Three Zissises in London (Part One: Windsor Castle)

So recently I had a visit from a couple of world travellers to my weeny London flat that increased the number of Zissises in London by 300%: the parentals were coming, and a whirlwind cleaning blitz was in order - I even borrowed a neighbour's vacuum and cleaned the fridge (but not the freezer...got to save something for when the Queen visits). Early on a Friday morning I met them out at Paddington Station (by the bear, no longer on a pedestal, as I remember it, but in the middle of a food court) and introduced them to the joys of tube changes and line closures. Eventually, however, we did make it to Muswell Hill and set about planning the week.

After a visit to Madame Tussaud's the first day (in an effort to keep mum and dad's jet lag at bay) we had a good night's sleep and set off the next morning for Windsor Castle, home of the Royal Family.

Here are Mum (Marion) and Dad (Bill) under the Round Tower of Windsor Castle.The Lady of the House was unfortunately not in residence (holidaying in Scotland) but we nosied around her home anyway. Those familiar with stories of my travels will be surprised by my decision to get a hand-held audio guide (having such bad luck previously - setting off alarms in sacred places, dropping said guide into certain Roman Baths...) but it appears the curse is over! The good people at Windsor got their guide back in working order! Wonders will never cease...

Anyway. Various views of the castle:

Just here you can see that the "Round Tower" isn't exactly round. This is due to trying to keep the tower from falling down into the moat. Possibly also to give the guides something to say.

Here is the moat - never supposed to be a water moat. Apparently the beautiful gardens are enough to stop the invaders - a counter attack can be made from the tower while they admire the roses. Muahaha.

Here are the guards at practice. The machine guns are intimidating. The marching and the fuzzy hats are not. The guy in front's hat is askew. Hee.Fuzzy hats from the rear!
Surprised to learn that there was a fire at the castle in 1992, destroying about 40 million pounds worth of furniture and paintings. The fire was started by a couple of workmen, when a spotlight they were using ignited a curtain (Em. Barrassing.) and it turned out they don't build 'em like they used to for a reason. Restorations were done quite quickly for a total of 36.5 million pounds (bargainous!) and to assist in covering the costs Buckingham Palace was opened to the public for the first time ever (talk about your silver linings). Interesting stories came out of the fire of people, including Prince Andrew apparently launching into some rooms with a knife, cutting the paintings out of their frames in an attempt to rescue some of the world's most priceless artwork. (Also the Queen's Surveyor of Pictures is called Christopher Lloyd. Great Scott! This is him:

No. Not really.)

Moving on. You've never seen so much gold, I'm telling you. It's amazing. There are walls and walls of paintings by everyone from Holbein to Da Vinci, a ceiling decorated with the coats of arms of each and every member of the Order of the Garter, Henry the 8th's suit of armour (here the audio guide suggested we go around to take a sideways view - a bit harsh, but you can't deny that he was a bit anorexically challenged) and a statue made of Queen Elizabeth II to mark the opening of Parliament House, Canberra (WOO! CANBERRA!).

I must say, I said a little prayer for the cleaning staff for attempts to keep the dust off each and every decorative vase, cabinet, piano and mirror. They deserve some kind of medal. (I'm not kidding. Do you know how much dust my weeny flat accumulates? I don't even have any pianos!)

Afterwards, for those who just weren't impressed with the big stuff, there's Queen Mary's Doll's House. I know what you're thinking - how impressive can a doll's house be? I'll tell you. It's a castle whose rooms you can see inside. And it all works. The cars run on tiny petrol engines, fuelled from tiny petrol pumps. There is real, drinkable wine in the tiny bottles in the cellar, in which are also stored tiny real potted preserves. The lights work. The plumbing works. The tiny electric VACUUM works. There are chamber pots under the beds. There are tiny real gold forks and knives laid out on the dining table and real, miniature portraits, painted by the original artists, hanging on the walls. The tiny books have real writing in them. It. Is. AWESOME.

Unfortunately it's also stored in a dark room and under glass for its own protection, so there are no photos to share here.

Here's mum telling me that you're not allowed to take photos inside. Just past her is the grand staircase, which we are told Queen Victoria always met her guests at the top of, because she didn't think it was right, after her husband Albert died, to walk up stairs in the presence of other men. I'm not altogether clear on her reasoning, unless it was so that no one had the opportunity of glimpsing the Royal Behind. Mum suspects it's more about being on the arm of another man. Potato, potahto.

After that it was all about contending with photographers - tourists - who didn't seem to graspthe fact that other people were also trying to get photos, and thought nothing of running repeatedly in front of the palace guards just as you pressed the button. Sigh.

That evening we dragged our (quite sore) feet down to the Southbank...

...for a great dinner at a restaurant just beside the Tower Bridge. Here's our view.

As night fell, some trial and error with the camera's night settings followed (blurring alert):

A quick trip to Coventry

So ages ago I went to visit an old friend of mine in Coventry - we worked at OPC together before she moved to Germany and then England. Fantastic to catch up with her and her lovely family. They showed me around Coventry (probably once a really lovely spot, before the bombings, but now apparently the murder capital of Europe! Hurrah!)

So. A bit of history. Originally a twin city of Stalingrad, it went on to become the twin city of 27 or so other cities (including Parkes, NSW - WOO! AUSTRALIA). Faithless hussy. Coventry is also (in a somewhat related note) the place where Lady Godiva strutted her stuff down the high street on her infamous laundry day, and where Tom Peeped (this for those who don't know, came from the fact that when Godiva came riding nekkid through the town everyone looked away [allegedly] except for Tom, who was subsequently "struck blind". That'll teach him. Still, a fairly formiddable girl whose Bits can render another human being sightless). Still, it's a warning to us all. And I studiously kept alert for any nekkid people on horseback so I could shield my eyes. Alas, none came.

Coventry is also the origin of the phrase "to send someone to Coventry", which basically means to shun someone and not speak to them or acknowledge their existence. Harsh, man. Harsh.

Fairly heavily bombed during World War 2, the once beautiful cathedral's ruins are still there, and my friend Ilona's daughter, Mai, had great fun climbing over them.

Failing to get mugged in the city we ventured out into the greenery that is the Midlands, taking off for a walk along the canals. On the way we found about a zillion of these signs: Which seem inordinately rude. Especially if there was anyone named Marina in the village.

But here's the canal.

Dad's gotta do what a dad's gotta do.

We ate lots, Mai and I were hushed in a local pub for making too much noise, and then, sadly, it was off home again to London. Byeee!

The Road Home (Part 6)

Last day on the farm. I made the most of a sunny morning by going for a walk around the fields. Here's the farm in sunlight:

Wandered down to find this pretty little meadow - some serious frolicking ensued. After that it was time to head off, this time via a different route and the hope that it would at some point lead to familiar roads. Turns out to have been a bit of a winner, because rounding one of the steep corners of the fells I was confronted with this sight:What the...there's another one!!Further on down the fell I found the source of all this: a section of road either side of which was full to bursting with caravans, hacks, ponies, kids with rat tails and what I assumed were gypsies. Naturally I had to get out and say hello to the ponies.

Especially this one, who was rocking a funky looking 'do.

My Little Punk Rocker.

All this was presided over by police who were, by their own admission, less than speedy.

Get it? GET IT?

Moving on, back to the head of the Kirkstone Pass, stopping at the inn/pub at the top, which must do a heck of a lot of business. Looking out the window I could see people climbing the rocky mountains around us, and this sight.

I still don't know what the heck that is.

Anyway, thus endeth the holiday, and I'm happy to say that I neither received a speeding ticket (far too scared of the narrow roads to even approach the speed limit) nor a scratch (none that the hire car people noticed, anyway), and made it back to London in one piece.

I did, however, stop traffic at one point to grab this photo. Couldn't resist.