Big Ben and Westminster Bridge, London …
Pen & Wash . . . WHB – 2015
In London you’ll find a big clock
And notice it doesn’t ‘tick-tock.’
But if you climb the tower
And wait for the hour –
You are in for a bit of a shock!
Big Ben and Westminster Bridge, London …
Pen & Wash . . . WHB – 2015
On foot from Gloucester Road
I step out briskly and with soaring expectation along Cromwell Road.
Striding forcefully then up Queens Gate,
I shortly find myself, almost trotting now, beside the Royal Albert Hall.
Soon afterwards, I am jauntily following Kensington Gore.
Slowing a little, I meander now, across the width of Hyde Park.
Pausing frequently and sauntering to take in the scenery,
I haltingly cross over the Serpentine.
Slackening my pace again, I keep heading North to Lancaster Gate.
Then, at a relaxed pace, I drift into Sussex Square,
from where, slowing even further,
I tread the hot pavements along Sussex Gardens.
Working my way sluggishly along Westbourne Terrace
I then trudge the length of Praed Street
to reach Paddington Station.
Thence, struggling increasingly, I head to Edgware Road.
Continuing south to Oxford St and Marble Arch,
I move, almost idling, and with the occasional stumble,
along the exacting side-walks of Monopoly Land.
Then through Mayfair, plodding now,
down Park Lane.
Slowing even more, (Is that possible without actually stopping?)
I traipse across Piccadilly and round Hyde Park Corner.
I turn, unsteadily, into Grosvenor Place,
heading towards Buckingham Palace,
but, after taking a breather,
and deciding to simplify my intended route,
I make a right turn through Belgravia.
Treading heavily, I work my way through Embassy Land.
I stumble across Sloane Street
to Cromwell Road and the V&A Museum.
Thus, at last, weary and definitely plodding now,
my failing feet drag my exhausted body
back to Gloucester Road, to relaxation and
the sought after assuagement of the aches in my trembling limbs
I leave, with joyous expectation, from Lots Road
to retrace one of my favourite London walks.
Stepping out brightly along the Kings Road
to the World’s End,
I soon move sprightly into Cheyne Walk.
I trip blithely along the Embankment to Albert Bridge,
from where I head purposefully along Royal Hospital Road.
Onwards then, slowing somewhat, to Chelsea Bridge Road,
thence to amble into Sloane Square,
from where I cross, a little hesitantly, to Brompton Road.
Soon I’m trying, unsuccessfully, to pick up the pace into Fulham Broadway.
I cautiously stretch my legs past Stamford Bridge Football Ground.
Aching a little now, and wavering somewhat,
I head along the North End Road.
Eventually I stumble haltingly into Fulham Palace Road.
Bearing south, with a definite degree of stress now,
I continue to where, near Putney Bridge,
I take a left into the New Kings Road.
Gasping feverishly, I trudge past Parsons Green
until, breathing intemperately,
and desperate for liquid sustenance and my chaise longue,
I return, my curiosity both battered and sated,
but with undisguised relief, to Lots Road.
Ralph Roister Doister was a bit of a wenching lad
Lived in Tudor London with his dear old dad
Braggart soldier, doomed to fail, upstart braggart and a cad.
His story, our first comedy,
Nick Udall gave it birth;
Joyfully pleasing London folk
With merry quips and mirth.
Mumblecrust and Talkapace
Featured in this play
Raucous, Fun and fluffy –
‘Twas the sixteenth century way.
See the Wikipedia entry for more on Ralph Roister Doister
Ralph Roister Doister is a sixteenth-century play by Nicholas Udall, which was once regarded as the first comedy to be written in the English language.
[ Photo Gallery # 88 }
A few of my photographic memories of a stroll through central London and the City on a beautiful warm summer’s day in 2005.
(Poem No.38 of my favourite short poems)
STEVIE SMITH was born Florence Margaret Smith in Kingston-upon-Hull in 1902. At the age of three she moved with her parents to Palmers Green in North London where she lived until she died in 1971.
She apparently acquired the name “Stevie” as a young woman when she was riding in the park with a friend who said that she reminded him of the jockey Steve Donoghue.
Perhaps her best known poem is ‘Not Waving But Drowning’. She often accompanied her verses with her own drawings. One such poem which I particularly like is very short but with an amusingly descriptive illustration . . .
This Englishwoman is so refined
She has no bosom and no behind.
The dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, London, is an incredible structure, a true work of art in the sense of it being both lovely to look at and requiring incredible precision and workmanship in the design and the construction. Sir Christopher Wren, principal architect, originally produced several different designs for his dome before eventually settling on the one we have today, and of course he used a team of architects, who, through seemingly endless discussion, trial drawings, modelling, and debate, eventually produced this, certainly one of the greatest glories of London. (See photograph below).
From 1710, when the present cathedral was completed, until 1962, St.Paul’s Cathedral was London’s tallest building.
The dome of St.Paul’s is built in 3 sections (see side section view below) …
Stage 1: To the Whispering Gallery; 259 steps. Circles the dome’s interior at 30 metres above the floor of the cathedral transept.
Stage 2: Further up to the Stone Gallery; another 119 steps at 53.4 metres above the ground.
Stage 3: To the Golden Gallery, reducing in size as we get higher . This runs around the highest point of the outer dome. It is 85.4 metres (280 ft) from the cathedral floor below and there are another 150 steps to climb to reach it.
That is a total of 528 steps in all!
Having made the journey to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral only once in my lifetime, and having also once climbed to the top of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, which claims to have the tallest dome in the world, I found it interesting to make some comparisons between these two domed buildings.
St.Peter’s, Rome, has a height of 448 feet (or 136.5 metres) to the top of its cross. It has 551 steps from the floor of the cathedral to the top of the dome
St Paul’s, London, is 365 feet (or 111 metres); It has 528 steps from the ground floor to the top of its dome.
We all do it
We pass on pain
From one generation
To the next
It is essential to
our rite of passage
to our parents
to our offspring
Leaving Larkin alone
Although I can see
Where he’s coming from
My mam and dad
Loom large in my life
Even so long
After leaving it
They must have been lonely
Lovers of their son
Left so soon
Longing for London’s
And a renewal
Of lost love
With some bitterness
I recognise my
Through it all
Dedication to me
And to mine
How could I
Have acted differently
They set me up for this
Their ambitions for me
To their own detriment
I find myself
With an intensity
More every day
Refutation of their need
For my love
I’d not been
The only one
The only child
If I’d not deserted
That early home
That cradle of my mind
Those roots of my soul
Now so full of meaning
To the man I have become
But when the conflict
Presented itself to me
I was by then
As happens to them
Take the rear seat
I had to go
That tethering by love
More dutiful sons
And pressed into
Of a life
Perhaps it must be so
For don’t we all do it
Think of those others
Leaving behind their roots
For pastures new
Able to look only onwards
From those who loved them
But would do nothing
But encourage their ambitions
Showed how to escape
Walter and Lilian
To cull their histories
With his animal instincts
Needing to roam free
Left William and Edith
For an itinerant life
Soon found California
To his calling
Kenneth and Laura
None of their skills
To change the world
But my history
Tykes of a sort
And of an age
Searching for soul
In pastures new
Neglectful of commitment
To our own past
Of our independent futures
It was ever thus
All took Larkin
At his word
Got out –
As early as they could
That two of them
Even followed Larkin’s advice
The essence of
Of his own birthright
With Sidney and Eva
For giving him birth
Leaving Larkin alone
Our legacies may prove
Our sense in cutting
The ties that bind
Perhaps the world is
A better place.
May not think the same
But what are parents
The future’s hope
Philip Larkin’s poem, ‘This Be The Verse’ was written around April 1971, first published in the August 1971 issue of ‘New Humanist’, and appeared in the 1974 collection ‘High Windows’ (Pub. Faber & Faber, 1974). A copy of the poem can be read on the Poetry Foundation website at: ‘This Be The Verse’
In all that bright and glorious sunshine,
Amongst those trees, those parks, those sculptural delights,
Hidden below that Impressive skyline,
Beneath and among those imposing sights,
Is as much deprivation still concealed
As that which was to Blake revealed?
( Pen and Wash drawing and the accompanying verse above are by WHB)
Late autumn evening
treading wet leaves
on the broad embankment
beside the dark river;
and the pavement spotted
dark pools between
those balustrade sentries
the eighty year old
(the country’s very first
electric street lights)
still throwing the trees’ shadows
across the road
to Victoria’s gardens.
Perhaps memory twists my tale;
mike, dave, wally, ray,
with me five of us,
up from the far country
to see the big city
to re-start a life
Interned for a Chelsea month,
then the anticipated incursion,
our first excursion
into the great city
set for new challenges
for the moment
just life in the moment
awaiting a happening
Walking where Victoria walked,
or did she ever really
enjoy her gardens by the river?
walking that promenade,
drinking the sights
eating the sounds
devouring the smells and tastes
soaking up the river
and the beer,
Victoria’s Embankment Gardens.
We didn’t know it then
nor did any of us suspect
it was to be ray’s swan song
sweet Thames run softly
and be his swan song.
Turned up Villiers Street,
Kipling’s and Evelyn’s street,
tumbled into The Trafalgar,
well, rare student prices,
waitress in black and white
the white cap with lace
and black band
the tiny white apron
on black dress
wiping her hands
by rubbing them seductively
on her aproned thighs,
“what can I get you lads?”
… ribaldry …
ray “what time do you finish?”
… her answer
no more than a half-smile;
After the spam fritters
and the glorious knickerbockers
and more small pink hands
on lacy white apron,
ray’s eyes never taken off them
must have done
from a great height
smitten I would say
to his adam’s apple core,
eyes only for a pretty face
and those lacy edges.
across the tables
voices spurted out their verbiage
as those yablochkov candles
expended their light,
more raucous than uncouth.
Then the attempt to close
to dispense with customers
we head for the street
ray stays in his seat
“’bye chaps, I’ll see you.”
… But he never did.
Nor we him.
The Thames Embankment is a work of 19th Century civil engineering which reclaimed marshy land next to the River Thames in central London. It follows the North Bank of the river from Westminster Bridge to Blackfriars Bridge.
The Victoria Embankment Gardens , built also in the latter part of the 19th Century, separate the embankment and the road running alongside from the buildings on the south side of Whitehall, Trafalgar Square and The Strand.
Villiers Street is a short connecting thoroughfare, now mainly pedestrianised, running from the Thames Embankment and Embankment underground Station uphill to the Strand, Charing Cross Mainline Railway Station and Trafalgar Square. It contains many restaurants and eating establishments.
The Trafalgar Café, however, can no longer be found there.
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