eeks, you and Lazy Woman are the top of the pops right in terms of trip reports. Are you sure they didn't get the cutlery from the church jumble?

I love how the front apartment magically materialized after you gave them a list of repairs

More,please. Very entertaining!!

Excellent! Wishing I were there right now...

Virginia: This report is really fun!! I'm waiting IMpatiently for more. Sorry to bug you, but you are such fun, and in my age group!! Hooray.

<b>eeks!</b> What a fun trip so far!

Robert Browning wrote &quot;Oh to be in England, now that April's there...&quot; and that was before Shakespeare's Globe Theater in London started celebrating the bard's birthday, Elizabeth II made her April 21 debut, and the Brits got jealous of The Welsh honoring St. Davy, the Scots honoring St. Andrew, the Irish honoring St. Patrick and poor St. George getting no respect.

So in one glorious five-day period from April 19 through April 23, London threw parties to take care of everything.

The festivities started Saturday in Covent Garden with special performances by buskers honoring George.

On Sunday, the fun moved across the river to the Globe which was open to the public at no charge. In addition to the permanent exhibits members of the theater's company engaged spectators in theater games -- learn to remove your hat and bow like a gentleman; practice dying like a tragic hero -- and invited visitors to mount the stage and recite their favorite speeches or just step up and take a bow. I have now made my debut on the British stage and I have the photo to prove it. It was heartening to see so many young people taking up the challenge. It was a great way to say Happy Birthday to old Bill.
Getting to the Globe was a bit of a challenge, since London Transport had shut down both the Circle and District lines for weekend maintenance. But a quick check of the map showed that taking the Picadilly to Holborn, then switching to the Central line to St. Paul's, would get us close enough.

The Monday was the Queen's real birthday, Although the official celebration is not until June -- better weather, you know -- the King's Artillery heads to Hyde Park with half a dozen cannons, teams of horses, and much pomp and circumstance to fire a 41 gun salute. The Queen does not attend this ceremony and neither do too many other folk. Arriving a half-hour early just about guarantees you a front row view. Just remember -- we didn't -- to bring earplugs. Those cannon are loud!

Tuesday, London took a day off so we went to Cambridge to renew our T-shirt collection. Some 20 years ago, we'd spent two summers studying theater literature in a summer graduate program at the University and we love counting it among our alma maters. Each return trip to England must include a visit to the market square, a stop at Wesley House, the college that housed our program, and a walk along the banks of the Cam. We bought overpriced sweat shirts with the Cambridge emblem for ourselves and T-shirts for the grandchildren.

Wednesday, London was celebrating St. George again, this time by moving some of the Borough Market stalls to Trafalgar Square. Along with artisinal cheeses and jams, the party offered tea ladies in period attire, performances by comedians and musicians, and a replica of a compost heap. We ended the day with a concert of British music at Royal Albert Hall. The Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra, Royal Choral Society,soprano Claire Moore, and actor Robert Powell offered Elgar, Walton, Handel, Vaughn Williams, Holst, and stirring speaches and a full house responded by waving St. George's cross flags through several choruses of Rule, Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory.

Our Irish grandfathers were probably whirling in their graves, but we had a wonderful time.

(Coming soon, Wonderful Wales.)

Whoops! I forgot the most important part: With the exception of the Albert Hall concert, all the celebretory programs were -- like the beloved Mr. Humphries of &quot;Are You Being Served&quot; -- free.

&quot;I'm Free!&quot; with that special little prancing walk and lilt in his voice

Lovely, Virginia! Keep it coming, please.

There are many things I like about British trains -- but I wish they'd post the departure track numbers earlier. We'd arrived at Paddington in plenty of time for our 9:45 a.m. departure only to fiddle and fuss -- and visit the military history shelf in the W.H. Smith news stand -- for the better part of an hour. Then we had to hustle three-quarters of the way across the station and what seemed like half way down the track to make it to our reserved seats. Hustle is one of the things we don't do really well any more.
But we had three hours to recover before arriving in Neath for a visit with wonderful friends we met by chance years ago and who have introduced us to Welsh castles, choruses, gardens, and restaurants and this year to their new grandson.
With young Thomas to command our attention, we confined our sightseeing to a day's outing to Hay on Wye and its wonderful book shops. We considered our backs and were abstemious in our purchases, but I couldn't resist &quot;Balderdash and Piffle: English words and their curious origins&quot; at the bargain price of 7GBP. But the real bargains were to be had at the honor bookshop on the grounds of the castle: bookcase after bookcase of books on offer -- just slip 50p through the slot if you take a hard cover; 30p for a paperback.
We noticed multiple copies of &quot;Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell&quot; and wondered if the sellers had gotten any further into the tale than we had.
Our visits to Wales always include a cod and chips dinner at The Old House in Llangynwyd near Maesteg. The Old House was built in 1147 and has seen a few expansions since. In 2001 it was voted the best whisky pub in the UK, but we go for the expertly battered cod and crispy, flavorful chips along with the friendly service, good beers and ales, and modest prices.
Our Sunday afternoon train back to London took 4 1/2 hours on a meandering route that bypassed the repair crews working on the main line.

Next: London's leaking, let's go to Leeds.

Captivating Virginia...I can't wait for the next installment!!

like the beloved Mr. Humphries of &quot;Are You Being Served&quot; -- free.&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Well my friend julian and his friend sandy tell me that the are both happy to vada your bona eeks, home et polone, even with the American riah.

CW - Knows slang.

Why are my pajamas wet?
I don't know, maybe it's because it's been raining and the window was open a bit. You have dry ones.

Why is the bed wet? Under the pajamas?
Bend over to examine the head of the bed where the pajamas had been lodged.

Why is the back of my neck wet?

Because it's raining and ceiling is leaking, directly over the head of his bed and as I bend over to examine the bed, the ceiling is leaking directly on me. And it's 11 at night and there isn't a darn thing we can do about it.

Fortunately, there's an extra bed in the living room. We grab a dry cleaner bag to protect the mattress and place a pot directly under the worst of the leak. We'll worry about things tomorrow.

Management is very apologetic. They've just taken over Oxbridge and they are working to upgrade it. There are workmen on the premises every day -- indeed the entire front of the building is clad is scaffolding. The leak will be repaired. We empty the pot but leave the cleaner's bag in place and replace the pot -- just in case. We go off to do a little shopping, hit the Internet Cafe to check the bank account and see if we have any money left, and return to find the pot empty and the bed dry. But by bedtime, it's raining heavily again, and the pot is filling up.

In the morning, we inform management of the problem and tell them they have two days to complete repairs. We're packing a small case and heading to Leeds.

Once upon a time, many years ago, we rode horses and fought with swords. We haven't ridden or fenced in years, but we retain our interest in arms and armour. The Royal Armouries at Leeds has a wonderful collection and in good weather also offers demonstrations of falconry and horsemanship as well as armed combat. When we arrived in Leeds, it was pouring rain.

We'd booked into the Hilton, a short walk from the railway station if you don't mind schlepping a suitcase down about 60 stairs. We took the long way around. The hotel room was typically small but the bath was semi-luxurious and the beds were comfortable -- and DRY. The carpet, unfortunately, looked as if it had been trodden by shifts of coal miners on their way home. We settled in and let the rain lull us into a nap; we'll save the museum for tomorrow.

The next day dawned sunny and we cab to the museum, which turned out to have even more scaffolding than our apartment building. The main entrance is blocked and we have to wander three quarters of the way around the building to find a way in. We pick up a schedule for the day and learn that the falconrey demostration will take place in the tilt yard in about 45 minutes. Retrace steps to watch skilled handlers fly owls and falcons and explain how they would have been trained and used centuries ago. Then back to the museum to watch a demonstration of two-handed swordsmanship. We're disappointed that photographing is barred. But when we return to the tilt yard, there is no prohibition on photographing the horsemen attacking the quintain or displaying their skill with lances and rings. A final return to the museum to visit a few exhibits not affected by the dust created by the construction and a blitz of the gift shop where we pick up a bag of knights in armour for our youngest grandson, then we summon a cab for our return to the center of town. We check timetables for our return to London at the station, pick up a couple of almond croissants for the next day's breakfast, and head back to the hotel for dinner and another dry night's sleep.

How would we sum up Leeds: We spent probably spent more money than necessary. We didn't really research the city so except for visiting the museum, we spent most of our time at the hotel and ate three overpriced but pleasantly served meals there. If we'd wanted to push ourselves, we could have done Leeds as a day trip from London, taking an early morning train up and getting back home around 10 at night. At this stage, pushing doesn't interest us.

Coming soon: London is dry again.

VirginiaC

You both know how to enjoy yourself doing whatever you please. Well done!

Waiting for London dry again.

Sandy

The sun is shining, the ceiling is not leaking, and we are back in London for the final week of our holiday. Our big plan is to idle, wander, and go where the spirit moves us.

Covent Garden: Buskers are juggling and riding unicycles. A woman is singing soprano and mezzo soprano arias from Puccini, Verdi and Bizet to recorded accompaniment -- classical kareoke, I love it. Peacocks created from imagination and growing plants flank the entrance.
The Jubilee Market is crammed with shoppers and tat. The number of premises for rent in Covent Garden Market itself is dismaying. The centers of the halls, where crafts people once plied their wares, is given over to restaurants. We saw only one living statue.
So we walked down to Embankment Gardens, one of our favorite London parks. The flowering bulbs are a little past their sell-by date but still colorful and the park is crowded with Londoners and visitors. Groups of young people bask in the sun and picnic on the grass. There's an impromptu game of catch, played with a flip-flop. We greet William Fawcett, Arthur Sullivan and Robbie Burns-- or their memorials. We exit the garden at Embankment Underground, and it's still sunny and warm. We walk along the Thames smiling across at the London Eye -- been there, done that -- and admiring the relatively new memorial to the brave men who lost their lives in the Battle of Britain. We check the times for the boats to Greenwich, the souvenir stand at the beginning of Westminster Bridge, and pause to photograph the statue of Bodicea -- or however the politically correct are spelling her name this year. A photo of the statue adorned the frontspiece of the best Brit Lit textbook he found in 32 years of teaching and reproducing it has become a tradition. We take the tube back to the apartment and rest our tired feet.

Taking the boat to Greenwich has become a tradition, too. And for the first time, it's sunny and warm enough to sit on the open deck and watch London. The public address system fails, and the narration stops. No problem, we think we could recite it in our sleep. At Greenwich we trudge up to the University to pay a visit to the chapel and the painted hall. The hall is filled with children learning history and creating their own art projects. Outside, the way to the chapel is blocked. Someone -- perhaps the BBC -- is filming &quot;Little Dorrit.&quot; We are not appropriately dressed for the scene.

Another day's sun takes us to St. James Park. As we walk down from the St. James Underground stop, we overhear a gentleman explaining to a small boy &quot;Every tourist in London is in St. James Park today.&quot; And we know why. The flowers are blooming; the birds are singing; the squirrels are cadging treats from passersby. Children throw bread to overstuffed ducks and geese. A coot scurries back and forth bringing reeds to enlarge the family home. The lines at the icecream kiosk are long, but the Guards Museum is almost empty. The displays of uniforms. arms and other memorabilia honor the proud histories of the Scots, Irish and Welsh guards; a video sold at the entrance details their training for ceremonial duties and covers every aspect of that most touristic ceremony: the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.

Brighton or Leeds Castle, Brighton or Leeds Castle? We've been to Brighton; we love it. Fodorites tend to pooh-pooh Leeds Castle. But what the heck? We should be open to new experiences.
As castles go, Leeds would make an excellent, overpriced bed and breakfast. As grounds go, it's wonderful. Beautiful gardens, loads of birds -- will the peacock please move from the top of the gate so we can continue down the path? No he'd rather go for a ride -- and the view of the castle serenely rising from its island in the lake is worth the train ride from London, the shuttle ride from Bearsted Station, and the 12.50GBP -- for old folks -- admission price.

You shouldn't leap to assumptions about the &quot;correct&quot; spelling of the murderous queen of the Iceni.

A few years ago I was harrumphing about this apparently new fad of calling her Boudicca. Among those at the table was a friend's daughter - then reading Classics, and clearly paying more attention to the texts than I had at her age.

She gently &quot;reminded&quot; me that Cassius Dio spelt her Boudouica and that there's some debate about how Tacitus spelt her, since two different spellings occur in the manuscripts. But, she &quot;reminded&quot; me, the Oxford edition of Tacitus has always used Boudicca. Simpering cow knew damn well I never bothered reading that bit, and was hearing all this for the first time - but she's right. My copy of Tacitus' Annals (first printed 1906) does indeed describe the doings of 'Boudicca'

Boadicea isn't the Latin or anything else: it's a relatively recent English invention. All the evidence is that everyone at her time and for the century after, whether in Latin, Greek or some Celtic language, called her Boudicca.

This is my idea of a trip report.
So erudite (except for one or two of the replies), so charming, so appealing in every way.
Thank you, Virginia.

relish later.

It's our last full day in London. All but one of the suitcases is packed. How shall we spend this gloriously sunny day?
We decide to pop into St. Mary Abbots in Kensington, a gothic revival church that has charmed us with its welcoming staff and quiet church yard. But today is beautiful and the churchyard is packed with the students from St. Mary Abbots grammar school. This is the school Tory leader David Cameron has chosen for his young daughter. It's easy to see why he'd want his little girl to join these fresh faced children, boys in navy trousers and white shirts, girls in a charming array of blue and white checked dresses. We leave the children and their teachers to their games and giggles and walk over to Kensington Gardens.
The swans float serenely on the Round Pond, except when they get into unseemly swanly squabbles. Visitors crowd the benches or recline on the lawns. Families picnic.
Suddenly there's a flurry of activity. Two young men are squabbling, too, and a policeman is trying to break it up. The young men turn on the officer. More police arrive. The young men are subdued, loaded into a police wagon and removed. Serenity returns.
We wander through the gardens to the gate at Gloucester Road and head back to the apartment, stopping at Sainsbury's to gather up some soda farls to tuck into our suitcase. They'll survive till we get home, then be frozen to provide a treat and a memory.
Supper is cobbled together from the leftovers in the refrigerator. a couple of eggs become egg mayonnaise, the bit of chicken morphs into a salad, there will be Wheatabix and milk enough for breakfast.
We watch one last night of mediocre British television and head for our blissfully dry beds. We have seen no rain at all this week.
Morning brings last minute packing and cleanup and a car service to Gatwick. We'll spend the night at the Sofitel in Gatwick North Terminal before a 6:30 a.m. check-in for our Delta flight back to JFK.
The Sofitel wake-up call works, we gather our belongings and check out. A bellman scoots over to the terminal and brings us a couple of luggage trolleys to ease our journey to the check-in desk. Our business class tickets allow us to breakfast in Delta's lounge before the flight and then we're on the way.
The car service is waiting in New York. We cross the Triboro, then the GW Bridge into New Jersey. We are stuck in a traffic jam. We see the lights of police cars ahead of us. Outside our window is a shopping mall.
We know we're home.