Snow in London
Dec. 21st, 2010 06:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustI wrote this yesterday, and have only now had the chance to post it. Don't be confused...
I don't find weather boring: it's happening all the time, it's constantly changing, a succession of details, always something new to say. Travel likewise, come to that. But anticipating weather (and its effect on travel): will it snow? will the trains be running? will we get there / home? Always the same questions, and always the same answers: don't know, probably, wait and see. That gets tedious, and there's been plenty of it this weekend. Imagine it going on in the background, and I'll take it as read.
The sun shone on snowy landscapes all the way down to London, but as we came into the city we began to see snow lying on the pavements too, which was odd; surely the earlier snowfall would have been cleared away by now? In the taxi from King's Cross, the driver confirmed that yes, there had been an abrupt and heavy snowfall early that morning.
The Bears' Carol Evening wasn't particularly affected: only one person actually cried off because of the weather (inconveniencing the more regular attenders to whom she had promised a lift, though they were present regardless). F. arrived in time to supervise the mulled wine, which I thought much nicer than my attempts (T added a generous helping of cognac to the second batch: I deprecate this action, but have to admit it was even better). We had two dogs (one working, one not), three versions of While Shepherds..., none of them the 'usual' version (i.e. the one most of us learned in school). For a song composed in 1703 (according to Carol Ann Duffy in a Guardian article, worth reading for some of its 'new carols' as well)) it has gathered a fair number of tunes, and we throw the figures around with seasonal generosity. Then we sang "the Yorkshire version" (to the tune 'Cranbrook', which isn't Yorkshire at all) and "Sweet Bells" (which for the first time this year I felt I had the measure of, and really enjoyed singing) and since we had several members of the London Sacred Harp group present, they also sang a couple of verses. There was exchanging of cards and gossip with old friends, and more mince pies than we could eat, and just a few tunes after the formal programme to send us harmoniously to bed.
Saturday was a family day. Listening to the radio over breakfast - or rather, half listening - we caught a news story: US scientists are developing techniques to monitor woodpeckers from space. Looking round the table, it was obvious that all four of us were thinking the same thing: woodpeckers from space? A family of like minds.
durham_rambler and I went out to Essex to visit his family, which was agreeable and low key, but a little anxious, as there was a fairly serious snowfall while we were there. Still, durham_rambler's brother is a weather maven, and if you're going to put yourself in a situation where the weather is of serious concern, you might as well do it in the company of someone who is interested in, and informed about the topic. And in fact the journey home wasn't too badly disrupted, despite some waiting on cold and snowy platforms, worse in the anticipation than the reality. The final stage, back from the station, was actually fun: we cut through Whittington Park, past the topiary cat, and emerged into a snowball fight.
On Sunday morning we methelenraven and visited the Foundling Museum. Being located in the old foundling hospital no doubt gave a certain immediacy to the presentation, but the real interest lay in the collection itself, and the story behind it, and we spent longer than I would have expected in the room which set out the history of the hospital before moving on to the Threads of Feeling exhibition which I had particularly wanted to see. The hospital was set up by Thomas Coram, a retired sea captain, in a wonderfully practical piece of eighteenth century philanthropy: the death rate among babies in London was appalling, and if only these children could be saved, they would provide a useful source of labour, the girls going into domestic service and the boys into the navy. But Coram's main patrons seem to have come not from the church but from the arts (notably Handel and Hogarth) and the Hospital was surprisingly advanced (by the standards of its own period, but still). From the first, the hospital was oversubscribed (it opened at 8.00p, on Lady Day, and by midnight was full) and at one point operated a lottery system, in which affluent ladies were able to warch while eligible mothers each drew a coloured ball from a bag to determine whether their child would be accepted (the stuff of which reality tv is made). There was a letter from a mother asking for her baby to be admitted to the hospital, accompanied by a poem of her own composition, and a line in French: Va, mon enfant, et prends ta fortune!; another letter was from a Mr Othello, on behalf of his son.
I learned, among other things, that woven pink ribbons were produced bearing the message 'BLAKENEY THE BRAVE VANQUISHED BY B--G ONLY', that you can tell whether eighteenth century toddlers are boys or girls not by the colour of the ribbons on their bonnets but the position (girls have a topknot, a bow or bunch of ribbons on top of the hat, boys have a cockade or rosette on the side) and that one Hogarth portrait in a gallery stands out like a live bird in a gallery of stuffed one. Oh, and one we looked up when we got home: among the clothes most likely to be posessed by the children admitted was a 'biggin': the staff couldn't help us, but Google knew that it is 'a plain close-fitting cap, often tying under the chin, worn in the Middle Ages and by children in the 17th century' and derives from the French béguin (which is the headwear of the beguines).
We lunched extremely convivially at Carluccio's, then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
durham_rambler and I headed off into the City to find the Bears, who were walking round Susan Philipsz's Surround Me, a piece of art consisting of recorded music played in specific locations. We met them at Saint Olave in Mark Lane, arriving just as the light was fading and the recording was finishing, so that I was hearing faint melodic sounds as we approached, not quite sure if this was art, or church bells or some other ambient noise, possibly from traffic, and concluded that it was surely the music we were looking for just as it ended, and durham_rambler said "Ah, there they are!" It was Oh My Love, a canon, and the Bears sang it for us, and declared that this concluded their circuit, but that we could return home via Change Alley and hear Fresh Oyster s. Which we did. I liked the quality of Philipsz's voice, pleasant but not classically trained (perhaps I appreciated this all the more in contrast to the music playing at the Threads of Feeling exhibition, a soprano giving Oh, dear, what can the matter be? and The Bold Young Farmer the full treatment; I could gladly have done without this) and liked the idea that you would pass by and catch the music unexpectedly, unexplained (though there were in fact explanatory panels). Following a map took away the serendipity of the experience, though BoyBear said he had enjoyed the walk around the City as much as the music. Also that under London Bridge they had enjoyed the constant stream of joggers following a presumably familiar route, and being taken aback in mid-stride by an unexpected flood of Dowland.
Today's mission was to catch the Eurostar to Paris - in theory after a leisurely morning and lunch, though it was already evident on Saturday that things would not be so simple, We considered setting off first thing this morning, to improve our chances, but Eurostar's website, updated several times in the course of the morning, told us to arrive an hour ahead of our scheduled departure time (instead of the usual half hour) so we booked a taxi that would get us in two hours ahead, and polished off the Araucaria double crossword before setting off. By one o' clock, when we arrived at St Pancras, the queue reached round the block and along to the British Library. We joined the end of the queue, despite the repeated warnings of the Eurostar stewards that we were half a dozen places behind the point at which we would get onto a train today, An hour or so in, a police officer, fed up with the way the queue were obstructing the pavement, joined in urging us to go home. Four hours in, we actually got into the station, and were disappointed to discover that it was no warmer than the pavement outside. But at least there were toilets, and sandwich shops. Six hours in, while the stewards were still telling us we wouldn't be able to travel, and were only here at our own insistence, Eurostar must have decided to take some responsibility, and started sending round staff with tea and coffee, and cups of chilli and rice. And at ten o' clock, after nine hours of queueing, we got onto the train. Which is where I am writing this, as we cross northern France. There's no wifi, but I should be able to post it from our hotel tomorrow - or rather, later today. First, though, arrive at hotel, sleep, bath, Then we'll see...
I don't find weather boring: it's happening all the time, it's constantly changing, a succession of details, always something new to say. Travel likewise, come to that. But anticipating weather (and its effect on travel): will it snow? will the trains be running? will we get there / home? Always the same questions, and always the same answers: don't know, probably, wait and see. That gets tedious, and there's been plenty of it this weekend. Imagine it going on in the background, and I'll take it as read.
The sun shone on snowy landscapes all the way down to London, but as we came into the city we began to see snow lying on the pavements too, which was odd; surely the earlier snowfall would have been cleared away by now? In the taxi from King's Cross, the driver confirmed that yes, there had been an abrupt and heavy snowfall early that morning.
The Bears' Carol Evening wasn't particularly affected: only one person actually cried off because of the weather (inconveniencing the more regular attenders to whom she had promised a lift, though they were present regardless). F. arrived in time to supervise the mulled wine, which I thought much nicer than my attempts (T added a generous helping of cognac to the second batch: I deprecate this action, but have to admit it was even better). We had two dogs (one working, one not), three versions of While Shepherds..., none of them the 'usual' version (i.e. the one most of us learned in school). For a song composed in 1703 (according to Carol Ann Duffy in a Guardian article, worth reading for some of its 'new carols' as well)) it has gathered a fair number of tunes, and we throw the figures around with seasonal generosity. Then we sang "the Yorkshire version" (to the tune 'Cranbrook', which isn't Yorkshire at all) and "Sweet Bells" (which for the first time this year I felt I had the measure of, and really enjoyed singing) and since we had several members of the London Sacred Harp group present, they also sang a couple of verses. There was exchanging of cards and gossip with old friends, and more mince pies than we could eat, and just a few tunes after the formal programme to send us harmoniously to bed.
Saturday was a family day. Listening to the radio over breakfast - or rather, half listening - we caught a news story: US scientists are developing techniques to monitor woodpeckers from space. Looking round the table, it was obvious that all four of us were thinking the same thing: woodpeckers from space? A family of like minds.
durham_rambler and I went out to Essex to visit his family, which was agreeable and low key, but a little anxious, as there was a fairly serious snowfall while we were there. Still, durham_rambler's brother is a weather maven, and if you're going to put yourself in a situation where the weather is of serious concern, you might as well do it in the company of someone who is interested in, and informed about the topic. And in fact the journey home wasn't too badly disrupted, despite some waiting on cold and snowy platforms, worse in the anticipation than the reality. The final stage, back from the station, was actually fun: we cut through Whittington Park, past the topiary cat, and emerged into a snowball fight.On Sunday morning we met
helenraven and visited the Foundling Museum. Being located in the old foundling hospital no doubt gave a certain immediacy to the presentation, but the real interest lay in the collection itself, and the story behind it, and we spent longer than I would have expected in the room which set out the history of the hospital before moving on to the Threads of Feeling exhibition which I had particularly wanted to see. The hospital was set up by Thomas Coram, a retired sea captain, in a wonderfully practical piece of eighteenth century philanthropy: the death rate among babies in London was appalling, and if only these children could be saved, they would provide a useful source of labour, the girls going into domestic service and the boys into the navy. But Coram's main patrons seem to have come not from the church but from the arts (notably Handel and Hogarth) and the Hospital was surprisingly advanced (by the standards of its own period, but still). From the first, the hospital was oversubscribed (it opened at 8.00p, on Lady Day, and by midnight was full) and at one point operated a lottery system, in which affluent ladies were able to warch while eligible mothers each drew a coloured ball from a bag to determine whether their child would be accepted (the stuff of which reality tv is made). There was a letter from a mother asking for her baby to be admitted to the hospital, accompanied by a poem of her own composition, and a line in French: Va, mon enfant, et prends ta fortune!; another letter was from a Mr Othello, on behalf of his son. I learned, among other things, that woven pink ribbons were produced bearing the message 'BLAKENEY THE BRAVE VANQUISHED BY B--G ONLY', that you can tell whether eighteenth century toddlers are boys or girls not by the colour of the ribbons on their bonnets but the position (girls have a topknot, a bow or bunch of ribbons on top of the hat, boys have a cockade or rosette on the side) and that one Hogarth portrait in a gallery stands out like a live bird in a gallery of stuffed one. Oh, and one we looked up when we got home: among the clothes most likely to be posessed by the children admitted was a 'biggin': the staff couldn't help us, but Google knew that it is 'a plain close-fitting cap, often tying under the chin, worn in the Middle Ages and by children in the 17th century' and derives from the French béguin (which is the headwear of the beguines).
We lunched extremely convivially at Carluccio's, then
durham_rambler and I headed off into the City to find the Bears, who were walking round Susan Philipsz's Surround Me, a piece of art consisting of recorded music played in specific locations. We met them at Saint Olave in Mark Lane, arriving just as the light was fading and the recording was finishing, so that I was hearing faint melodic sounds as we approached, not quite sure if this was art, or church bells or some other ambient noise, possibly from traffic, and concluded that it was surely the music we were looking for just as it ended, and durham_rambler said "Ah, there they are!" It was Oh My Love, a canon, and the Bears sang it for us, and declared that this concluded their circuit, but that we could return home via Change Alley and hear Fresh Oyster s. Which we did. I liked the quality of Philipsz's voice, pleasant but not classically trained (perhaps I appreciated this all the more in contrast to the music playing at the Threads of Feeling exhibition, a soprano giving Oh, dear, what can the matter be? and The Bold Young Farmer the full treatment; I could gladly have done without this) and liked the idea that you would pass by and catch the music unexpectedly, unexplained (though there were in fact explanatory panels). Following a map took away the serendipity of the experience, though BoyBear said he had enjoyed the walk around the City as much as the music. Also that under London Bridge they had enjoyed the constant stream of joggers following a presumably familiar route, and being taken aback in mid-stride by an unexpected flood of Dowland.Today's mission was to catch the Eurostar to Paris - in theory after a leisurely morning and lunch, though it was already evident on Saturday that things would not be so simple, We considered setting off first thing this morning, to improve our chances, but Eurostar's website, updated several times in the course of the morning, told us to arrive an hour ahead of our scheduled departure time (instead of the usual half hour) so we booked a taxi that would get us in two hours ahead, and polished off the Araucaria double crossword before setting off. By one o' clock, when we arrived at St Pancras, the queue reached round the block and along to the British Library. We joined the end of the queue, despite the repeated warnings of the Eurostar stewards that we were half a dozen places behind the point at which we would get onto a train today, An hour or so in, a police officer, fed up with the way the queue were obstructing the pavement, joined in urging us to go home. Four hours in, we actually got into the station, and were disappointed to discover that it was no warmer than the pavement outside. But at least there were toilets, and sandwich shops. Six hours in, while the stewards were still telling us we wouldn't be able to travel, and were only here at our own insistence, Eurostar must have decided to take some responsibility, and started sending round staff with tea and coffee, and cups of chilli and rice. And at ten o' clock, after nine hours of queueing, we got onto the train. Which is where I am writing this, as we cross northern France. There's no wifi, but I should be able to post it from our hotel tomorrow - or rather, later today. First, though, arrive at hotel, sleep, bath, Then we'll see...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-24 09:22 am (UTC)I had your stories as a treat to entertain me on the train down to Italy.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 09:45 pm (UTC)Glad you managed to get on a train. Hope there are no further problems.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 10:03 pm (UTC)http://www.ianvisits.co.uk/blog/2008/12/25/deserted-london/
Looking forward to hearing of your next adventure!
no subject
Date: 2010-12-24 09:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 11:19 pm (UTC)