Day 3 - Accidents Happen

This morning we slept in until 10:30AM so that everyone could recover from jet lag enough to actually enjoy sightseeing. Though we were all a bit annoyed that this had to happen, it was for the better. No one wanted one of our drivers to fall asleep at the wheel.

I promised to describe The Garden House today, so I will give a brief overview of the house. Through the front door you come to a small foyer and from there enter into the dining room, with windows that open out into the walled garden. There is a bathroom and a huge kitchen with a stone floor off of the dining room. The garden in the back is beautiful, where ivy and roses are profuse. At the top of the stairs is one bedroom (where Mommy and Daddy sleep) and a huge common area with two fold-out couches and a television (four channels). Down the hallway from there is another bathroom and another bedroom (Celeste and I slept here). All in all it is a large and comfortable house.

When all the day’s travel preparations were finished, we drove to Epping. From here (the end of the Central Line) we took the Tube to right outside the National Portrait Gallery. The Gallery was one of Mommy’s few requests and I backed her on it because Paul Scofield personally recommended it to me as one of the finest things to see in London (along with the Tate Gallery and St. Magnus the Martyr). Though Kenny wasn’t too crazy about going to an “art museum”, even he enjoyed looking at all the portraits. To my delight, the very first painting we encountered was the original of a beautiful family portrait of the More family, painted after St. Thomas More’s death. I have always wanted to see it in person.

While Mommy and Daddy went off on their own, I took Kenny, Celeste, and Elizabeth with me, giving them a history lesson as we went along. British history throughout these periods is my particular element, so I was well equipped to give an off-the-cuff tour. We continued through several centuries of portraits – the Tudors, the 17th Century, the 18th Century, and the late 18th and early 19th Century. Also, there was a large collection of etchings and painting of Lord Nelson on display. One favorite painting we unexpectedly came across was a portrait of George Washington, naturally shoved in a corner amidst a slew of other mediocre paintings.

Before we left we hurried through a visiting exhibition called “Shooting Stars”. A fun collection, it was a group of portraits taken of celebrities by one artist. My favorite was one taken of Paul Scofield, though unfortunately I wasn’t able to find a copy of it in the gift shop downstairs. But this exhibition was very crowded, so we left as soon as we could and flew through the gift shop before it closed. (Thankfully we were all allowed inside; there was a rule posted on the door that only ten children were allowed in at any one time.)

From near the Portrait Gallery we took a Tube to the Brompton Oratory, a breathtaking church that Monsignor Hughes highly recommended. Apparently he took a retreat there many years ago. In the middle of central London (a mere few blocks ago from Harrods department store), the Oratory provides a place of escape and recollection for the surviving remnant of Catholicism. The priests still say Mass facing the altar (away from the congregation) at the Oratory and everyone received Holy Communion at the rail.

We went to Sunday Mass, the Feast of the Assumption – our parish feast – at the Brompton Oratory. Though I was fully attentive at Mass, I must admit that my thoughts were with those celebrating at our annual parish picnic back at home. I can see it now: the balloon toss (Fr. Baer moderating), the elderly parishioners congregating for dinner, and Deacon Klco up to his own tricks. Perhaps Fr. Joe would even make an appearance…who knows? I really miss being there.

There is something sublime about attending a Mass where it is said in the traditional way (pre-Vatican II style). The way the priest says the Mass facing the Altar rather than the people is one thing that I really do wish the Catholic Church hadn’t lost. It really gives the whole Mass a different attitude: one of prayer, reverent worship, and sacrifices reminiscent of those of the Jewish priestly order in the Old Testament. Instead of looking at the priest, you feel as though you are participating with the priest in the offering. It is a sorry thing that more people do not appreciate the beauty of the old Mass.

After Mass, we walked to a restaurant we had seen two years ago called the Bunch of Grapes for dinner. Before we went inside, Daddy went ahead to find out if children were welcome. Thankfully they were, because we were all starving. As an interesting note, this particular restaurant dates back to the mid-1700s. Dinner was very good, and the waitress extremely sweet. Meals ordered ranged from traditional fish and chips to chicken wrapped in bacon and a hearty shepherd’s pie.

Dinner being over, we hopped on a double-decker to go to Piccadilly Circus. From Piccadilly we took a walk to Trafalgar Square, one of Lizzy’s requests. The magic of Trafalgar Square at night is difficult to describe. The fountains, the lights, the huge lions, the illuminated Portrait Gallery and the statue of Nelson all combine to make not a sight, but an experience not to be missed.

We stuck around, relaxing, until 11PM when they turned off the lights. Soon enough we found a Tube station at Charing Cross and hopped aboard. Leaving the big city behind, we sped quickly towards my beloved countryside. Quite honestly, I forgot how much I hated the city of London. Even more so that I remember two years ago, the people are incredibly rude. I can’t even count the times that I was pushed, shoved, and trampled in the course of this one day. Not a single person says “Excuse me” or even acknowledges that you exist. Never in my life have I met such rude people as the Londoners.

Though we thought that our day was over and we would soon be home, we were wrong. The adventure was to continue. Not being natives, we were ignorant of the fact that the Tube stops running at 11:45 PM, whether it be at the end of the line or in the middle of the line. Our train stopped at a station in the middle of nowhere, twenty minutes or so from Epping where our car was. Since Mommy has a bum knee, we weren’t going to attempt to walk so a night watchman at the stations helped Daddy find a 24 hour cab service.

The cab only held four, so Daddy and I stayed behind while Mommy, Kenny, and the girls went to get the car and pick us up. Meanwhile, Graham (the watchman) hung around to keep us company and keep an eye on us until our ride arrived. A tall, broad man with short red hair, he said that there had been some muggings in the area, and he didn’t want anything to happen to us. To pass the time we chatted about this and that: about how the Tube works, how heat affects the UK, how Spain is “saturated” with Brits now who treat it as their Florida, and more. The reason that the train shuts down before midnight is because all trains run on a single tracks, so maintenance can only be done at night.

Finally the rest of the family arrived and we piled into the car for the ride home. Graham gave us directions for the ride back to St. Neots and we left. We arrived home at 2AM Monday morning and crashed into bed.