Over the last few days, the Boy and I have been rather homebodyish. It’s beautiful outside–after a day of rain, the last few days have had a glorious golden glow to them. Today was downright hot. It’s not very wintery, and I resent that.

I know, I know. Those of my friends who endure winter in places with snow plows and drainage ditches that are actually necessary would laugh at my desire to wear a wool cap in 50 degree weather. You would scowl at my whiny mewlings about “hot” and “golden” and “too sunny.” But there has to be a down time, when you curl up in your house with the elements held at bay outside and warm beverages and intriguing plotlines inside. When it’s lovely and growing outside, it’s almost too much. It makes one feel guilty for staying inside.

And yet, stay inside we did, on Wednesday, and again on Thursday afternoon after a morning spent running errands. We stayed in, and read, and snacked, and I quilted. I’ve had a tremendously strong desire to have a closet full of quilts to smother guests in when they visit (don’t be afraid, really). So I’m working on that, and while I ran my machine until the bulb burned out and the engine ran hot, I would occasionally peep out into the living room, where the Boy plowed his way through some of his favorites, the first three volumes of the Mary Poppins books by P.L. Travers. (He doesn’t know about the rest of them, which is good, because it gives me things to search for and give him and delight in his joy.)

Occasionally, as I peeped round the corner, I’d say hesitantly, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Murmble.

“You sure? Can I get anything?”

Murmble.

So I’d go back and work some more.

Well, there’s only so much guilt a mother can handle. This morning, after breakfast and morning things were attended to, off we walked to the zoo. By the time we got there, we didn’t have much time to actually wander about, but an hour or so later we started walking home and I felt that at least he wasn’t going to die of rickets today. After a quick lunch, more reading, locking a manic cat in the bedroom (lunch was cobbled together of random cat temptations like nori, cheese, and corn), we headed off to the park.

Yes! Park play is good. Park play is outdoors, in the aforementioned golden afternoon. Running was had.

And then? We went bowling. Oh, bowling, the activity of the gods. We went with Chris’s coworkers to a bar with the cutest widdle bowling alley in the world, five lanes of sweet bowling goodness (topped, it must be said, by the most frighteningly graphic television-and-ad screens, but luckily the Geeklet was too busy hi-fiving most people to notice. Later, he merely commented that the screens had been “scary” so he stopped watching after he saw the monsters. Such a practical guy). It was his first time bowling, my first in a long, long time, and Chris has only ever been an intermittent bowler. Boy was pleased with the idea of special shoes to bowl in. He thought they were pretty stylish. It was the first time I’d seen velcro on a bowling shoe.

They raised the gutter barriers for him, and he went to with a will. As his 6lb green ball wuh-wuh-wuh’d it’s slow and meandering way down the lane, we’d just stand there and watch. Inevitably it would only get one or two from the sides, but as the game progressed, he’d get five. It didn’t matter. He’d hi-five everyone, saying how great they’d done no matter how great they’d done, tell them, “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter how many pins went down! You did well!” And generally, he made me all sorts of mama-proud. Between turns, he’d eat a few french fries and sip orange juice, but mostly, sat on his tall stool, watching the bowlers on our team. When he scored a strike, he was so overcome by the congratulations that he buried his head in Chris’s chest and just shook for a while.

Then, Thai food. And home, and Plum Creek, and sleep, oh, quick and deep and delicious sleep. I felt the glow that doesn’t come from sunshine, but comes from having fun together, and pride in my Boy, and knowing that we’ve probably earned another day or two of homebodyness, if we want it.

You’ve made me frown (see yesterday’s post). You’ve made me cry (at All-Hallows-by-the-Tower church, reading “To the Fallen” over a WWI tomb).

You’ve made me exclaim in surprise: In wandering around St. Paul’s Cathedral today, I stumbled upon a miniature village of tents, with walkways, Loo Notices and calls for theatrically inclined people to perform in Saturday’s play. There was even, for Sukkot, a pop-up tent Sukkah (in case, I guess, you weren’t satisfied in your spiritual leanings by the overwhelmingly non-pop-up presence of St. Paul’s).

You’ve made me disappointed: The William Morris museum was closed during this visit, and the great majority of the textiles have been removed from exhibit at the V&A.

You’ve left me well fed. You’ve worn me out. You’ve left me proud to have figured out the Tube system and even to find my way around a bit. You’ve left me with things I’ve not yet seen or done, things I’m glad to have revisited, and friends I’m glad to have met.

It’s been fun. Let’s do it again, shall we? But next time, I plan to visit here as well. I’ll fit it in. Perhaps I’ll even be wearing the P3 sweater?

The Tower of London.

I’ve been to London before, but always the Tower was too busy, too packed, too expensive, too touristy to make a point of visiting. Today it was all of those things as well. But, well, I felt it was time. Also, the Boy and I have read about English history a lot over the last few years and I felt I owed it to him to bring him home photos of the White Tower at least.

The sun was shining, it was cool and bright outside as I emerged from the Tube and the underground tunnel that leads up to the Tower. I experienced a little thrill each time I saw pieces of Roman wall, fenced off and sitting there like it wasn’t, you know, history. I mean, gum wrappers could get blown in there! Rain! People might cough on them. Pigeons?

The area around the Tower was crawling with tourists. I know they were tourists because a good deal of them were speaking French or Japanese or German and waving brochures around. Since I wasn’t doing any of those things, I must not be a tourist? No, I am. And funny enough, I feel safer taking pictures of things in a crowd of tourists than I do just wandering along the street. I don’t know what it is, but this trip I feel more fearful wandering around by myself than I ever have before. It’s an attitude I’ve picked up from some travel book or resource somewhere and I don’t like it. I remember traveling by myself and stopping to take odd photos that I love looking at even now. But now? I’m fearful, lest I be targeted as a tourist and attacked and stripped of all my worldly goods. Imagine a cloud of buzzards and a tasty bit of roadkill. It’s a frustrating attitude, and one I’d like to shake.

In any case, when you are in a crowd of tourists you are just one more camera, but! But! You are taking photos of the exact same things.

Ah, well. The Tower itself is an amazing place, a community with its own live-in population whose purpose, it seems, is to protect the past and mediate the experiences of thousands of people per day (I asked). There are actually 20 towers that together make up the Tower, and many of them have very interesting stories of blood and murder, treason and terror, and the fear of those involved that at any point you will be attacked and stripped of all your worldly goods (that would be either the prisoners or the ruling monarch of the day).

While the masses milled (and I know that I milled right along with them, no pride, me), I was able to find the occasional bit of wonderful that made me skip a bit. Again there were fragments of Roman walls inside. Just sitting there. Hello? Did anyone hear me say pigeons? And then there was the Crown Jewels display. Now, the jewels themselves were pretty fabulous, especially the sapphire on the back of the Imperial State crown that is about the size of my eyeglass lens and cloudy, like a chunk of sea. This I could imagine being mined, being held up to the light and admired by a crowd of dusty, muddy miners. Washed, gently, and cut to the minimum of necessity. Presented to the queen’s court, or perhaps acquired by the queen’s jeweler. It felt like a jewel that was held in someone’s hand before being set.

I was set a-shiver, however, by the coronation stole. I’ve been reading a lot about Wales lately, in preparation for the trip, and while I’m not at all as well versed in its history and culture as I’d like, it is my understanding that the Welsh people are very independent in spirit, especially when it comes to the English and to being part of Britain. I came up to the case that holds the enormous coronation robe and next to it, the coronation stole, and as such things are, they were covered in symbols. The robe had things that were obvious: lions, roses (for England), thistles (for Scotland), and an odd ribbonlike shape that could be thought to look like a shamrock. I turned and asked the docent/guard about it, and she was quite voluble. Not only did she laugh and tell me that it was a shamrock, but she brought me up close to the stole and told me about all the symbols on it. It seems that running up and down the length of the stole are floral symbols for Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and Ceylon, as well as the flags of St. George, St. Andrew, and St. Patrick (which laid upon one another and futzed a bit make the Union Jack). Running along on both sides are red embroidered buttons symbolizing St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, and St. John. At the bottom are, again, the thistle, the rose, the shamrock… and the leek.

Ah, I thought. The leek is for Wales. At the same time I thought, why hasn’t Wales been mentioned until now? As if reading my thoughts, the guide said, “Wales was going to be represented with its national flower as well, the daffodil, but they thought the yellow would blend too much with the gold embroidery, so they put the leek. They don’t usually put Wales on these kinds of things, you know, because we have Princes of Wales. Wales is thought of as more like a principality of England, than its own country.” She was quite unconsciously dismissive, and I thought of my conversations over the weekend, about the independent spirit of the Welsh, and could just hear the mutterings of dissent that might have begun after that comment…

Well, after that I did tour the White Tower and see its armaments and hear its history and it is a monument worth seeing. There were garderobes and oddly shaped fireplaces and stone cut and set in William I’s day. The chapel. The room where 47 soldiers would bathe, watched by their regent, until he made the sign of the cross on their wet backs and they were allowed to dry and dress for battle. I wanted to sit down and take it all in, but the flow of humanity around me kept me moving until, almost without my own volition, I found myself out on the plaza that surrounds the tower, surrounded myself by the gift shops and memorabilia emporia that make up such places. And I wanted money (I’d spent all mine on yarn) and food.

After using the ATM while surrounded by disaffected smoking German youth, I took the Tube back to the hotel to a lovely surprise: Not 1/8 mile from my hotel is a little bakery cafe called Le Pain Quotidien. They seem to be a chain, but the kind of chain that has one shop here, one in Belgium, one in New York… I don’t care. They had organic dishes, fresh vegetable soup, fresh bread and hot tea and were so kind. My legs were shaking, shaking! I ate, and read a magazine, and didn’t really want to get up after eating my quiche and olive tapenade and salad and tea. I purchased a cup of tea to take away and made my way back to my room, where I promptly collapsed. It was 5:30pm, and I was not going anywhere. And now, as I sit in my pajamas at not 8pm, tissues covering the coverlet and toes frozen, I can admit that the sniffing isn’t city air and the sore throat isn’t damp: I have a cold, and it’s time for an early evening in.

It seems pretty fitting that this documentary is the first thing I saw when I turned on the TV in my hotel room tonight. Big giant thanks to everyone who made my weekend in Pembrokeshire so amazing.

Now, off to wander the night stress of London, in search of my hotel.

This afternoon, Brenda Dayne, the other half of our lovely leadership duo, gave a class on creating top-down raglan sweaters. It was a really helpful class and I’m hoping to put the ideas to work tonight, and begin a raglan sweater using the lace techniques Amy taught and the Scrumptious yarn (if I brought the appropriate needles). (Okay, note: That did not happen–perhaps tomorrow?)

As we knit and asked questions, the Welsh countryside outside turned dramatically from a beautiful sunny morning, pale blue sky, brilliant emerald green grass, dotted with dark-brown and copper trees and the creamy yellow of sheep in the distance, to have a leaden sky and then rain. The wind, blowing in through the propped door, smelled incredible, like a clear night. It would blow through and cool my hands, hot from holding the needles so long and so tightly. At one point we went outside for a photo, and my jeans ended up soaked from the wet grass. I was so happy.

Oh, I hear knitters gathering in the hall for TV watching and, most likely, more knitting. I have to find some mindless knitting now. Maybe a top-down raglan sweater with lace detailing? How hard could it be? Brenda makes it look so easy…

The new Terry Pratchett book.

So, ensconced in my non-reserved train seat, bag of almonds by my side and knitting in hand, off we rushed through the English countryside, which is, of course, beautiful and looks exactly as the English countryside should, which is to say, English. No wonder everyone wanted it. Romans, Saxons, Angles, Normans… oh, and the Celts too, of course.

It seemed only a short time before we arrived in Cardiff. I battled my way upstream of a million frustrated Wales Rugby fans, a sea of red and black and green coming from the nearby Cardiff stadium that shares the parking lot with the train station. Wales had lost, but they gamely sang and made plans in Welsh to drink lots of beer anyway. I know this, because they sang, in Welsh, and held up boxes of beer to one another.

I found Josie and our fellow knitter, Lian, from London, and we piled into Josie’s car and were off. I had forgotten what it felt like to drive motorways in Britain, being on the left and using roundabouts, and it was so interesting that I refrained from knitting. Josie told us a lot of the history of the area (how one port town had crashed and currently was dealing with a lot of poverty after an industrial boom; how smaller Welsh towns can be difficult to live in if you are a minority, like Chinese or Indian, lesbian or English). We arrived at Beggar’s Reach Inn famished and excited, because the whole landscape is beautiful and the hotel looked to be an old, large white country house. The inn staff are friendly and bewildered by us. They bring us food and beverage and give us a giant room in which to knit, and in return we buy cider and tea and Felinfoel Welsh Ale, and we don’t bite too much.

Much knitting was had by all! This trip is officially called Plug and Play in Pembrokeshire, or P3 for short, and it officially started at 3pm. Officially. Unofficially, it began as soon as we arrived on Saturday. We claimed a table and ate sandwiches on wholegrain bread and drank tea and ate biscuits until Brenda and Amy ushered us into a large, light-filled banquet room that was to be our hive of activity for the weekend. And! They gave us presents! More on that later. The room grew bright, then shaded and then bright again with artificial lights as we learned all kinds of interesting lace-type things and ate very, very good food (like fried brie with cranberry sauce and baked aubergine, or eggplant, and creme brulee). As the world outside grew dark, hidden lights circling the large skylight began to glow red, yellow, green, blue, red, yellow, green, blue…

Now I prepare to sleep, with the disco lights of our gathering room shining right outside my window.

It is absolutely dark now. The disco lights have gone away, and my sky is velvet black with no stars. The cows were lowing earlier, but I scared them away with my cry of delight and rush to the fence. Funny cows, so big and yet so fraidy. Even the cows are covered in darkness, and sleep.

Then, as I ate breakfast, I watched this, sent to my by my brother-in-law. It’s beautiful, and so good to remember to look, look, look and be grateful. It’s an attitude I want to remember to cultivate while I am here. Sometimes when I travel alone (not that it happens all that often, but when it has), I want to put on my hard shell of toughness, which is a bit necessary for self-preservation and defense when you wander a strange city. But I don’t want to let that shell turn into coolness and blase, I don’t want to forget to be wondering, wonder-ful, as I wander this amazing place. I am so lucky to be here!

And when I’m at home, I’m so, so lucky to be there.

John’s email meant that instead of listening to the news (which I don’t do at home, but do sometimes do when I’m on a trip, to kind of surround myself in what-they-do-hereness), I’m listening to George Winston as I prepare for the day. It definitely gives a different flavor to my breakfast.

Later…
After some toast and muesli and tea, I jotted some notes for my foray into the world, put something into nearly every pocket, and was off. My list went something like this:
1. Cecil Court
2. Trafalgar Square
3. National Gallery
4. Big Ben/Houses of Parliament
5. Westminster Abbey and St. Margaret’s Church
6. Across Westminster Bridge (with a photo of the London Eye for the Boy) to
7. The Imperial War Museum*
8. If I still had energy, the British Museum (which is open late on Fridays)

Okay, my list was slightly less tidy than this.

Things to Do, With Directions

I took the Bakerloo line down to Leicester Square. I was filled with joy as soon as I emerged into the daylight. It was a beautiful day, sunny but not hot, and I was in one of my favorite places in the world: Leicester Square. I didn’t even need my copious notes. I found the art supply store right away, and stood with my nose nearly pressed against one window. I’m sure they get a lot of odd ducks in there (it is an art supply store) but still… I didn’t really need anything, and contemplated buying some spray mount just as a memento, but figured that the TSA would probably frown on it.

Then I got turned around. It’s not my fault! They are doing a huge amount of construction in all those little streets around the theaters (excuse me, theatres) in preparation for the Olympics next year and Cecil Court wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Instead, the National Portrait Gallery was. I was somewhat dismayed and went around the building, thinking surely the National Gallery was just putting up a lot of signs around town for their exhibits and with Trumpets and Fanfare, there it was.

Trafalgar Square.

My first thought was, “But I’m not ready for it yet!” It was third on my list! I drifted slowly to the railing overlooking the fountains. Behind me, in the square before the National Gallery, a mime was waltzing with a life-sized puppet attached to his body, his music loud. A group of kids and their teacher arrived at the railing. The teacher began to talk to her students, asking them questions.

Teacher: So, who can tell me where we are?
In unison: Trafalgar Square.
Teacher: And what–
Multiple kids, spotting the mime: Ooh, cool! What’s he doing? What’s that with him? I like the music.
Teacher: Very nice, but now we’re talking bout Trafalgar Square. The tall obelisk is in honor of Horatio Nelson–
Kids, now facing the mime with their backs to the Square: Ooo, look at him now!

The two boys next to me were oblivious to everyone else. They, at least, were observing Trafalgar Square.
Boy 1, informatively: That fountain is deep.
Boy 2: I could jump in that. I could swim in that.
Boy 1: It’s really deep.
Boy 2: If I jumped in, it would probably come up to my neck.

But they were interrupted, because their whole class was moving over to watch the mime.

Fine. I was going to look at Trafalgar Square (#3 on the list) first. I glanced down at the brass plaque conveniently located near my elbow, which labeled everything I could see. Nelson. The lions. The plinths. “Impressive buildings.” An embassy or two. I looked at the generals, George IV on his horse, and the big ship-in-a-bottle that is on the fourth plinth. I saw the lions. I thought about the whole place being filled to the eyeballs with joyful people on VE Day in 1945. I got a little misty-eyed. Then, I turned around to go find Cecil Court. I didn’t want to get distracted by the National Portrait Gallery until I had visited my favorite place in London first. I found it easily enough once I realized that my orientation had been turned around (easy to do; London is NOT built on a grid). Cecil Court is a tiny little street that feels hundreds of years old and is filled with bookstores (new, old, antiquarian), map shops, shops selling old war emblems and authentic Nazi travel papers (with photos!). One shop sold ephemera and had a tea-towel in the window reading, “Weak Tea, Weak Mind.” I was very tempted. I didn’t buy anything, though I might go back next week. I just needed to visit Cecil Court. It made me feel like I had really arrived.

Then I got lost trying to find the National Gallery.

I went back the way I came, I swear, but each time (I think it took five or six times to get it right) I passed something new. James Earl Jones is doing Driving Miss Daisy right now. And the Odeon Leicester Square brings its popcorn in, in giant bags as big as me, on a pallet-dolly. And why am I wandering through Chinatown…?

Finally made it back to the Gallery, had some lunch (goat cheese and courgette fritatta and tomato salad, with apple-elderberry juice) and wandered the gallery. It had a beautiful exhibit of comedian portraits, and one of glamour shots of famous stars from the ’40s (but the line was pretty long for that one and I was on the clock today!). Then off, down Whitehall which blends into Parliament Street and then into St. Margaret’s. The teeming masses were teeming, and we were all tourists together, so I tucked everything more firmly into my pockets, made sure my backpack zippers were all snugged up, and pulled out my camera. I took a lot of photographs. I try not to take too many when I travel, as a rule–I don’t want to live through the lens, I want to have experiences and taking too many photos makes you stand out as a tourist, but in that area of town, where Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament are across the street from Westminster Abbey, there is no unique experience. You are just one more touristy body. So, I take a photo. But I try to get something different out of it. Also, these are the famous things that the Boy would like to see.

I love little St. Margaret’s Church, on the grounds of Westminster Abbey (I didn’t even try to go in there–the line was hours long) and I was lucky, because the choir was practicing, so I sat down and listened to them sing “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3,” to the tune of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” I don’t know, is this normal for choral groups? Anybody?

Also, in one of the stained glass windows in says, “Thou has been faithful over a few things.” Is this damning with faint praise? But then, why put someone in the window of The Official Church of Parliament if you are going to say, “mmm, not so shabby, your deeds”? I don’t know.

Oh, and then I remembered the Jewel Tower! So I went around back of Westminster Abbey and there it was. The little tower that could. Built in 1365 to house the personal wealth of the king (including his armory), it sat in the corner of Westminster Palace grounds with a moat all around. Now it has a quarter moat and a wee garden and you can visit its inside, which is mostly all still medieval, including a ceiling imp that glowers at you. There is a very interesting exhibit inside that explains how British government works, and talks about the civil war and Cromwell and the Restoration and how it was that William and Mary actually became co-regents, and it is all so medieval-now-Renaissance and stone and deep defensible windows and an iron door from James I’s reign and suddenly! There are photos of it as the official location of the Weights and Measures office and tables with scales all over them. The mind reels as history comes pouring in your ears.

Nice walk across the road to say hi to Big Ben, who didn’t look at all listy, then across the river, stopping to take a photo of Queen Boadicea and her daughters, evidently fleeing the Romans (or trampling them under the hooves of her prancing horses) and another of the London Eye. Then tramp, tramp, tramp, off I go to the Imperial War Museum. (Yes, I now have the Emperor’s theme in my head. Dun dun dun dun da dun, dun da dun…) I passed the Three Stags, which looked like a lovely pub, all renaissance and windowed, painted black and green, old man at a table outside with a beer in front of him, and Winnie-the-Pooh painted on each big window. According to their sandwich board out front, all honey will be donated to the British Heart Association.

Finally made it to the museum. There are giant guns mounted in front of the building. They are quite impressive, and longer than my house is tall. Inside, a guard lackadaisically checked my bag and let me go through. I thought to myself that he hadn’t checked very well, what if I were really packing? I came to a stop as I opened the doors to go in. I was confronted with a room packed to the gills with tanks, fighter planes and bombs. Clearly, the guard was not at all concerned with my backpack.

I will say right now that this museum was the highlight of all museums for me so far. I love the V&A with all my heart but as a museum, this was amazing. It had displays that were packed with items, all well themed and well labeled. They were not large rectangular spaces filled along the walls with cases; rather, one navigates a warren of cases that all lead in fairly predictable (for the staff) directions, but seem surprising to the visitor. Yet you end up where you are supposed to go, looking at things in the right order. At odd turns and corners there are videos set up, playing film shot at the time. I was there for three and a half hours and was only able to focus on a few exhibits: World War I, World War II, The Children’s War and 1940′s House, and Once Upon A Wartime: Classic War Stories for Children. The World War I exhibit has a part called “The Trench” in which you wander through a real trench, listening to the sounds and smelling smells and being surprised by what you see. Trench warfare was nasty. And the World War II area includes The Blitz Experience, in which you sit in the dark in an air raid shelter listening to the conversation of your “fellow” shelter inhabitants, waiting for the bombs… and when they happen, you are led on a tour to see the fallout. I didn’t take any photos of that area because it tended to be dark, but for the fires. The Children’s War and 1940′s House were wonderful, too, seeing it from so many different angles and hearing recounts from people who were children then, and were evacuated. I cried for a time in that exhibit. Classic War Stories for Children impressed me a great deal. It was a special exhibit, which you had to pay for, but was clearly intended for children as an audience. It focused on five children’s books about wartime, had exhibition materials (the suitcase of an evacuee, a barn with a model of a warhorse that was used for training those who were to help cavalrymen in WWI) but also had a child’s-eye level running series of synopses on small 3″x5″ tiles. Between each tile (a quote from the book) was an actor playing the main character(s), emoting what is happening with no background, just the actor in costume. I cannot exaggerate how impressed I was by this museum. And I completely missed their Holocaust area, and any wars after 1945. I just ran out of time.

Oh, and they had so many lovely wartime cooking and Make Do and Mend items in the gift shop! And the poster that read “Our Jungle Fighters Want Socks–Please Knit Now”!

But it was time to come home. The British Museum will have to wait until next week, because I was very tired and though I’d have had the energy to go a bit longer, my feet hurt and I have to be up at 5:30am to catch my train. That’s early enough that the hotel won’t even feed me my already-paid-for breakfast. They offered me a Boxed Snack, but I could tell that this is code for Thing I Won’t Like That I Have To Throw Mostly Away. I have a sack of almonds and cashews and a banana and the means to make a cup of tea before I go (though the little milk containers read “Tastes Like Real Milk!” which makes me nervous…). My next set of notes will be mostly notes on Not London At All, I guess. And I will say, I found myself so glad and grateful for the day, and so joyful to be here, and I don’t know if it was the video or three hours of children in wartime or just London that did it.

*Bing was so happy that I was going to visit the Imperial War Museum. He was slightly less happy to realize that it was not going to reference Darth Vader or the Rebel Alliance at all, but mollified when I told him there would likely be references to World War II.

Flocks of waterfowl surprised me near the Serpentine, which may also be The Serpentine. I’m not sure about this. It’s a long, sinuous lake upon which are built boathouses and a cafe, and many birds descend there to enjoy the water and to beat each other up. At least, one breed finds fisticuffs a suitable form of communication. One such water-lover was so covetous of a scrap of bread that fully a minute after a grebe had eaten it (poor grebe!) this white seabird-like creature was still flying into the air and landing on the grebe’s back with a forceful plunge to the feet that sent the grebe ducking. The white bird scolded and chattered at the grebe the whole time.

I even saw swans outside of the water, walking around. Standing up like this, I realized to what extent they are quite tall and massive. They are certainly as big as Geeklet, if not taller or larger.

Visited the Victoria & Albert Museum, as lovely a museum as you could ever wish to visit, for it is full of good things: statues of mothers and babies, and William Morris furniture and tapestries and curtains and a painting of his wife Jane by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (who was in love with her and stalked her and painted her at every opportunity). And other things, like a project that includes a piece that has a giant knitted aran swatch but could be a rug. For this, the artist carved knitting needles herself, because they were as big and as big around as Boy’s arms. Also, a crocheted bear of true bear size. Like this one.

Had lunch there, which I will do again. Vegetable gratin, English Breakfast tea, and a slice of coffee-walnut cake. Hallelujah! They have a luscious cakes and teas station, and the area in which I sat was all over stained glass imagery of angels, Victoria with a sword riding to victory, and poetry about food and wine all throughout.

Having given myself a boost of energy, I slipped over to the Natural History Museum, but only saw a big of its intimidating interior (but I did see the model of a grocery store from Kobe, Japan, which moves during a model earthquake. Very effective, and the kids loved it, though not exactly the way it’s meant (“Woo! Yay! Make it do that again! Let’s spin around and play tag! Whee!”)). Then I was off to switch to a hotel that is much closer to the city center. Once done, I visited the shops around Euston Station, which have quite a selection given that they are placed around a train station, but then, this station is a National Rail connection point too.

One stand, Cranberries, sells dried fruits and nuts. A group of young women could not figure out how to buy more than one thing. They wanted to fill a bag with many different items, trail-mix style, and couldn’t understand that because different things are priced differently, they couldn’t do it that way. But they just did not get it. By the time I could get the owner’s attention, I was ready to smack each of them on the head. But I blame the heady rush of bodies in Euston and a serious lack of sleep for this poor impulse. At least I controlled it. Or controlled it enough to purchase a small, cherished paper sack of pepper-and-sea-salt cashews for my morning tidbit.

Vegetable pasty, apple, tea, almond croissant. Washed my dainties and blocked my hat, and am ready for a bit of knitting and bed. Or maybe just bed. I keep falling asleep as I write this…

The nice French man and his wife on the plane. He was somewhat chatty toward the end of the flight, and might have been more so if I were not so intent on sleeping. He lives in Mont something-or-other, but was visiting his family in Carlsbad for a month. He really liked San Diego. When I commented that it would be a long day of travel for him, he scoffed. “No,” he said, “The plane flies fast!”

The Family: she spoke with a slightly southern accent when she spoke English, but a beautiful French accent when they spoke French together. He was a prematurely balding, anxious-to-be-helpful young man with a British accent to his English, but again, beautiful French. Was he French or English? They had a 4-month old baby, a beautiful little girl named Louise whom they called Coco, and a TON of equipment–baby bottles, plastic bags of baby clothes, a stroller and its own bag for storage. When she would cry they would get out a bottle for milk and entertain her with making her formula. “Look! It’s a milk…. SHAKE! Shake-a shake-a!”

On the Tube, I sat and knitted on some fingerless gloves. The car began to fill in all around me: The very tall, blonde woman with a black purse and a copy of A Woman In Jerusalem. She opened it, then inserted her finger as a bookmark and closed it, stroking the cover absentmindedly with long, pale fingers. She had painted her fingernails light pink and they were perfectly shaped, like the fake nails in a package. Or like almonds.

Across from me a boy, maybe 12 or 14 years old, slumped in his seat. He wore what I would take to be a traditional school uniform of slacks, knitted vest, blazer with crest. His bag sat at his feet and he stared at my knitting the whole way from Acton Town to Green Park.

The car filled and filled, new people entered and no one left, little spaces being taken like sand filling in between boulders at the beach, until I wondered how I could get off when necessary as I was sitting equidistant from the doors. But the blonde woman rose to make her way off and I followed, bulky and slow in my luggage-laden way, a tug in the wake of her sailboat slenderness. The other passengers were oblivious to me, as I guess you need to be.

Summer, at least for the last few years, seems to have a rhythm to it. At the beginning of the summer, I am exhausted from whatever things it is that I do throughout the September-to-June “school” year. Deadlines seem to march like large, intimidating tin soldiers toward me as I stand stunned in the middle of the road. The tanks are rolling forward. I sense a break and a green, untended field in the distance and I sprint…

Okay, it’s not that bad. No one is trying to mow me down. But sometimes it is difficult to step back and regard deadlines and piles as anything but a personal attack, even when they are brought on by promises that I myself have made. In any case, usually I have The Summer to look forward to. The Summer, time of no deadlines. The Summer, time of no preconceived ideas of what we should be doing. The Summer, time of breaks-from-classes. The Summer, emotionally equivalent to that luscious field of green dotted with meadow flowers.

Except that it never happens that way. We fill it up so very fast. Wonderful opportunities bang on the door. Short trips and longer ones can be planned and enjoyed. There is nothing not-good about any of what we plan, except perhaps that there isn’t enough time to enjoy everything without the feeling that I wish we could enjoy it longer and feel like we’re sleeping enough.

Oh, and I dislike hot weather.

So fall is coming and I am glad, because it is a much desired time of mellow reflection. The Fall, time of cooler weather and fewer activities, The Fall, time of resuming dance class and recorder and wondering if we’re doing all that we want to do. Er. Not so relaxing. But that’s okay. I’m laughing as I write this. My editorializing about how-it-will-be-different has never changed anything about our days. The Boy tends to learn what he needs to learn, and I tend to get to tell as many stories as my little old storytelling heart desires. Maybe I don’t do as much planning as I’d like to have done; and I think at least one of those deadlines won’t get met. Look at me, being human. I feel all humble and such.

Learning and stories: for me, that’s why we homeschool.

And in the summer, homeschooling means we get to take road-trips to see wonderful friends in interesting places, who let us crash in their guest rooms. We get to be inspired by an existence so different from our everyday, one of being awakened by chickens, and watching cartoons, and taking walks in late morning to surreptitiously pick wild plums that hang enticingly over the road and we aren’t sure if they belong to anyone but they hang, and shine, and glow at us so that I can’t help picking just one or two… every block or so… and tuck them, little globes of soft brightness, into the Boy’s sweatshirt pocket where he exclaims of their warmth. He eats a grape from a climbing vine in a lane we wander and it turns into a story about a grapeseed that sprouts into a vine, up, up the little boy’s throat and then one day, he opens his mouth and a caressing tendril uncurls, springs out of his mouth, and seeks upward, finally winding around his glasses. Grapes sprout from the boy’s ear. “Grapes covered in ear wax? Ewww!”

We’ve picked blackberries in a vineyard empty but for the bright green heart-shaped leaves and their waiting, waiting fruit. We’ve wandered other vineyards and watched a turkey vulture snacking on an illicit bovine forelimb. We’ve eaten at a French bistro, where the boy and his kindred spirit scuffle over tomato bisque and baguette slathered in butter. He’s thrown hay to sheep and gathered eggs and helped to plant a fall garden.

It feels like the deep breath, before diving into the water. It feels like watching the tin soldiers shrink, and clatter, and become dust in the road, the tanks shrivel to tumbleweeds and roll away, and all I see is the dusty lane before us, lined on either side with green grass and tiny meadow blossoms, and the occasional wild plum tree, hanging fruit over our path and tempting us on.

I want to fill his pockets. We’ll need provisions for Fall.