetery, where smaller stones in great variety are set in orderly, close-packed rows. Here, there had been visitors to many graves, leaving all sorts of mementos.

We searched diligently through three sections, but found no Barnacles.  We know they are there, and look forward to a future visit, armed with specific locations from numbers on the official map.

Above:  A rose tree, so typical of the English, beautifying a grave. We chose to sit here, on a bench in the cemetery's "back 40" to eat our lunch, the rest of a scrumptious Cornish pasty, leftover from yesterday. Then, Roy enjoyed seeing the yew trees, so familiar from his youth. And third, part of the display at the front gate flower shop.

Looking back at the front entry to the London Cemetery, shrouded, as are so many historic places in London, in scaffolding for restoration.

The following are scenes from our subway ride back into the heart of London:

 Most of the underground platforms sport these Help Points, of obvious usefulness.

I call London "Pram City."  Babies were everywhere. This dad skillfully juggled baby and recalcitrant pram, while keeping upright in the swaying tube carriage.

Self-explanatory.  We had the privilege of attending Evensong at St. Paul's cathedral, both a respite from and a highlight of our on-the-go vacation.

This was the day we encountered actual rain. I purposely did not tell you of our post-cemetery attempt to visit a transportation museum -- trip aborted. But we did enjoy our one restaurant meal of the vacation (thanks to Roy's clever use of our first class rail tickets and the ready availability of good take-out here and there). This popular and colorful Lebanese restaurant is near our dorm. Because of the rain, the line to eat inside appeared to be interminably long, so we opted to eat at the outside cafe. The restaurateur is clever, too, having installed heat lamps (hence the orange glow) that dry customers off more quickly than the rain can fall.

There are no pictures from my evening, doing laundry. The College residence halls were emptying of summer tourists and filling with incoming freshmen. In the basement, I was alone while figuring out the "foreign" coin laundry machines, but as other people came in I was able to act as knowing concierge. I gave some laundry soap to a grateful young Chinese woman, who seemed as though she had never had to do her own laundry before. 

On the way back to my residence hall, I was able to help a Chinese family -- Dad, Mom, and freshman son -- not only find their dorm, but learn how to use the card entry system. A strange feeling came over me, however, hoping they had not had to abort any daughters to get to this point of family life with their bright son.

This is not a good note for ending a post. Let's see. Oh, at supper at the rain-challenged restaurant we had met a Polish couple, residents of Bristol. After we left, the young man chased after us to return the spectacles I had dropped. Friendly people everywhere.