London, Part I: Brown Wood, Butchers, and Finding Our Way

It was after 11:00 PM London time when Dave and I staggered into a brightly lit Italian deli, the only place open, to grab some pasta and beer. We had traveled that day from JFK to Heathrow Airport to Farringdon Station, emerged from the station, took a left where we should have gone right, and wandered in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood for 45 minutes dragging our loathsome, far-too-big, suitcases in search of our hotel, The Rookery 1764. 

Ultimately, a kind couple heading into the light, camaraderie, and warmth of a pub responded to my near-teary quest for directions by pulling up a map on their phone and pointing the way. If we’d gone right, not left, out of the station, we would have arrived at The Rookery within minutes.

Sigh. Travel and glitches. Part of the deal.  

While many travelers prefer the familiarity of a Marriott or Sheraton, we seek accommodations with a sense of place, of history. Increasingly, that is hard to find. As antiques and brown wood have fallen out of fashion, historic elements have been carted off in dumpsters to make way for smooth white walls and generic furnishings. 

The owners of The Rookery, however, were drawn to the property and its sister hotels – Hazlitt’s 1718 and Batty Langley’s 1724 – by the wish to preserve them. And when we finally tottered into the Rookery’s front hall, we were embraced by burnished wood paneled walls, subdued lighting, and Persian rugs warming the stone floor. A glimpse into the library with its shelves of old books, oil paintings, and leather armchairs promised a cozy place for reading once we were settled. 

After checking in, Toosh, the receptionist, led us down the hall to the stairway. Oh dear, a stairway. As I mentioned, our bags were monstrous, we were weary… and our room was on the third floor. Toosh was wise to keep that to himself, and he fought valiantly, though in vain, to wrest our bags from our cramped hands. But the climb was worth it, for our room was a haven with a carved wooden bedstead, massive desk-turned armoire, and a pensive portrait over the fireplace mantel.  

Every room at the hotel is named after a real person who once lived in or frequented this neighborhood in Clerkenwell. Ours was dedicated to Sophie Rood who often accompanied her mother, an “ass driver,” to the meat market just down Cowcross Road from The Rookery. 

After dropping off our bags, we headed down Cowcross to find food, hoping the long-ago cows crossing Cowcross Road had suffered no premonitions on their way to the Victorian monolith of the Smithfield Meat Market which loomed before us. 

While changing times and WW II bomb damage ended trade in livestock there, it continues to operate from midnight to 5:00 AM. Although Dave and I were supping on our beer and pasta in advance of the market’s opening, several white-coated, blood-smeared butchers gearing up for their long work night stopped in to grab black tea, rolls, and sandwiches. 

Dave is ever curious and chatted up one guy who was eager to discuss the fine points of his trade. He was proud of his years as an apprentice and bemoaned the unwillingness of some newer to the craft to do the hard work of butchering a whole carcass. 

“So, you do a lot of heavy lifting?” Dave asked. 

“Not like when we’d get the whole cow. We still get whole lambs though…” 

While Dave asked about the weight of whole lambs, I smiled brightly, eyebrows raised, feigning admiration. We gave up meat decades ago, and butchering is not my favorite subject. However, in this setting, I understood Dave’s interest. We were in London to learn something of its long history, and here, within the shadow of the Smithfield Market, men like this – and Sophie Rood’s mother for that matter - had driven and butchered livestock for centuries.    

                                                           *

The Next Day: 

Yawn. Stretch. Ohhh, that was a long day. Cast a snoozy glance at the time…  

No. That can’t be right. THAT CAN‘T BE RIGHT! 

“Dave! Wake up! It’s 11:15!”

“What? No Way! What time are we meeting the Porters?”

“12:15! We have to catch a train to Paddington and then find the restaurant!”

A wild flurry ensues. Faces washed. Teeth brushed. Rumpled clothes dug from suitcases. Dress and dash down three flights of stairs. Skip coffee. Run to Farringdon Station. Which track? Check once, check twice that the train’s bound for Paddington. Which way to exit the station? Ask directions from this person then that one. Hear “I’m not from around here” more than once. Agh.

Finding our way is not our forte. 

By sheer good luck, we spot the restaurant, and Chris and John waving from a table in the window. Incredibly, we’re only five minutes late… but way overdue on our promise to visit the Porters, old friends from years of working and living at Eagle Hill School.  

Tucker and Casey, now in their forties, have long claimed they were raised in a commune. For decades, we denied it. But as we’ve observed their experiences in raising our grandkids, we’ve had to concede; they’re right. 

For fifteen years, we lived on campus, and the Porters were part of our community. We ate meals together in the dining hall with students, colleagues, and their children. When we needed help, there was always a friend willing to babysit, split a schedule, or keep an eye out on the playground. We forged strong friendships, and when the Porters moved to England, we promised we’d visit soon. 

That was ten years ago. 

Despite our lapse, Chris and John took the two-hour ride from their home in Bradninch to meet us. Our reunion was brief but crammed as we caught up on kids, grandkids, and unease over the impending election.

                                                            *

Is everyone here from somewhere else? Are we all helpless and lost without AI, Google, or GPS to find our way? In these uncertain times, is that a metaphor for life? Maybe. Finding places in London proved to be a challenge.

We had three full days and minimal plans; Churchill’s War Rooms was the only absolute on our list. So, we figured a Hop On, Hop Off bus tour would give us an overview and transportation to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. For this trip – our first to London – we were not pushing for a see-it-all touring experience. 

Despite frequent glimpses of the red buses always just ahead, out of reach, and rounding a corner, we couldn’t find a place to buy tickets and … hop on. It had sounded so easy! But, as happened throughout our stay, asking for directions of passersby and shop vendors generally reaped misinformation, if any. We heard, “I’m not from around here” countless times. Or “I’m not sure where that is, but I DO know that Trafalgar Square is that way.” The helpful, definitive outstretched arm indicating our supposed destination was invariably incorrect, only discovered after we’d hoofed several blocks.

Ultimately, we flagged down a bus, and the driver graciously allowed us to board, saying he would alert a salesperson to our presence when the bus reached one of the company’s offices. And so it was.

How great to sit and ride! Generally, we avoid public transportation and prefer to walk, but we’d covered some territory already that day, and it was starting to spit rain. Up on the top deck, under a canopy, we chatted with a family from Minnesota while passing the London Eye – a terrifyingly high Ferris wheel - Parliament, and Big Ben. 

But how could we pass the imposing grandeur of Westminster Abbey and not hop off for a visit?

We could not. And although my spirits had soared even to be in the presence of that magnificent edifice, to believe I’d soon be standing near the resting place of my hero Charles Dickens, we were denied entrance. Westminster Abbey was closed for the day. 

What?

Well, closed to tourists. It was about 3:30 and we’d not considered that a cathedral such as this might close. We’d missed the last entry time by minutes and the two police officers – are they still called bobbies? – were neither sympathetic nor polite. One of them indicated a sign listing visiting hours and mumbled something about tourists and their inability to read.

We could read, and we were mad at Westminster Abbey.  

Sigh. Fine. We’d try another day. By then, we decided to do some reconnaissance to locate Churchill’s War Rooms so we wouldn’t be late for our reservation day after tomorrow. 

It was an easy walk, and once we’d established our route, we strolled through St. James Park and were charmed to chance upon the Bird Keepers Cottage on Duck Island. Framed by trailing sun-lit willows, the cottage seemed a vision from the Brothers Grimm. As if the cozy stucco building with its mossy shingled roof and encircling gardens were not magical enough, great white birds perched on rocks in front of the cottage, stretching their wings to dry. Pelicans. Since first presented as a gift by a Russian ambassador in 1664, pelicans have graced the park along with moorhens, mallards, coots, and wigeons.