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shewhomustWhether because of the rigours of the journey, or because of the Big Freeze, or just because we are getting old and lazy, we did not do any touristing in London on this trip. We lazed at home, and talked, and read the paper, and we went out to see friends. And of course there was the carol evening.
Friday drifted by: we rose late, we lunched across the road, we sat about and talked and read and played music. We ate what was left of the stew and dumplings which had been intended for Thursday (there were generous quantities, including two dumplings each, even though the Bears had already eaten some on Thursday.) I went to bed early.
On Saturday evening we had a dinner date withhelenraven at Bokan in Canary Wharf. The journey was easy, Northern Line and DLR, I had a book to read and durham_rambler to navigate. Emerging from the station into that landscape of glass mountains makes me feel like a real country mouse, and when we came to a street sign for Erebus Gardens I wondered what kind of place I had wandered into. Luckily, it was also a sign that we were at our destination: a glass door opens into a lobby, containing an attendant seated behind a desk which probably isn't really a giant tree stump, he waves you to a lift which carries you up to the restaurant on the 38th floor. By the time we had admired the spectacular view from the loos, helenraven was there to claim us. Perhaps I was still a bit dazed from lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the altitude, or the combination of warmth and lights against the cold and the huge dark windows with the tiny lights of London beyond... Anyway, it all felt a bit unreal. Our table had a good view of the counter which opened into the kitchen, so we had the full effect of all the waiting staff swarming around - and our food choices were sufficiently diverse that we built up quite a relationship with the sommelier, too: white to accompany helenraven's fishy starter, the chestnut soup which durham_rambler and I both chose (highlight of the meal, silky smooth with slices of crispy fried chestnut - also bacon, which is always welcome but wasn't necessary), the suckling pig which the other two chose for their main course, all this was easy, a full-bodied white, and once he proposed a Mendoza chardonnay, given helenraven's Argentine travels there was no hesitation. But I wanted venison: was it to be the old vine Zinfandel or the Gigondas? A glass of the zin was produced for me to taste, and passed around the table, and since we were already thinking of cheese for dessert, we ordered a bottle rather than a glass. Actually, I'd have been happy to return to the white with the cheese (which was pleasant, but not stunning), but the zin went very well with the venison, which was itself excellent.
Spectacular though all this was, it shouldn't overshadow what a joy it was to catch up withhelenraven, and talk books and friends and holidays past and future. My favourite exchange of dialogue is probably:
because it makes me so happy to share an enthusiasm, and because Hardinge is an enthusiasm so very well worth sharing.
Our table was booked for 6.30, and I had assumed this meant the restaurant would be looking to move us out and fit in another booking. Luckily, this was not the case, and we lingered over conversation and coffee.
We breakfasted on Sunday withdurham_rambler's younger niece and her husband in their new house in Walthamstow, where we coincided with her nephew and his girlfriend (that great-nephew who visited us in September accompanied by same girlfriend). Three generations of family over bagels and lox for breakfast, to say nothing of Molly the dog. I liked what I saw of the house, which is late nineteenth century: a sitting room divided from the dining area by an open staircase; an extension to the rear with kitchen and beyond that the bathroom with a big window onto the garden. Walthamstow is on the edges of the part of London I knew as a child: it now has a heritage village, which I don't think it did, then. But we drove home past the William Morris Gallery, a familiar landmark, and through the Lea Valley in mist and snow.
A. had already arrived by the time we got back, so we had most of the afternoon to catch up. I've been thinking of the carol evening as an annual event, which it is, and therefore catching myself thinking of the last time we met as 'last year' (it was, of course, in 2019). Talking to people, though, I realise that however uneventful our lives have been, maybe three years really have passed. We finally got to meet A.'s "new" gentleman friend, about whom we have heard so much - although, as she points out, he was a friend of her late husband, and we would have met him at their wedding. This makes him exactly the right kind of new/old friend to fit into the ever-traditional, ever-renewed event that is the carol evening - that and a willingness to sing, which he had. Looking back, I'm also glad that we had a first-time caroller, because in other respects we were a bit depleted: J and J had planned to be with us, but were prevented by a rescheduled operation; S rang to cry off because she had a cold; A (another A) had slipped on the ice and broken her arm - particularly inconvenient, since she is a sculptor; F had a cold and showed up, but withdrew at half time, accompanied by GirlBear's cousin, who had received bad news just as she was arriving...
Those of us who survived were heartless enough to be in good voice, and also on our best behaviour: we had time for all the canonical carols, including three versions of While shepherds... and the two bonus carols added in 2015. There were the usual discussions: were we taking this one too slow? or this one too high? (never, I note, too slow or too low) and these comments were noted for consideration during the year - which will probably not happen. The mulled wine was pronounced good, A's star-shaped cheese biscuits were devoured, M. brought chocolate coins as chanukah gelt as well as home made mince pies - extra potent this year, because the mincemeat has been maturing for several years.
And if the carol evening has happened, it must really be Christmas.
Monday was another quiet day of recovery: we lunched at Down the Rabbit Hole, I started to write this post, there was music fromboybear's practice... On Tuesday, durham_rambler and I visited his family in Essex, and overnighted with them, which shortened our homeward journey yesterday.
So we were home in time for the last pub quiz of the year - which our team won with an impressive final round, after a very wobbly progression through the rest of the quiz. Now it's just a matter of catching up with ourselves.
Friday drifted by: we rose late, we lunched across the road, we sat about and talked and read and played music. We ate what was left of the stew and dumplings which had been intended for Thursday (there were generous quantities, including two dumplings each, even though the Bears had already eaten some on Thursday.) I went to bed early.
On Saturday evening we had a dinner date with
helenraven at Bokan in Canary Wharf. The journey was easy, Northern Line and DLR, I had a book to read and durham_rambler to navigate. Emerging from the station into that landscape of glass mountains makes me feel like a real country mouse, and when we came to a street sign for Erebus Gardens I wondered what kind of place I had wandered into. Luckily, it was also a sign that we were at our destination: a glass door opens into a lobby, containing an attendant seated behind a desk which probably isn't really a giant tree stump, he waves you to a lift which carries you up to the restaurant on the 38th floor. By the time we had admired the spectacular view from the loos, helenraven was there to claim us. Perhaps I was still a bit dazed from lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the altitude, or the combination of warmth and lights against the cold and the huge dark windows with the tiny lights of London beyond... Anyway, it all felt a bit unreal. Our table had a good view of the counter which opened into the kitchen, so we had the full effect of all the waiting staff swarming around - and our food choices were sufficiently diverse that we built up quite a relationship with the sommelier, too: white to accompany helenraven's fishy starter, the chestnut soup which durham_rambler and I both chose (highlight of the meal, silky smooth with slices of crispy fried chestnut - also bacon, which is always welcome but wasn't necessary), the suckling pig which the other two chose for their main course, all this was easy, a full-bodied white, and once he proposed a Mendoza chardonnay, given helenraven's Argentine travels there was no hesitation. But I wanted venison: was it to be the old vine Zinfandel or the Gigondas? A glass of the zin was produced for me to taste, and passed around the table, and since we were already thinking of cheese for dessert, we ordered a bottle rather than a glass. Actually, I'd have been happy to return to the white with the cheese (which was pleasant, but not stunning), but the zin went very well with the venison, which was itself excellent.Spectacular though all this was, it shouldn't overshadow what a joy it was to catch up with
helenraven, and talk books and friends and holidays past and future. My favourite exchange of dialogue is probably:"Have you ready any Frances Hardinge?"
"I have read all of Frances Hardinge!"
because it makes me so happy to share an enthusiasm, and because Hardinge is an enthusiasm so very well worth sharing.
Our table was booked for 6.30, and I had assumed this meant the restaurant would be looking to move us out and fit in another booking. Luckily, this was not the case, and we lingered over conversation and coffee.
We breakfasted on Sunday with
durham_rambler's younger niece and her husband in their new house in Walthamstow, where we coincided with her nephew and his girlfriend (that great-nephew who visited us in September accompanied by same girlfriend). Three generations of family over bagels and lox for breakfast, to say nothing of Molly the dog. I liked what I saw of the house, which is late nineteenth century: a sitting room divided from the dining area by an open staircase; an extension to the rear with kitchen and beyond that the bathroom with a big window onto the garden. Walthamstow is on the edges of the part of London I knew as a child: it now has a heritage village, which I don't think it did, then. But we drove home past the William Morris Gallery, a familiar landmark, and through the Lea Valley in mist and snow.A. had already arrived by the time we got back, so we had most of the afternoon to catch up. I've been thinking of the carol evening as an annual event, which it is, and therefore catching myself thinking of the last time we met as 'last year' (it was, of course, in 2019). Talking to people, though, I realise that however uneventful our lives have been, maybe three years really have passed. We finally got to meet A.'s "new" gentleman friend, about whom we have heard so much - although, as she points out, he was a friend of her late husband, and we would have met him at their wedding. This makes him exactly the right kind of new/old friend to fit into the ever-traditional, ever-renewed event that is the carol evening - that and a willingness to sing, which he had. Looking back, I'm also glad that we had a first-time caroller, because in other respects we were a bit depleted: J and J had planned to be with us, but were prevented by a rescheduled operation; S rang to cry off because she had a cold; A (another A) had slipped on the ice and broken her arm - particularly inconvenient, since she is a sculptor; F had a cold and showed up, but withdrew at half time, accompanied by GirlBear's cousin, who had received bad news just as she was arriving...
Those of us who survived were heartless enough to be in good voice, and also on our best behaviour: we had time for all the canonical carols, including three versions of While shepherds... and the two bonus carols added in 2015. There were the usual discussions: were we taking this one too slow? or this one too high? (never, I note, too slow or too low) and these comments were noted for consideration during the year - which will probably not happen. The mulled wine was pronounced good, A's star-shaped cheese biscuits were devoured, M. brought chocolate coins as chanukah gelt as well as home made mince pies - extra potent this year, because the mincemeat has been maturing for several years.
And if the carol evening has happened, it must really be Christmas.
Monday was another quiet day of recovery: we lunched at Down the Rabbit Hole, I started to write this post, there was music from
boybear's practice... On Tuesday, durham_rambler and I visited his family in Essex, and overnighted with them, which shortened our homeward journey yesterday.So we were home in time for the last pub quiz of the year - which our team won with an impressive final round, after a very wobbly progression through the rest of the quiz. Now it's just a matter of catching up with ourselves.
