Art for Art's Sake - Part 3

Amanda loves the sea, and feels wistful if she stays away for too long.  We have friends who adore the wilds of Northumberland, and others who feel drawn to travel far and wide to foreign climes. Me - I love London, and many of the reasons are encapsulated in this composite picture taken from Room 1113 this morning:

Ironically, Westminster Bridge can't be seen, but I still think Wordsworth said it best, over two hundred years ago:

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 

Of course, in addition to the romance of every street, building and monument telling a thousand different stories, reaching back hundreds of years, there are still elements that appeal to the little boy in me.  Back in 1959, another holiday outing involved a river trip to the Tower of London. There, surrounded by 900 years of history, was I drawn to the cannon, the armour, the Beefeaters, the Crown Jewels? No. I was drawn to watch carefully as builders hoisted a wheelbarrow out of the moat with a block and tackle, while my Dad, my Aunt Peggy and sister Mary looked on:

Plus ça change.  As I zoomed in on various parts of the cityscape I noticed that, just below the skyscraper known variously as "20 Fenchurch Street" or "The Walkie-Talkie", men were moving around on a roof. Ten minutes later I was still watching as two of them were strapped into a cradle and swung over the side of the building...

Enough of such distractions. Once again we had pictures to see. Once more we breakfasted at Pret a Manger on Piccadilly, where this time our attention was concentrated on the modest corner shop next to Hatchards - Fortnum and Mason.  In particular, we could not believe that we had never before noticed the Lynn Chadwick figures above the door - until a Google search confirmed that they were a relatively new addition.

Breakfast completed, we headed out. The day before, Amanda had noticed Maison Assouline just across the road.  Their website claimed that "Assouline is the premier brand on luxury, offering a wide variety of books and more. Browse through books on art, travel and fashion for the best reads". It sounded just the place for a couple of bibliophilic retired gentlefolk to while away 45 minutes before heading off to our next exhibition. We lasted perhaps 75 seconds before realising that Maison Assouline was far more interested in being a bar than a serious bookshop, that the only tomes on sale were from their own catalogue, and that these were both over-priced and overweight.

We made our escape and, as is our wont when in that part of London, strolled through Burlington Arcade, wherein the schoolboy within me is forever tempted to whistle, just because I know that it is not allowed.

Having had my fill of gazing longingly through windows at £600 shawl-collar cashmere cardigans reduced to £400, we made our way to the Royal Academy, where we had tickets for admission at 11.15 to see the America after the Fall: Painting in the 1930s exhibition.

This lived up to expectations, and the famous American Gothic was as striking as it was intriguing.  The exhibition had opened for the first time only a couple of hours earlier, and the galleries were more crowded than I would have liked; there were also a couple of times when my "pseudo-intellectual bullshit" detector threatened to go off-scale as one gallery visitor tried to out-do another in their artistic one-upmanship but, these niggles aside, I would happily go again and am pleased to recommend it.

Out into the RA courtyard, where we observed a couple of (unidentified) big-wigs being chauffeured up to the front door.

With two or three hours to kill before our train departed we strolled back through Piccadilly Circus and Charing Cross Road.  On to Cranbourn Street to yet another Pret a Manger, where we sat and watched the crowds go by while we ate (and I noticed that the newsagent across the road was called Cranbourne News and wondered who was responsible for the errant 'e').

Out onto Cranbourn Street and we nabbed a quick picture of the memorial to Agatha Christie.  Not the best photo, but I was struggling not to capture the two tourists who had decided that this was the perfect place to dump their bags, smoke their fags and make their calls while leaning against the monument.

Back to Trafalgar Square and then along Pall Mall, from where we wended our way back to St James, pausing for a quick drink and a rest in The Chequers Tavern almost adjacent to the hotel. Bags collected, we accepted the bell-boy's offer to hail us a cab, which whisked us to Euston (train services via St Pancras being replaced by buses on some stretches of the route) where we caught the train and thence arrived home without incident, exhausted but happy.

Art for Art's Sake - Part 2

Up and out, to breakfast at a nearby Pret a Manger, where we occupied window seats overlooking Hatchards.  

Then a leisurely walk through St James, down to and across The Mall and into St James's Park. Inevitably when I walk through this park my mind goes back to a day in August / September 1959:

It was the end of a hard day of sight-seeing (including waving to Harold MacMillan and Dwight Eisenhower as they were driven down The Mall after visiting HMQ) and my sister Mary wanted to ensure that I had not lost her pocket money, which she had entrusted to my care earlier in the day.

Today, however, we had places to be and pictures to look at, so we pressed on - pausing only to admire this little chap perched high above us:

A quick cab ride completed the last part of the journey (we were conserving energy for what we knew would be a long day) and arrived at our destination:

The Hockney exhibition lived up to its promise, and the complimentary hot drinks included in the combined ticket price (along with some exorbitantly expensive food) fueled us for the Nash exhibition, which was equally enjoyable.

Out onto Millbank, and of course we had to check out the MI6 headquarters on the opposite bank of the Thames.

From here a leisurely stroll along the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and up Whitehall took us to Trafalgar Square, where another Pret a Manger provided another quick snack.

Across the Square, up to Charing Cross Road, where we called into Cass Art and tried to resist temptation. I find it quite amazing that someone as lacking in artistic ability as I should be so tempted by pens, pencils, notebooks etc - I suppose it must be the frustrated writer in me, as I have no inclination at all to draw or paint.  Past the Garrick Theatre (where, many, many moons ago, Mum took Mary and me to see Brian Rix farces), across the road and through Cecil Court, which still excites, but perhaps not as much as it did 20 and more years ago.

Along St Martins Lane and on into Seven Dials and Covent Garden, window shopping mainly, but also checking out the pens and stationery in Muji and in the London Graphic Centre (do you sense a theme developing?). On and through the Covent Garden central square, where the vocal attempts by the jugglers and acrobats to get the crowd to part with their money were as well rehearsed as the more physical aspects of their acts.

By now it was mid-afternoon, and feet were beginning to complain and stomachs to rumble. Where to go for our 'main' meal of the day?

In 1965 Joe Allen opened his eponymous restaurant in New York. Twelve years later its sister restaurant opened on Exeter Street in Covent Garden, and has been there ever since. It was forty years since I first read a review of the UK Joe Allen's (probably in Time Out) and vowed to go - and in all that time I never had.  Why?  Largely because in the early days it was always touted as a hangout for extremely cool and trendy people, which seemed to preclude me. Years passed, and I never quite got around to overcoming my innate diffidence - until today.

Compared to its early years, when Joe Allen's announced its presence on the street by means of a small polished brass name plate and nothing else, these days it positively shouts a welcome by means of a red awning and matching overhead sign. We took the stairs down, asked the maitresse d' for a table and were shown through into the dining room, with its famous bare brick walls and tables elegantly laid with crisp white linens.

What to choose?  Amanda opted for salmon with mashed potatoes and spinach. I knew that one of the worst kept secrets about Joe Allen's is that you can ask for a (no longer secret at all) secret "not on the menu" burger - which I did with an air of aplomb that suggested this was a daily occurrence.  "Bacon and cheese?" asked the waitress; I nodded insouciantly.

So how was the whole experience?  After forty years of anticipation I confess that I was more than a little concerned that my first visit would call to mind the old joke about the groupie who set out to sleep with every major rock star in the world. After each tryst she would opine, "He was good, but he was no Mick Jagger". Finally, she got to spend the night with the great man; when asked about the experience the next morning she replied, "He was good, but he was no Mick Jagger...".  

I need not have worried. While fireworks did not explode, nor the earth move, during our first time in Joe Allen's, it was a memorably enjoyable visit, and one that will be repeated when time and funds allow. (Of course, with impeccable timing and luck, three days after returning from London I read that the building currently occupied by the restaurant is in the process of being purchased for the creation of a new boutique hotel to be added to Robert de Niro's portfolio, and that JA's will be relocating. Looks like I got my first visit in just in time...)

Out to push through the thickening crowds of workers piling into shops, pubs and bars at the end of the working week.  We worked our way back up to Charing Cross Road and Foyles, where temptations were resisted, and thence on to Piccadilly and back to The Cavendish, where we collapsed.

Art for Art's Sake - Part 1

Our latest sojourn in London was prompted by an email from The Cavendish London last October. We don't claim any extensive knowledge of London hotels, but some time ago we decided that The Cavendish was "our" hotel, and we have stayed there many times. Of course, when we first started visiting we were both working, and London hotel prices had not yet gone through the roof. Nowadays, as retired gentlefolk in more straitened times, we tend to restrict our visits to those occasions when the hotel emails us to announce a sale on room prices...

Having consulted diaries and identified a suitable date for the minimum two-night stay required by the offer, we checked to see what would be 'on' while we were in the capital, and discovered that our visit would coincide with a David Hockney retrospective at Tate Britain. The later realisation that the gallery would also be hosting an exhibition by Paul Nash at the same time was a cherry on the trifle. The even later realisation that the Royal Academy exhibition America After the Fall: Painting in the 1930s was opening on the day that we were due to leave London, and that we would have time to visit it before catching our train, was then a sparkler stuck in the cherry...

And so, with hotel, exhibitions and trains all booked, bags packed and an air of expectation about us, we arrived at Leicester station at 09.30 - where we encountered Doris.  The departures board appeared to show every single train as "delayed" or "cancelled", and a quick check confirmed that no trains were running into London following the collapse of a power line.  What to do?  "How important is it that you get to London today?", we were asked.  With non-refundable hotel and exhibition bookings we expressed a strong desire to travel.  "Get the first available train to Nuneaton", we were told, "and then get the first available train from there to Euston". So we did. Except we didn't.  

I suppose there were colder places in the UK than Nuneaton station that morning, but probably not many.  With so many travel plans in disarray, the waiting rooms were packed and we elected to stand on the platform for the 30 (and then 45 and then 60) minutes until our connection arrived. But wait - we were told that the 10.46 from Nuneaton would get us to Euston, and now the board was saying that the (much delayed) 10.46 would terminate at Rugby. Perhaps there were two 10.46s from Nuneaton?  There were not - an announcement informed us that the service had been suspended due to the presence of "a fifteen foot shed on the line".

Once again consulting the hard-pressed railway staff we were advised to get the first train to Coventry and then change there for the first train to Euston. So we did - eventually; a UK-wide speed limit of 50mph was being enforced on all rail lines. 

And so finally we arrived at Euston. I'm sure that I was not the only passenger tempted to break into loud applause for the driver on our (eventual but safe) arrival. However, recalling that we were not American, we simply stiffened our upper lips and waded out onto the platform to whatever greeted us - which was this.

Adopting the demeanour of chirpy but ultimately doomed Brooklyn GIs in a 1950s war film we put our heads down, thrust our bags in front of us and charged: "Coming through. Make a hole. Hey Mac - get outta the way!".

Our taxi got us to The Cavendish at precisely the time we were supposed to be entering the Hockney exhibition. Kudos and gratitude, then, to the young lady in the Tate Britain box office who answered my call, consulted her supervisor and agreed to swap our tickets for 10.30 the next morning - even though the advance-sales allocation for that day had already been filled.

With hunger and the effects of 6 hours travelling beginning to take its toll, we headed out of the hotel in search of sustenance. Not that it was much of a search - in such circumstances only one place would do - Bodeans. 

One of the myriad ways in which I am so lucky in my choice of life partner is that, although she herself has mature tastes and a refined palate, Amanda is always happy to indulge my love of food of a somewhat humbler nature.  And so it was that we found ourselves in the basement, tucking into a "jumbo hot dog and fries" (Amanda) and the "burnt ends and pulled pork combo with fries" (me) - as well as an extra portion of fries, ostensibly "for the table" but in reality for me alone (it had been that sort of day).  

Sated, we eventually rolled out into Soho and thence to Piccadilly. At Hatchards we had a good mooch and I picked up a signed early birthday present for Amanda (don't panic - it's an early purchase, not a secret one).

And so to bed.