More Of the BL’s Treasures and Christmas Shopping on the High Street

Dec17

Wednesday, December 17, 2008
London

With most of my packing done, my laundry all folded away and placed in my suitcase, I put together the documents I needed for the Membership Renewal and set out for the British Library. It was such a gorgeous day…yes, I did actually say that! A gorgeous day in London in the winter is as rare as rare can be, so I was determined to enjoy it to the fullest! I didn’t have to wait too long before my documents were scrutinized, passed muster, an ID photograph clicked and my new 3-year Readers Card placed in my hand.

I set off straight away to the Riblat Gallery to see the rest of the Treasures of the British Museum (half of which I saw yesterday) and spent about an hour scrutinizing the cases devoted entirely to spiritual and religious manuscripts. Every religion was represented from Sikhism to Shinto. I saw ancient Bibles, including the Guttenberg Bible and Gospels, including the Lindisfarne Gospel. There were Persian illuminated manuscripts, Moghul ones, Maratha and Deccan ones, Sanskrit ones, Hindu and Jain texts–some in the shape of tortoises and cows. All of it was deeply fascinating. There was also a whole room devoted to the Magna Carta and I’d like to go back again, sometime in January perhaps, to study that carefully.

But retail therapy beckoned and since I haven’t shopped on the High Street at all since I first arrived here, and with so many gifts still to be purchased, I decided to hit Oxford Street and join the throng of Christmas buyers. I did find some very stylish things indeed for Chriselle and something that I hope Llew will like and then for me…though I did not intend to buy myself anything, it was just irresistible. In the HMV store, where I stopped to buy some audio visual material as gifts, I spied the entire Inspector Morse Collection, yes all 33 episodes of the series at less than 1/3 the price. The Complete Works normally cost 200 pounds and I was certainly not willing to pay that. But when I saw that it was specially priced, for a limited time only, at 65 pounds, well I have to say I succumbed and snatched it up.

My museum jaunt and my shopping spree tired me out and so I stepped into John Lewis (where the Christmas decorations are spectacular) and in the Coffee Shop, I ordered a pot of Fresh and Fruity Herbal tea which I sipped slowly with honey at a window seat while overlooking a lovely garden that stands behind Oxford Street. The skies were a clear beautiful blue and I had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually gazing out of a London window on a wintry day at such an uplifting sight. When I had quite lifted my spirits, I stepped out again and took the bus back home.

Some more packing was accomplished as I had to fit in the luxury Christmas crackers I bought to take home to Southport for our Christmas table. Then, when I was fairly sure that the 50th Golden Jubilee Commemorative tea set that I found for 10 pounds in a charity shop in Scotland was well wrapped and reasonably secure in my suitcase, I sat down to watch Reservation Road which Love Film.com has mailed me despite the fact that I have suspended my account for the month that I will be traveling.

And, I could not have watched a more appropriate film. I mean two days before I am back in picture-perfect Southport, I watched a movie that was set on the Connecticut coast. It prepared me for home and made me realize how much I’ve missed it. Last summer, when my neighbor Trish Donovan and I were on one of our daily morning constitutionals in Southport village, the entire Trinity Churchyard had been closed to the public as a film unit was in town shooting at various locations around the harbor. Trish had informed me that the name of the movie was Reservation Road and I had vowed to see it at that time.

The plot kept me spell bound. It is based around a hit and run accident that take places one dark night. A little boy is killed in a flash and the driver, who hesitates for just a little while, meaning to stop, then thinks better of it, drives away. The driver happens to be Dwight, a lawyer (played by Mark Ruffalo) who ends up taking on the case when the father of little Josh (played by Joaquin Phoenix) goes out to seek justice. As in almost all the movies I’ve seen and stories I’ve read about couples who attempt to resolve loss after the death of a child, the marriage goes through a dark patch as the father becomes obsessed with finding his son’s killer. With some superb acting and direction, the movie pulls at the viewer’s heart strings. You want justice for Josh’s parents but because you know that Dwight is not a bad guy and is dealing with his own set of emotional issues (a messy divorce and the shared custody of his son), you don’t want him to get caught either. It is certainly a movie worth seeing and one that I think I can include in my course on Grief-Management in Cross-Cultural Fiction. Be prepared to be reminded of another movie with the same theme also set on the North Atlantic coastline–In The Bedroom, which was based on the short story ‘The Killing’ by Andre Dubus III which is set in Maine and was shot in Camden.

Connecticut formed the perfect backdrop for the film. Not only is it cinematically spectacular, but the quiet suburban lifestyle is shattered by the turmoil created by this tragedy which succeeds in destroying so many lives. I can’t wait to tell Trish that I have seen the film, though I am sure she would have seen it herself by now.

And now with only two days to go before I arrive in Southport, I am looking forward tomorrow to the arrival of my friend Jenny-Lou and her daughter Kristen from New Jersey. We have tickets for a Christmas ‘panto’ (short for ‘pantomime’) in Richmond–Peter Pan, with Simon Callow (one of the country’s best-known actors playing Captain Hook). It should be a really good second last day of the year in the UK.

Harry Potter’s Platform 9 3/4, Treasures of the British Library and Holiday Concert at St. Paul’s

Dec16

December 16, 2008
Tuesday

Antony Andrews is still as gorgeous as ever. Ask me how I know that Lord Sebastian Flyte in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited is still as cute as a button and I’ll tell you that I had the good fortune of seeing him today at a star-studded gala Holiday Concert at St. Paul’s Cathedral in aid of the Cancer Research Fund. I was a guest of Bishop Michael and Cynthia Colclough and in the line-up of celebrity readers were Dame Aileen Atkins whom I saw recently at the West End in The Female of the Species and John Sargent whom the entire UK is buzzing about after his success in Strictly Come Dancing. Apart from Atkins and Andrews, however, I have to admit that I did not recognize the names of any of the other local celebrities.

This evening crowned for me the series of fabulous Advent and pre-Christmas events in the Cathedral that have truly put me in the festive spirit and allowed me to meet so many interesting folks–all guests of the Colcloughs. Tonight was extra-special because in the audience was Princess Alexandra, the Hon. Lady Ogilvy, a cousin-in-law of the Queen and a patron of the Cancer Research Foundation who swished out of the cathedral just a few feet in front of me in a resplendent gold brocade coat and fabulous glittering necklace. There was also Connie Fisher who is currently playing Maria in the London stage version of The Sound of Music and Rupert Penry Jones who read Sir John Betjeman’s poem Advent 1955. The best readings were by Atkins who did a hysterically funny version of Shirley Valentine by Willy Russel and Andrews’ extraordinarily moving reading of Captain R.J. Armes’ account of an encounter between British and German forces at the trenches during World War I in a piece entitled Christmas Truce. Punctuated by carols performed by the Vicars’ and Boys’ choirs and a number of sing-a-long songs in which the audience joined, the evening made for a fine concert indeed.

Outside on the steps of St. Paul’s, you’ d think you’d regressed to the Victorian Age for suddenly a number of characters stood before us–each seemingly had walked out from a different page of Dickens’ novels. A Beadle grandly announced the distribution of mince pies to all who cared for one. More Victorian characters on stilts entertained the crowd as they dribbled out of the cathedral, a Victorian policeman did the rounds on his Penny Farthing bicycle while blowing frantically on his antiquated whistle and Victorian vendors bearing large trays of mince pies and baskets full of chocolates distributed them around generously acquiring more supplies from a Victorian fruit cart that was parked nearby. It was all thoroughly jolly indeed and did actually make me feel as if Christmas is around the corner–which, of course it is! In keeping with the coming holiday, I made my way to the side of the Cathedral and the pathway that leads to what my neighbor Barbara calls the “Wobbly Bridge” (it’s actually the Millennium Bridge that began to wobble dangerously the day it was inaugurated!). There I took pictures in front of a towering tree strung over with aquamarine lights.

This event brought the curtain down on an eventful and busy day. After I drafted our Almeida Family Christmas 2008 letter while it was still dark outside my window, I took the bus to King’s Cross Station with the objective of seeking out Platform 9 3/4 which features in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books. This is the station from which Harry and his classmates board the train that takes them to Hogwart’s School for Wizards. Though I have read only the first book and seen the first movie in the series–Harry Potter and the Scorcerer’s Stone–my students are passionate devotees of the series and it was at their behest that I went pottering about King’s Cross Station as so many fans have done before me. In fact, now that my students have enthused me, I have decided to spend the next semester reading the rest of the series. Because so many readers have poured into the station looking for this platform, the City authorities decided to create one. I followed signs to Platforms 9, 10, and 11 and lo and behold! There was Platform 9 3/4 and a luggage cart that was in the very process of disappearing into the wall–in exactly the same way that Harry Potter and his friends find their way to the train. Of course, I had to take a picture pushing the luggage cart at this charming site. Only in London, kids, only in London…

Next, I walked along the fabulous red exterior of Sir John Betjeman’s beloved St. Pancras Station (now almost covered with scaffolding as construction to refurbish it into a five star hotel continues). It was my intention to get to the British Library to renew my Reader’s ID Card which recently expired. I had thought that producing the expired card would do the trick, but it turns out that I have to produce documents all over again proving my place of residence. Oh well, I guess I will just have to go back there tomorrow. It’s a good thing the British Library is so easy to get to on the bus.

Being at the British Library, I decided to do something I have been wanting to do for a long while–pour over the special manuscripts contained in the exhibition Ritblat Gallery under the rubric “Treasures of the British Library”. I had last perused these treasures 22 years ago when they were located in the British Museum–in the marvelous domed Reading Room in which Karl Marx scribbled his Das Kapital! In these new premises at King’s Cross, the manuscripts are exhibited in extremely dim cases in order to prevent the ink from fading completely by exposure to light. I spent an hour and a half looking at old maps drawn by cartographers in the 1300s, an excellent Shakespeare section which contained his First Folio of 1623 and a number of works by his contemporaries. There was even a leaf from a play that was jointly authored by a number of Elizabethan playwrights that is actually believed to be in Shakespeare’s own handwriting! How cool is that!!!

In the Music section, I was delighted to see scraps of original paper on which The Beatles scribbled so many of the lyrics of their most famous songs. One of them was by John Lennon who actually used the back of his son Julian’s 1st birthday card! The best part of all is that accompanying the cases which contain the manuscripts are audio extracts from musical compositions, recitations of poetry, etc. I was actually able to listen to several Beatles’ songs and then poetry as read by the poets themselves! It was quite engaging to listen to W.B. Yeats read his own poem ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ in his thick Irish brogue just as Seamus Heany read from his poem ‘Mint’ and James Joyce read an extract from his own Finnegan’s Wake. All of these writers had distinctly Irish accents which is natural, I suppose, since they were born and raised in Ireland. I heard Virginia Woolf’s voice as well in an extract from a BBC radio conversation. It was these bits that I found most fascinating.

Of course, in the literary section there were also original manuscripts of such classics as Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles (I had seen the manuscript of his Jude the Obscure at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge last month), Emily Bronte’s Jane Eyre and early stories that Jane Austen had penned as a child to entertain her family. There was also Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim written in his own handwriting (and bearing evidence of multiple attempts at revision) as well as letters from Rupert Brooke to a woman whom very few scholars knew about until recently. An hour and a half later, I had only seen half the collection and decided that I would return tomorrow as I have to go to the Reader Registration Desk again anyway. I really did want to finish perusing these manuscripts before I left for the States and I am glad I managed to squeeze it in.

Then, I went to NYU to print out some interviews (the Internet was SOOOOOO sluggish and SOOOOOO maddening this morning ) and then I was out of there and walking towards the Waitrose at Brunswick Center to buy a few food items for my Mum in Bombay. Then, off to Tesco’s to buy Llew some of the luxury Muesli he likes–only I found that the Holborn Viaduct branch does not carry it which meant I had to ride the bus to Bank Underground Station where I found it.

With only a couple of days to go before I leave for the States, I am shopping frantically and trying to organize my packing. I have to pack one suitcase to carry to the States and leave one packed suitcase here in my flat. After spending Christmas with my family in Southport, Connecticut, I will board a flight from JFK on the morning of December 26, arrive at Heathrow that evening, spent one night in my London flat before I leave for Heathrow again the next morning, December 27, to board another flight to Bombay. The packed suitcase will then go with me to Bombay. Complicated enough for you????

The last two days have been spent running last-minute errands, transcribing taped interviews and printing them out, filling in grade sheets and handing them in, making phone calls and sending out email messages in order to set in place appointments with my Anglo-Indian subjects for the end of January and the beginning of February. I am proud to say that in the process of two months, despite being afflicted with plantar fasciitis, I managed to do 15 interviews with people who were based in the far-flung reaches of London. It is my hope to do several more in the early months of the new year. In the evenings, I’ve been trying to get some packing done.

Last night, I watched Greyfriar’s Bobby, a poignant movie about a little Skye Terrier that mourned for 14 years on the grave of his master after he died in the late 1800s. The city of Edinburgh made the dog an honorary Friend of the City and gave him free run of the streets. There is a statue of the dog that came to be known as ‘Greyfriar’s Bobby’ (as it lay on his master’s grave in Greyfriar’s cemetery) in Edinburgh today to honor the values of loyalty and faithfulness. My friend Delyse Fernandez had told me about this movie a couple of years ago and I was able to order it on Love Film. Com.

As my first semester comes to a close and I pull my suitcases shut, I cannot help but think what an eventful four months these have been and how dearly I have come to adore this city and how intimately I have grown to know it . I can sincerely say that I have taken fullest advantage of the many benefits that this posting has afforded me. It truly feels as if I have been on vacation for the past eight months and as I start to think of the arrival of my friend Jenny-Lou Seqeuira on Thursday, I know I have one last leg of my Fall semester here in London to anticipate with pleasure.

Christmas Past and Present at the Geffrye Museum

Dec13

Saturday, December 13, 2008
London

Even at the end of a dreadful day–weather-wise–I am still asking myself this question: How come I had never heard of the Geffrye Museum until a month ago?” For someone who has always loved English Country Style and has decorated her home in that aesthetic, I cannot believe that I had never been to this amazing place before. It was only quite by chance, while surfing the web to find Christmas-related London activities, that I discovered the existence of a place called the Geffrye Museum that is devoted to English Interiors Through the Ages. At Christmas, they decorate each of their rooms in a manner that is historically appropriate. I have been telling myself for days that I must not miss this–I simply cannot return home to the States next week without seeing this once-in-a-year exhibit.

So, despite the fact that the weather made me want to curl up and stay in bed (it poured ALL day), I decided to set out. I went first to the Holborn Library to return my books on Ireland, then on to 48 Doughty Street to the home of Charles Dickens as I wanted to pick up a Christmas present for a Victorianist friend of mine from the gift shop there. In and out, it took me less than five minutes in each place to run these errands

Then, I hopped on the bus to go outdoors to stay indoors–because, once you enter the Museum, you are taken right into the intimate space of people’s homes and the lives they lived in those spaces. It was a great way to escape the rain and still do something worthwhile as well as seasonal. Bus 242 from right outside my building took me straight to Shoreditch in East London where the museum is located and in less than 20 minutes, I was there.

First of all, a word about the building itself which is a quite magnificent 18th century structure, now Grade I listed (i.e. protected as a historical site). It is a long brown brick building, three sided (built like the letter E without the middle prong) enclosing expansive grounds with lovely trees (which, undoubtedly, would give the place a completely different ambiance in the summer). Right in the center of the building is a sculpture of Robert Geffrye after whom the museum is named. He was elected Lord Mayor of London in 1685 where he became an eminent East India merchant. As Master of the Worshipful Company of Ironmongers, he constructed this building to house the widows of the ironmongers among whom he worked. Hence, these came to be known as the Ironmongers Almshouses. Though each widow was initially meant to have a single unit (or house) in the building, demand grew so quickly that several shared spaces and at the height of its popularity about 150 people (men were included later) lived in 14 houses. There is a tiny chapel in the center of the building and the attendance at services was mandatory. Behind the building is more land, today used for the design and creation of period gardens, each one reflecting the style of the room that precedes it. For someone like me, who loves interior decor and gardening, this place was Paradise and I spent far more time in the museum than I had intended.

I was also surprised to see how many people had braved the pouring rain to visit the museum, many with kids and some with babies in strollers. As you proceed through the building, you come upon vignettes–each reflecting a middle class living room–through the ages. The English middle class (or middling class, as it was first known, when the word came into use) were neither the aristocracy (the landed gentry) nor the working class (what, in America, we would call blue collar workers). They were the professionals (what, in America, we would call white collar workers) who practiced professions such as law and medicine, banking and religion (as clergymen or ministers). They did not live merely in imitation of the more privileged aristocracy but developed their own values, customs and traditions and contributed hugely to the economic success of England through the ages. The Geffrye provides a peep into the way they lived through what we would call living rooms, but they called Great Rooms, Halls and Parlors through the years. As I walked through the museum, I learned about the earliest timber frame houses (that stood in London before the Great Fire of 1666) to the creation of the terraced houses (that we now call “Georgian’), to the arrival of the loft-style home so favored by contemporary Londoners. It was simply fascinating and I enjoyed every second there.

The exhibit began with the year 1630, the Great Hall in a Tudor home. The Christmas decoration here was subdued–just a few bay leaves strung together to form a vine that was thrown over the inglenook fireplace and a kissing ball that hung from the center of the room–(a very early cousin of today’s mistletoe). Then, on to the Parlor of the 17th century where the interiors became more elaborate–more furniture, more accessories, curtains, carpets. Christmas decoration too became more pronounced as time passed by.

They exhibit presented extracts from the diairies of people who lived in those epochs detailing the manner in which they would spend the days before and after Christmas as well as the day itself. There was card playing and visits to the theater, the cooking of all manner of things, the entertainment of guests who were served “two jellies and a glass of wine”, for instance, a goose to be stuffed and cooked, cards to be written and sent early (early for the Victorians meant December 24!) and all sorts of interesting and humorous facts that kept me spellbound.

When we came to the high Victorian Age, we could see the excess in interior decoration, the fussiness of grand curtains and lush carpets and the loads of dark furniture. Then, of course, came the Arts and Crafts Movement, the reaction against Victorian excess, that promulgated clean crisp straight lines that ended with Art Nouveau and Art Decor Movements of the late 19th and early 20th century. It was also a wonderful refresher crash course in English history as seen through furniture and domestic accoutrements from rush matting to shield-back chairs, from the arrival of tea and the customs that evolved around tea-taking to the arrival of the Christmas tree, a tradition that came to England through Queen Charlotte (wife of George III) from her native Germany though it was popularized by Albert in the Victorian era when every home followed suit and brought a fresh-cut tree indoors and decorated it.

The cafe divides the space rather effectively and takes the viewer into the 20th century where more vignettes captured homes from the Edwardian Age to the present. This was a fun portion of the museum as I began to recognize Christmas decorations and baubles that I still see in my parents’ home in Bombay! Chinese lanterns and buntings that were so popular in the 50s gave way to the minimalist design of the current loft apartment with its open floor plan s and its high tech stainless steel appliances featuring spaces for DINKYs (Double Income No Kids Yet)–couples who set up home and postpone kids!

It was all so beautifully integrated–the spaces, the Christmas decor, the interior design, the history and the lifestyle that for anyone interested even remotely in Design and Decor, Sociology, History or even Urban Planning, this is truly the place to go! Needless to say, I intend to visit again in the summer when the gardens will be lush and compelling and when I will learn about the history of landscape design and gardening in this country. The shop in which I browsed briefly also contained items I have never seen anywhere else–lovely old-fashioned wooden toys and building blocks, antique cards, gift wrapping paper in incredibly rare patterns, reprints of old books (100 Things that Every Boy Should Know) and all manner of charming things that take one back in time to an era when life was simpler and far less frantic. And the icing on the cake is that, like most of the best museums in London, this one too is entirely free!

I took the bus back home and had myself some lunch with a few bits and bobs that I could find in my fridge (I am trying to finish things in my fridge before I leave next week), then rested briefly before I got ready for my ride to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Michael and Cynthia had invited me to A Celebration of Carols by Benjamin Britten. I arrived at their place at Amen Court only to find it filled with folks comprising three generations–there were grandparents and their grandkids and parents in-between! There were kids who spoke English with a French accent and South Asian kids who spoke with an English accent! It was amazing! It turned out to be one large family, the family of the current Bishop of Kensington who was simply introduced to me as George. He turned out to be a delightfully friendly man who was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and graduated from Queens University. He lived right across the street in the very place that is today occupied by the University’s bookstore. When I told him that I visited the book store and browsed through its collection, he was thrilled! Then, the boyfriend Paul Lisboa, of his daughter Gael, turned out to know some friends of mine in Bombay–the family of Winnin Pereira who lives in Bandra and whose daughters Aruna and Vinita are friends of mine!!! It was all rather odd indeed but very merry and we had a good time over lovely mint tea and cake before we all trooped off to the Cathedral to hear the Choristers and Vicars of St. Paul’s treat us to a magnificent display of their musical talents. A harpist named Sioned Williams playing plaintively while the boys enchanted us by their voices. Conducted by Andrew Carwood, the program was built around 12 medieval carols (now long forgotten) that Britten set to his wonderful music and, in a sense, revived for our generation. It was wonderfully arranged and superbly performed and I enjoyed every bit of it.

Then, since it was still only 6 pm when we emerged from the cathedral, I decided to take a bus down to Trafalgar Street to see the Christmas Tree there and listen to the carollers because the web had also informed me that there are carollers each evening on the Square. How delighted I was when I actually was able to enter one of those old historic Routemaster buses–Number 15. These are the buses that have been preserved by public demand and are still plying on the streets after they debuted in 1954! They are older than me, I thought, as I scrambled up the stairs at the back to the approving nod of the conductor (yes, each bus still has an accompanying conductor just like the red double deckers in South Bombay) and found a seat at the very front. I took many pictures of the bus and the conductor (much to his delight), then got off at Trafalgar Square.

I was very disappointed indeed by what I saw there. I had imagined a tree on the lines of New York’s Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, all emblazoned with thousands of twinkling lights. Though the tree is towering (an annual gift from the people of Norway to the UK in recognition of help granted them during the war), there were a few paltry strings of lights on it that looked as if they had just been thrown on sloppily. A few carollers stood in the rain, their umbrellas held up high, singing carols as if they had never sung a note in their lives. They were members of the Epilepsy Foundation and their members walked around with boxes collecting money for their cause. The singing was just pathetic. The guy who was conducting the singing did not even stand at the mike when singing. We could barely hear them. Though the onlookers were also invited to join in, their voices were even sadder than those on the stage. The whole thing was just such a let down after the splendour of the performance I had just heard at St. Paul’s that I left as quickly as I could and decided to get home and get some work done.

I was caught in the worst traffic jam you can ever imagine as one of those abominable Bendy buses seemed to have broken down in the middle of Charing Cross Road just as it was making a turn from one street into the main road. This blocked up the entire road. All traffic came to a grinding standstill and a cacophony of impatient horns started as motorists blew off steam in protest! It was madness! After I sat there in the bus talking on my cell phone to Chrissie, for about 20 minutes, the driver opened the doors to let people out and I jumped off and started to walk to New Oxford Street from where I hopped into another bus and got home. What an evening!

I stayed up until after midnight transcribing two interviews I had done several weeks ago as I am determined to finish all pending work assignments before I leave for my month of family fun and revelry in the States and India. I had a very late dinner (more bits and bobs from the fridge), hit my bed and was asleep in less than five minutes!

The End is in Sight…and a Holiday Farewell Party!

Dec12

Friday, December 12, 2008
London

Just realized that I have about five days before my guest Jenny-Lou Seqeuira arrives with her daughter Kristen from New Jersey to spend a few days with me. Yikkesss!!! I have Christmas shopping to do and packing and sorting…but all that only after I finish grading final exams and term papers and hand them in. I also have a few Christmas activities I’d like to cover in London before I leave for the States on December 19.

So with little time to spare, I spent most of the morning grading papers. When I became goggle eyed and couldn’t absorb another word, I sat down to pack gifts for the administrative staff at NYU-London. These are gold-plated ornaments for the Christmas tree that I had bought at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York especially for my London support staff, who, I felt, would appreciate a small memento of the Big Apple from their New York colleague. I wrote them little Thank-you notes, packed the little parcels in tissue paper and the Met gift bags that I had also carried with me.

Then, I went back to grading and finished the lot that I had carried home last night. At 1.30pm, I set out for campus to attend the Holiday Farewell party for our sophomores who have completed their semester here in London and are returning to New York tomorrow. It was a chance for me to wish them well, hand over my gifts, take a few pictures and circulate. Not too many students turned up as most of them were shopping and packing and frantically getting ready to depart.

Hagai Segal was presented his Teacher of the Year Award. I was surprised to discover that he will be in Bombay over our winter break as he’s been invited to give a series of talks on anti-terrorism in Calcutta, Delhi and Bombay. We’ve made plans to hook up for a drink in Bombay as I will there at the same time. He has asked me for a walking tour of the city and I have promised. But given then I have four family weddings, it’s possible that I was a little too rash in obliging.

Fruity mulled wine made the rounds as did mince pies. There was festive music and a table full of ‘London’ gifts that could be yours if you picked a number from a bin that corresponded with one on the gift itself. Crest’s of London made a killing from the abundant gifts that Alice found with a London theme–I was particularly eyeing a brolly with the London Tube map emblazoned on it, but then I saw boxer shorts with the same pattern and didn’t think the brolly was any good! There were teas and Bobby helmets and beefeater teddy bears and Union Jack ceramic mugs and a whole lot of other items that would make fitting souvenirs of their Study Abroad semester.

When I had circulated enough, I settled down in my office and started grading the final essays on the Future of Anglo-Indians submitted by the students who took my Sophomore Seminar. Darkness fell while I was at it and I realized, before long, that it had taken me more than two hours to finish the stack as well as organize my files for next semester.

I took the bus home and spent a while preparing web pages on my travels in Northern Ireland. Then, when my neck began to ache, I decided to fix myself some dinner–quiche and pita with an assortment of dips left over from the party yesterday with Greek yogurt with walnuts for dessert. As I ate, I watched Sliding Doors, a film set in London starring Gwyneth Paltrow and John Hannah and for the life of me, I just didn’t get it. There were two parallel stories enfolding, each involving the same set of characters. It’s the sort of modernist film structured in the vein of Pulp Fiction that is much too cerebral for my liking. I have never felt that Paltrow does a convincing English accent and I never understand why she is cast in these roles when there are a slew of really great English actresses who could so easily play these roles. Anyway, it felt strange to see the London that exists right outside my window depicted on screen. Most times when I watch movies about London, it is a city that is somewhere far away, way across that great big pond.

I was falling asleep by the time the movie ended and I tumbled hastily into bed because for some reason I felt drowsy. I guess this means that I am running out of nervous energy for the semester has come to an end and I am in Wind Down Mode as I start to think about returning home to Connecticut.

Final Exam, Insider’s View of the British Museum and Hosting my First Party

Dec11

Thursday, December 11, 2008
London

The last meeting of my class on Anglo-India took place today as I gave my final exam. My students have clearly reached the end of their tether and despite the fact that they have enjoyed London, they are now ready to board that flight homeward. They could not wait to get out of class and start to celebrate the end of the semester.

I had little time to waste. Right after the exam, I had made plans to meet Paul Collins, a scholar on the Middle East who works at the British Museum. I had been given his number by my friend and fellow docent Elizabeth Kaplan from the Metropolitan Museum in New York. “Call Paul”. she had said, “and he will give you an Insider’s Tour of the Ancient Near Eastern galleries”.

Paul was very obliging indeed and at noon, we met at the Main Information Desk. Paul explained that the Ancient Near Eastern and Islamic Galleries in the British Museum were recently combined to form the Middle Eastern Department which is where he is now based. In his company, I made my way first to the Karyatid from the Erechtheion, one of the buildings on the Acropolis. During my travels in Northern Ireland, I had been reading The Parthenon by Mary Beard, a paperback lent to me by my colleague Karen who recommended it warmly as a very good read. I had enjoyed it immensely and was keen to see the Karyatid, one of the sculptures of the graceful women that adorn the building that stands next to the Parthenon. It turns out that it is hidden far from view behind a temple of the Nereid’s in the Parthenon Section of the Museum. And how beautiful she is! How graceful! How delighted I was to be able to set eyes on her. I had been on a quest to find her from the time Llew and I left Athens and here she was!

Then, Paul took me into the Ancient Near Eastern section where the treasures from the palace at Nimrud in modern-day Iraq have been mounted on the walls. These exquisite bas reliefs show detailed life in the days of ancient Iraq when religion was polytheistic and the king was feted by the gods. Other panels presented life in the time of ancient Assyria. Here were scenes of bloody warfare and of startling brutality as the king went lion hunting with a variety of weapons and was always victorious over the beasts. Paul pointed out to me specific panels in which the features of the king and queen were deliberately defaced by successive victors who usurped the throne and wished to obliterate any vestiges of the presence of the king. It reminded me, and I pointed this out to Paul, of the American soldiers who toppled the statue of Sadam Hussein when they arrived as invaders and took over Baghdad. It seems that some aspects of history do not change, no matter how many centuries might elapse from one regime to the next. Paul also took me to the basement where he commented on panels that are now closed to the public as access is not so easy to large crowds.

The best part of the tour was the visit to the Study Room where Paul spends a great deal of his day. In this room which was once a stack in the British Library (which moved in 1998 to new premises at King’s Cross), thousands of slabs of cuneiform script have been preserved–and I mean thousands–for they number more than 34,000. These detailed ‘forms’ or ‘documents’ if you like, give scholars all manner of information about life in those days for the ancient Babylonians and Assyrians were compulsive record keepers and reams of text accompany the sculpture and visuals they created. I saw several scholars bent over these tiny bits of stone that are covered with text and Paul fascinated me by actually reading some of them. It was quite amazing indeed!

Then, after I ate my quiche and yogurt at the cafe, I took a bus to the Tesco at Covent Garden in order to buy paper products for the party I am throwing in the evening for the students in my Anglo-Indian course. I needed plates, glasses, napkins and cutlery and with those items purchased, I made my way on the bus back home. I had plenty of time to set up for the party as well as to clean and tidy my flat before the first guests arrived on the dot of five bringing an appetiser or a dessert each.

As I welcomed them in, I gave each one a Christmas cracker–another British tradition of which they were unaware. So many of them said, “Oh, I’ve been seeing these in the stores and wondering what they were!” I told them that they had to wear the hats that they found in the cracker throughout the party–these were colorful crepe paper crowns–one of which particularly suited a student named Arthur whom I then promptly christened King Arthur! We took a load of pictures and reminisced about London and the past semester. Many of them felt regretful about returning to the States as they have not completed all the travel they had intended to accomplish. (“I didn’t manage to get to Paris”, said one of them; “I just have to go to Windsor tomorrow”, said another).

I had provided Buck’s Fizz, a mocktail made with orange juice and sparkling wine and a fruit cake as they had never eaten one before. It happened to be the 20th birthday of my student, Tara Dougherty, so we asked her to cut the cake and as we sang for her, the fruit cake did the rounds. There were dips and chips, cheese and crackers, a variety of Indian snacks that I provided (samosas, onion bhajis and potato tikkis), and all sorts of nibbles. Most of the students brought a bottle of wine each. Others brought desserts–lava cakes, chocolate pudding, chocolate truffles. It was an eclectic spread and one we all enjoyed. A few of the late comers came in bearing a large platter of fried rice, home cooked and very delicious. As the champagne made the rounds, we drank to the end of another semester, a great stay in London and a safe return home.
I spent an hour after the last guest left at 8. 30pm cleaning and tidying my flat and washing up and putting away a load of leftover food that I have frozen. None of the students wanted to take any food away with them as they are all leaving tomorrow to return to the States. It had been a lovely evening and I am sorry to see them go as they were a memorable class and one to which I had grown close.

But, I guess, all good things must come to an end and as I grade the last batch of examination booklets, I am thinking of returning home to the States myself, quite unable to believe that one semester has already flown and that I have only one more to go here in London!

Belfast’s Queen’s University–and Homeward Bound

Dec10

Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Belfast-London

On another bleak morning, I awoke to potter around my backpack, shower, dress and check out of the Youth Hostel where I had spent four rather interesting and very comfortable nights. If you do not mind your bed sailing each time the occupant of the upper bunk moves, if you can deal with the occasional outbreak of snores, if you do not object to late-night chatter, you will find no better value than that offered by Hosteling International. I feel as if I have come upon the girl I used to be, 25 years younger, reclaiming my grad student days when I backpacked all over Europe and used Youth Hostels for affordable housing as I scoured the Continent.

I ordered a waffle for breakfast–large, warm, sprinkled with powdered sugar and drizzled (make that bathed) with chocolate sauce. It was so yummy to look but so disappointing. It was studded with tiny black bits of plastic and I can only conclude that they were pieces of the non-stick coating on the waffle pan that had detached themselves as the waffle was baking and had stuck to the dough and baked right into it. Yuck!!! There went my breakfast!

In the aftermath of a shower and under an overcast sky, I set out to explore Queens Quarter, that part of the city of Belfast that is dominated by the red-brick Tudor structure (reminiscent of Magdalen College, Oxford) of Queens University whose most famous alumnus is Seamus Heany, the Literature Nobel Laureate. Charles Langford who designed the university building used, as his model, the great medieval colleges of Europe and created a site for learning based on the cloisters situated around a quadrangle. Needless to say, a library and a dining hall would be part of the design.

It is lovely to visit educational institutions when they are still in session. The place buzzes with intellectual energy as students mill around–backpacks thrown carelessly across their backs, books in hand–making their way from one class to the next, one lecture hall to the other. I joined the throngs and arrived at the Black and White Hall with its dominant sculpture of Galileo by Pio Fredi. In the quadrangle a large canopied tent was being cleared and dismantled–remnants of a formal party held last night perhaps. I wandered into the Great Hall whose walls were covered with oil-painted portraits of the many eminent men and women who have called the university their alma mater. There was a High Table and a stone fireplace right behind it and a rather eye catching ceiling but it had none of the aura of the medieval halls of Oxford or Cambridge–perhaps because it lacked their venerable age. On exploring the library, I found that I had strayed into a ‘Coffee Morning’ at which several faculty and administrative staff had gathered for a mid-morning chinwag. There were mince pies and shortbread and coffee at hand and people were nibbling while purchasing tickets for a dozen food hampers that would be raffled later that day. English hampers come into their own twice a year–at summer picnics and at Christmas when they are filled with the most exotic eats like cornichons and candied stem ginger.

Across the street, I visited the book store and spent an idle quarter hour browsing through its offerings. I almost bought a signed copy of an autobiography by Cheri Blair for Llew but thought better of it. I was certain it would be badly misshapen by the time it made its way home in my backpack and I know how anal Llew is about the condition of a book–it must remain pristine if he is to value it! So there went that idea!

Then, I was back at the Hostel, retrieving my backpack from storage, taking the Bus 600 to George Best Airport (the only airport in which Ryanair lands that is within the very heart of the city as opposed to the other airports that are always several godforsaken miles away). I was there in 15 minutes, and with my boarding pass and security formalities all done (after the ordeal I went through at Stanstead airport, I was taking no chances with time), I had loads of it to kill in an airport that was singularly lacking in enticements such as duty-free shopping–but then I wasn’t really leaving the country, so I could not expect to travel duty-free. It just felt as if I had visited another country because I had crossed the Sea!!!

On the flight, once I had settled down again in the bulk head seat, who should I see climbing up the stairs but Marina! Of course, she sat right by me and we kept each other company throughout. I was delighted to fly right over the Isle of Man and then to see Liverpool clearly reveal itself itself below me, the Mersey snaking its sluggish way, a hefty river indeed, and the Three Graces standing solidly on its banks. I still thrill to the view of the world from so many thousands of feet above sea level–it is about as unique a perspective on our world as one could ever have!

We reached before schedule, much to Ryanair’s pride, and I caught the early Easybus back home to Baker Street. Nothing much to report expect that I had dozens of email messages to trawl through and a camera full of 120 pictures to download before I was able to unwind and call it a night after eating a sandwich and a mince pie and washing it all down with cider.

Tomorrow I give a final exam and have a stack of papers to grade before I can focus on my next trip–home to Southport and the ones I most love!

Belfast–Northern Ireland’s Capital

Dec10

Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Belfast

I awoke to another dismal day. It was wet and it was cold–hardly the kind of weather in which one could go out joyfully to explore a city. Thanks to the Hop On Hop Off Bus, my day was saved in that I was actually able to salvage it. I purchased a ticket for 12 pounds from the Belfast Tourist Center and caught the 11 am bus–upper deck, front seat, of course! I enjoyed the tour so much, I took it twice for the same price, each time in a different bus with a different tour guide and I wasn’t bored!

It was cold and my fingers ached. As the bus wound its way through the City Center towards the Alfred Clock Tower (named for Victoria’s beloved husband), I tried every way I could think of to warm them, but to no avail. Finally,I just sat on them and that did the trick!

Commentary was provided by those Irish tour guides known for their wicked sense of humor. His name was Ivan and our driver was Ciaran. About six other people shared the bus with me. You could tell it was decidedly off-season. In fact, a few days previously,I had heard an Irishman comment upon a tourist who was lugging a suitcase through St. George Market: “Imagine a tourist coming to Belfast in the winter!” He clearly thought the lady was nuts. As I tried to get warm, I thought I was nuts too!

Soon we were crossing the Lagan Weir and heading towards the ship-building yards of the renowned company known as Harland and Woolf that once ruled the world–or at least Ireland. Responsible for building some of the most famous ships in history–the Titanic, the Olympic, the Lusitania–they once employed 34,000 people. Their giant cranes, affectionately nicknamed Samson and Goliath, tower above the city’s skyline, a silent reminder of the glory that once was navigation. Today, they linger idly waiting to be restored to, as some have suggested, a five star restaurant! At the deserted dry docks, we saw the Pump Room close to where the Titanic was once docked as she went through the final stages of construction and decoration. Though many cities host Titanic exhibitions today (Liverpool, for one), Belfast claims that this honor should go to her alone as the ship was fine when she left Irish shores!

On to Stormont, a massive mansion made of Portland Stone that sits on a hill approached by a mile-long alley lined with lime trees–one for each of the workers who built it. This is Northern Ireland’s Parliament Building where affairs of state are still debated and laws passed. The area around it is elite, with lovely terraced housing and the campus of Campbell College not too far away.

Then, it was time to enter the most notorious parts of Belfast, known for the infamous strife between Protestants and Catholics that kept the country in a state of high tension through most of the 70s and well into contemporary times. The bus took us through Shanklin Road, Protestant stronghold, where all the fallen sons of the Loyalists are remembered in large size murals painted on the sides of the houses and stores that line the narrow streets. We passed through the Court House where the scales of Justice are missing from the hands of the Goddess perched on the pediment. They turned up recently on ebay! Right across the street is the Crumblin Jail, a tunnel linking the two buildings underground. Some of the most notorious political prisoners were held in this jail which today is used only as a memorial to the country’s troubled history.

In the distance, the guide pointed out a Linen Factory, another remnant of Irish history that has gone with the wind. Once the mainstay of the economy, the creation of linen from flax is a long and laborious process and involves a great deal of manual work. No wonder the industry fell by the wayside as synthetics flooded the market. Today, it serves only the luxury market and a few consumers able to pay the vast sums it costs to make the fabric wearable. I know that I will never look at linen again without appreciating the time and trouble that went into its creation.

On Falls Road, we saw the other ugly side of religious warfare–this is the Catholic side, home of the IRA or the Irish Republican Army manifested in the offices of Sinn Fein that sits on a rather nondescript street in a modest brick red building. This was the place that Bill Clinton visited in his attempts to broker a peace agreement with Gerry Adams. The Peace Agreement is holding tenuously (so far, so good, everyone says, but they’re clearly not holding their breath!) as seen in the ease with which one can now travel from the Protestant to the Catholic side. The Peace Wall still stands, though, dividing the town and the people. It snakes around the residential streets in brick red decorated with a few black details. The murals here remember the Catholic martyrs such as Bobby Sands who starved himself to death in the Thatcherite era to gain dignity for political prisoners held in British jails. There are other murals–loads of them–featuring Bush sucking away all the oil from Iraq and reproductions of Picasso’s Guernica. The people of Northern Ireland are passionate about their politics–I will say that much. No wonder so many of them came to America where they entered politics. No less than 23 American presidents can trace their roots to Ireland including, of course, the most famous of them all, the Kennedy clan!

We passed through Queens University next, the educational institution that produced Literature Nobel Laureate Seamus Heany whose portrait, together with several others, adorns the walls of the Great Hall inside. Built by Charles Langdon in imitation of Magdalen College, Oxford, this red brick Tudor building brings tremendous dignity to Queens Quarter with its funky clubs, lively restaurants and smoky taverns. Indeed, Belfast is known for its historic pubs and I downed a swift half in two of them: Magner’s Irish cider in Robinson’s and Guinness in the Crown Tavern, that sit cheek by jowl on Great Victoria Street. The latter is a confection of Victorian embossed tiles and a plasterwork ceiling, mirrors and carved counters and booths–the most ornate of the country’s pubs. No wonder it is managed today by the National Trust–one of only two pubs that the Trust runs.

Of course, we passed the bastion of the City Hall, built in the manner of St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a towering dome and the statue of the Queen looking glumly over her city. Near at hand is Belfast’s newest attraction–the Wheel–a huge ferris wheel that provides good views of the city. Not that it would work on a foggy day and there are many of those in Ireland!

In the City Center, there are churches and cathedrals and shopping malls of which the city is very proud indeed. In these days of credit crunches, the streets were still thick with shoppers who found relief in the Continental Market being held in the grounds of the City Hall where shoppers could feast on everything European from French crepes and baguettes to Spanish paella, from Greek mezes to German marzipan. There was also a carousel and games of skill to add to the festive revelry.

I took the bus tour twice. It was the only way to escape the cold and receive a bird’s eye view of the city at the same time while being entertained by the tour guides whose humor never faltered. I spent an hour browsing through books on Ireland at W.H. Smith and sipped Ginger and Ginseng tea in the tea rooms of Marks and Spencer where I also indulged in a warm mince pie! I stopped to appreciate the attempts to instill holiday cheer through music as a lone accordionist from Romania named Fernando played Jingle Bells outside Clarks from where I purchased two pairs of shoes at bargain prices! Alas, people were too frenzied filling their stockings to support his attempts to make an honest living in the midst of his poverty.

Visiting Belfast at Christmas might have been idiotic in terms of the weather, but it offered me a glimpse into the holiday spirit of a city that is slowly recovering from its decades, if not centuries, of religious war mongering and trying to extend a hand of friendship towards diversity. Harmony, the Ring of Thanksgiving, a sculpture that towers above the weir, is a testimony to the possibilities of friendship.

Belfast has none of the gaiety of Dublin. I realized that almost immediately. It still seems to be covered under the dark shroud of doubt and religious fanaticism and though it is making frantic attempts to be respectful of religious difference, I found that it lacked the kind of happy and joyous spirit that the Republic of Ireland seems to possess so effortlessly. Of the two major cities, I found Dublin infinitely ‘happier’ but I am glad I visited Belfast. I achieved an understanding of the kind of harm that radical religious politics can do as well as saw for myself how difficult it is to recover from such dogmatism when one has made it a way of life.

Giant’s Causeway and Londonderry by Paddywagon

Dec10

Monday, December 8, 2008
Giant’s Causeway and Londonderry

Paddywagon runs day tours to the Giant’s Causeway on the North Atlantic shore of Ireland–a must-do trip for anyone who visits Belfast, even if briefly. Several companies run this tour but Paddywagon was different in that it did not follow the scenic coastal route but went inland to the Giant’s Causeway and from there traveled further west to Londonderry or simply Derry as the Catholics call it. Since I was keen to see as much of Northern Ireland as I could, I opted for Paddywagon.

This meant awaking at the crack of dawn to walk to a neighboring hostel on Lisburn Road to pick up the coach at 8. 30 am. I bought a croissant and a take-away coffee and set off, found our driver/guide David and a bunch of other young folk brave enough to visit Belfast in the heart of winter. By the time we set off from the city, it was about 9. 30 am. As we passed through the urban midst of Belfast, David pointed out buildings of particular interest. Before long, we were coasting out of the city and on to the highway, passing by Cave Hill, which had been the inspiration for Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. The profile of the hill does look suspiciously like a giant sleeping on his back. When viewed against the dockyards of Harland and Woolf, the many men rushing back and forth all day appeared to be running across the giant’s face and stomach. This provided the image for Gulliver in the Land of the Lilliputs and led to the 18th century novel that sealed Swift’s reputation.

An hour later, we arrived at one of Northern Ireland’s best-known attractions, the Carrick-A-Rede Rope Bridge which is simply a swinging cable bridge that connects the mainland to a small salmon fishing island. To get to the island, visitors cross the bridge, one at a time. This wobbles dangerously about 70 feet above the sea and is not for the faint hearted. I doubt I would have given it a shot, but at any rate, I wasn’t allowed to find out as the bridge is closed in the off-season. Perched high above the cliffs, we received a good view of it as well as the distant shores of Scotland (the Mull of Kintyre was clearly visible when the fog lifted) just behind Rathlin Island to which ferries sail in the summer. The sheer isolation of this venue was deeply striking especially when viewed against the emerald-green of the dales that sloped down softly to the seas.

About half an hour later, past marvelous rural countryside, dotted liberally with black-faced sheep, we arrived at the Giant’s Causeway about which I had heard so much when I was researching a visit to the Republic of Ireland about five years ago. David told us about a restaurant called The Nook that served really good traditional Irish fare and as I was keen to taste some of it, he took orders from all of us. He recommended the Irish Stew strongly but the Steak and Guinness Pie even more warmly–so I opted for that. We were given an hour at the Causeway and were told to return at noon to the restaurant for lunch.

The Giant’s Causeway is a natural phenomenon caused by a sudden volcanic eruption, 60 million years ago, that pushed molten basalt from the core of the earth to the surface. Because it cooled down rather quickly, it contracted and, in the process, formed straight columns that have perfectly even polygonal sides. These nest together in a sort of honeycomb at the water’s edge, washed by the thundering waves of the Atlantic.

Of course, because Ireland is also full of local folklore, the story goes that an Irish giant named Finn McCool fell in love with a Scottish damsel named Nieve. To reach her easily, he built the Causeway. When Nieve’s love, the Scottish giant Oonagh, realized that Nieve had left him for Finn, he set out to claim her back. Finn was afraid of the consequences of a conflict as Oonagh was larger and stronger than he was. But the wily Nieve disguised Finn as a baby and instructed him to lie on his back on the bed. When Oonagh arrived in Ireland, Nieve informed him that she could not return with him to Scotland as she had just had Finn’s baby who, she pointed out, was asleep on the bed. When Oonagh saw the size of the ‘baby’, he panicked, wondering just how huge the father would be if the baby was so massive. He turned tail and returned to Scotland in such a hurry that he broke the causeway into pieces leaving only a few bits of it surviving today. David told us the story with relish and invited us to choose whichever version most appealed to our temperaments.

The National Trust manages the Giant’s Causeway which has been ranked as one of the ten best free sights in the world. To get to the sight, however, you need to wind your way down a steep mountainside to reach the edge of the ocean. While making it down is manageable enough for most people, the climb upwards is steep and no picnic–at least not for those who do not exercise regularly. I was pleased to see a small coach called the Causeway Coaster coasting right past by and when I flagged it and asked the driver if I could hop one, he said, Sure, for a pound each way, I was welcome. Well, I was downhill in two shakes of a tail and before I knew it, the rain came down in sheets and it grew bitterly cold.

Of course, this sudden dip in temperature had to happen at a time and in a place in which there was no where to shelter. Fortunately, I had my brolly in my pocket and I whipped it out smartly but it was no match against the ferocity of the wind. Then, I was taking pictures quickly of the vast basalt columns that form a natural wall on the hillside near a projecting mountain called the Aird’s Snout.

When I had my share of this portion of the Causeway, I walked towards the bus stand and discovered that the other passengers on my coach had reached the shore. At this point, the hexagonal columns were most marked, their regularity stunning in the visuals they presented. Though lapped by the waves and whipped by the wind, they created a startling effect on my senses as I took them all in. Some of them created mounds, like little hills, and we climbed and posed on these to take pictures. Others formed natural stone steps. Yet others spread out evenly towards the waves. The colors were also varied. Grey, black, even ochre, they are a wondrous sight and no matter how many pictures you might have seen of the phenomenon, it is still fascinating.

Then, I was on the Coaster again, driving up to the summit where, at the gift store, I purchased a few postcards as souvenirs. All of us were ready for our meal by that point. We were hungry and more importantly, we were freezing. The Steak and Guinness Pie completely lived up to its promise. Portions seemed to have been created for Finn McCool and Oonagh–they were gigantic! I was able to eat heartily and have more than half of my plate packed up for my evening meal. Served with mashed potatoes, it was Irish comfort food at its best and we all ate well as we washed it down with glasses of Guinness–does anyone know why Guinness tastes so good in Ireland?

Coastal Castles:
Then, we were on the coach again, heading further west along the coast to see the ruins of two castles–Dunsverick Castle of which only one sturdy wall remains at the water’s edge and the far more picturesque Dunluce Castle of which many more ruins remain. We posed at both spots for pictures but did not venture any closer to the cliffs. As the coach moved on, we passed by other places of interest: White Rocks Beach with its surfers tumbling merrily on the crashing Atlantic waves below us, Bushmills–the town that is famous for procuring a license to brew whiskey from James I in 1609 and today offers tours and tastings in its distillery, Portrush, a pretty resort town that is perched on the cliffs. The countryside of Ireland was most soothing to my soul as we passed by myriad flocks of sheep, all marked with bright spots of color to help identify them. The mountains were never far away from sight as the Mourne and the Sperrin Mountains came within view. David told us we could doze off for the next one hour until we reached Londonderry but the countryside held me spellbound and I was the only person on the bus wide awake as I took in the charms that only Ireland’s bucolic rural escapes can offer.

London(Derry) Here We Come:
As predicted, we were in London(Derry) within the hour. David offered us an optional walking tour for 4 pounds each–which all of us on the bus decided to take. He then introduced us to Rory, a radical Catholic, who took us through the walls of Derry towards the ‘Bogside’, the area that was ravaged by the religious turmoil that shattered Northern Ireland in the 1970s. David had laid the foundation for us on the bus, telling us about the troubled history of Ireland from the 1916 Easter Rebellion in Dublin to the 70’s when Bloody Sunday led to the rebellion and the founding of the IRA or Irish Republican Army with strong Catholic ties and a determination to free Ireland of the British yoke.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, Rory took us towards the many murals that remember the tragedies of that period and the courageous men and women who gave up their lives fighting for what they believed to be a just cause. As someone who can trace his family lineage to centuries in Northern Ireland, long before the English took control of the island, Rory is fiercely proud of his heritage and refuses to recognize the control of the English crown over his beloved land. He told us that as far as the IRA is concerned, though labelled terrorists and militants and guerrillas, they are merely fighting for what they believe to be their birthright–an Ireland free of the English. We paused by Celtic crosses with verses penned in Gaelic that recall the sacrifices of these young men and the passion that led them to their goals and their deaths.

Of course, we received only one side of the debate from Rory, and, no doubt, I would receive the Protestant version from another equally impassioned fighter before I got out of Ireland. But in his retelling of the tragedies of that period, I received an insight into the history of a people and a country that has laid a pall of gloom over the culture. Indeed, it amazes me that in the midst of their multiple losses and suffering, the Irish people still find the joy in their lives to indulge their love of music, dance, drink and merriment.

Derry is an extraordinary city perched upon a mountain that is enclosed by walls that were built in the 1600s. It is divided by the River Foyle that cuts through the Protestant and Catholic parts forming a natural line of division to keep the warring factions at bay. With my mind still wrapped around the strife, I arrived at a large public church yard where a recent X-Factor star called Owen made an appearance, much to the thrill of pre-teen girls who had arrived there to catch a glimpse of him. It is manic, this power of reality TV and the reations it can induce.

By 4. 30, we were bidding goodbye to Rory, then boarding our Paddywagon to head towards Belfast where we arrived after darkness had fallen. It was a long ride but a very pleasant one indeed. I noticed that there is little in terms of the countryside to distinguish Northern Ireland from the Republic of Ireland further south. They can both boast incredibly beautiful countryside that is unspoiled by human development, a slow pastoral lifestyle that is characterized by good music and loads of good stout.

It was to experience some of this that I headed to Robinson’s Bar, one of the most famous Belfast pubs with Marina, an Italian from Ancona, and as we chatted over a cold cider, I realized how enlightened I had become by my visit to Northern Ireland. Our travels in the Republic of Ireland, a few years ago, while introducing us to the bloody uprising of 1916 on O’Connell Street at Dublin’s Post Office, had not prepared us for the immediate encounter I had with more recent strife in the Northern part of the country.

As Belfast attempts to rise up, phoenix-like, from the ashes of her troubled past, I could only hope that the Peace Agreement, however tenuous it may now seem, will be a long-lasting one, and that the country may enjoy the same lightness of spirit that is so easily evident down south.

In Ivy’s Company–Carrickfergus to Glennarif

Dec10

Sunday, December 7, 2008
Causeway Coast, Northern Ireland

Ivy (nee Joseph) Ridge is a very close friend of my close friend Sunita (Sue) Pillai from Bombay. It was Sue who put me on to Ivy and when I emailed Ivy to let her know that I would soon be visiting Belfast, she responded promptly and warmly and told me that she would arrive at the Youth Hostel to pick me up and show me around her neighborhood. I was overwhelmed by her hospitality and, to my immense surprise, we both clicked instantly. It was as if we had known each other forever!

At 11 am. on Sunday morning, Ivy arrived, as planned. I had eaten breakfast and had taken a walk around Great Victoria Street by the time she packed me off in her car and drove me along the beautiful Causeway Coast as it is known. Ivy has lived in Ireland for about 14 years and has grown to love the country immensely. Her husband Darryl is a Forest Officer…so it was only natural that she suggested we link up with him and her kids, Stephanie and Ryan in the forest. I was more than happy to place myself in her hands.

Carrickfergus Castle:
Our first stop on the lovely coastal road was the 12th century Norman castle of Carrickfergus which stands on the very edge of the harbor as if guarding it from intruders. It is in a remarkable state of preservation and is extremely picturesque against the few colorful boats that bob in the harbor. Unfortunately, we were unable to enter it to explore the interior as it opened only at 2 pm on Sundays. Still, I was quite pleased with the pictures we took as the sun was out and despite the chilly wind that blew incessantly, the day didn’t seem dreary. This castle was visited by William III and a sculpture of him in pirate’s dress stands at the entrance.

The Antrim Coast:
Miles of coastal road brought the magnificent drama of sea, waves, rocky promontories and beaches into view as we ate up the miles. As we passed the seaside villages of Gywnne and the larger port town of Larne, I was struck by the sheer beauty of the country. Ivy was an enthusiastic guide as she pointed out to me items of interest that I should not miss.

Soon, we reached the little town of Ballygally (don’t you just love these Irish names?) where a castle haunted by a friendly ghost has been converted into a luxury hotel. We visited it briefly before we sought sustenance in a pub called The Meeting Point. There I treated Ivy to a traditional Irish Sunday Roast which was an enormous platter for two that could easily have fed four. There was turkey and ham, cocktail sausages and lamb shank, all superbly roasted and served with champ (mashed potato with spring onions), the best roasted potatoes I have ever eaten (Ivy actually told me how they are made), roasted carrots, Brussels sprouts, and the most delicious sauteed beetroot I have found. I ordered Guinness to accompany my meal but Ivy, who was driving, sensibly stuck to water. It was truly a meal to remember and though we were both stuffed, there was plenty on the platter that we returned (as it appears that doggie bags are frowned upon in Northern Ireland’s polite society–pity!!!)

Glenariff Forest Park:
Further north we drove through the harbor town of Glenarm where Ivy informed me that her husband Darryl owns a boat that is permanently moored here. In the summer, they are ardent sea farers, sailing to neighboring islands and enjoying the outdoors. As a forest officer, Darryl spends a great deal of time in the great outdoors and climbing, trekking, walking, hunting and fishing are his passions, interests which he shares with his kids. Before long, we were in Glennarif Forest Park where we were joined by the rest of the Ridge family.

Then began one of the most memorable parts of my trip–a long and interesting trek through a forest trail that took us past gushing waterfalls and stunning autumnal scenery. There was dead fall on the paths and small patches of freshly fallen snow which made negotiating the pathway’s rather challenging, especially for those of us who did not have suitable footwear. Still, with a hand from Darryl and a lot of giggling from the kids, I managed well and as we climbed higher to the accompaniment of the thundering waters of the cascades, I felt as if I had left civilization far behind and allowed the arms of nature to embrace me completely. It was heavenly and I wished I could have stayed there forever. Unfortunately, night falls early and rapidly in these parts in winter and by 4. 30, we began to lose daylight.

It was time to return homewards to Ivy’s home in Ballymena where, at her kitchen table, we warmed ourselves with large cups of tea. By 5. 30, I got up to leave and Ivy dropped me to Ballymena station from where I caught a train back to Belfast. In the company of two sweet Irish girls who were returning to the city after spending the weekend at their parents’ home in the country, I found myself back on Great Victoria Street making my way to the hostel.

After a conversation with Llew, I joined up with my suite mates (Jaime from Malaysia and Jo and Lisa from New Zealand) for a drink at The Crown, a famed tavern that is run by the National Trust. There, over a half pint of Guinness, we got to know one another and talk about our travel adventures.

An hour later, I was cozily tucked away in my bunk getting ready to pull the curtain down on another memorable day in Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland, Here I Come

Dec10

Saturday, December 6, 2008
London-Belfast

After what was an ordeal at Stanstead airport, I was finally airborne. The light was shining at the end of the tunnel for I actually got the bulkhead seat, right in the front by the main door of the aircraft–a seat that offers a window and unrestricted leg room. Ah, thank God for small mercies, I thought, as I belted myself in and settled down to enjoy the flight.

As the shores of England receded, we flew over the Irish Sea. It wasn’t long before we were flying directly over an island which I could not identify. I made a mental note to look it up in an atlas (I discovered later through Ivy Ridge, my friend in Ballymena, that it is the Isle of Mann). A few minutes later, the hazy contours of Eastern Ireland came into view and we lost height as touch down began. We made it earlier than scheduled, much to Ryanair’s pride, and then I was hurrying out of the George Best Belfast City Airport to the Tourist Information Desk to buy a ticket for Bus 600 (1. 50 pounds) to take me to the City Center and the Europa Bus Depot. We were there in just fifteen minutes (unbelievably, Ryanair’s airport, for the first time since I can remember, was actually in the city center itself and not in some minor town dozens of miles away!)

The Youth Hostel was only a ten minute walk away along a rather deserted main road which was treacherously slippery as a few vestiges of an earlier snowfall were still evident. Walking gingerly, I took almost twenty minutes to arrive there, only to discover that check-in time was 1. 30 pm. I stashed my backpack in the luggage storeroom and decided to go out to meet Belfast.

Since it was cold, it made sense to do some indoor sightseeing. My first port of call was St. George’s Market which comes alive on Saturday mornings. This is a massive Victorian covered market, among the best preserved of its kind in the UK, that attracts a wide range of customers–serious buyers and browsers alike crowded the aisles as mothers struggled with babies in strollers. There were food offerings at the front and arts and crafts at the back as a Holiday Market was on when I arrived.

Almost as soon as I entered, a vendor offered me a sample of carrot cake. “Not yet”, I said to her. “Dessert later. I’m looking for lunch right now!” I soon discovered that I would not have to purchase lunch for the samples were thrown as me faster than I could say “Irish Stew”! In the course of the next hour, I sampled my way through cheese and crackers, olives, salsas and tapenades, jams. marmalade and chutneys, granola, curries, pies and tarts, candies, chocolate fudge, fruit cake as well as teas, wines and Irish coffee!!! It was just unbelievable! Though I was tempted to buy a few goodies myself, I had to keep in mind Ryanair’s severe luggage restrictions and overcame the temptation.

Lunch all done, I made my way towards the great Wheel of Belfast, a ferris wheel, similar to the London Eye, that gives rides to tourists to enable them to achieve bird’s eye views of the city. This is located right outside the grand City Hall building which is reminiscent of London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. Since it was a Saturday, I was unable to enter the building, but a Continental Christmas Market was in progress in the vast grounds that are peppered with memorial statues of all kinds: Queen Victoria, Harland of Harland and Woolf (shipping magnates) and a memorial to those lost in the tragedy of the Titanic as the liner was built in the shipyards of Belfast and counted among its crew many city dwellers.

The Market was packed to capacity as people shopped for Christmas presents or bought exotic lunches–paella and crepes, gaufres dipped in chocolate sauce, marzipan, chocolates. There was lots of hot mulled wine and other goodies and everyone was hugely happy as they circulated, kids in tow, despite the frigid weather.

When I couldn’t take anymore of the cold, I escaped into the Tourist Center to make inquiries about day trips to the Giant’s Causeway and found the assistants there very helpful. They suggested Paddywagon, a company that takes tourists not just to the Causeway but to
London(derry) as well. I figured that this would make a better day trip as I did want to see more of Northern Ireland than just Belfast. I booked a ticket for 18 pounds and also found out about the Hop On Hop Off bus tour that cost me another 12 pounds. This would take me around Belfast and show me some of the far flung reaches of the city that would be impossible to reach without a car.

With my tickets safely in my bag, I crossed the busy shopping street of Donegal Square and made my way to the calmness of the Marks and Spencer tearoom where I relaxed with a warm mince pie and a pot of ginger and ginseng tea. Ah bliss!!! As always happens, because I am alone, I got into conversation with a couple of ladies, a mother-daughter team out on a shopping spree, who helped me pass the time. I loved the sound of the Irish brogue on their tongues and the peculiar intonation that is decidedly Irish. I have now traveled extensively enough in the UK to be able to distinguish the Scots from the Irish accents and they are always fun to overhear.

Then, I headed home and found that my 6-bed female dorm was empty. I chose a bed on a lower bunk and decided to take a shower, only to find the water hopelessly tepid. Disappointed, I settled down to read Mary Beard’s The Parthenon that my colleague Karen lent me. I found in fascinating. After having visited Athens, both Llew and I were keen to read more about Elgin and his vandalizing spree and this book provided all the answers in an extremely readable style and with an ironic tone throughout.

About a half hour later, the door opened and Jaime entered–a Malaysian who is spending a year in London on what she described as a “work-holiday visa”. I had never heard of such a thing and she went on to explain to me that the UK government allows young folk between the ages of 18 and 28 to arrive in Great Britain to travel for a year while keeping a job. Later on, Jo and Lisa from New Zealand would also join us. They were on the same visa. In the course of the next few days, I came across several Australians traveling around the UK on these visas. How marvelous, I thought, for these young people to take advantage of such opportunities and to travel through Europe while earning a living. How adventurous! For folks like these, Ryanair and Easyjet and other budget airlines are a boon, not to mention the economy offered by the Youth Hostels. This one, for instance, came en suite, with a separate toilet and shower room and wash basins in the room that allowed multiple residents to use the facilities at the same time. I love an en suite hostel room and find it so much better than the ones that require you to use common bathrooms in the hall outside. Of all the Youth Hostels I have stayed in, the one in Barcelona (at Las Ramblas) was the pits (it neither had separate male and female dorms nor en suite rooms) ,but Jaime told me that a newer one in Barcelona is far better.

It was Jaime who offered to go outside and buy us a pizza to share. She returned with a Chicken and Barbecue Sauce Pizza that was delicious. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I began to tuck into the pizza and at 3. 50 pounds each, it was a steal.

My first day in Belfast had been spent fruitfully and I looked forward to the arrival of Ivy Ridge who had promised to arrive from Ballymena to show me the Antrim Coast and glens.