Chapter 12

New Year’s Day offers a grand parade, and we saw most of it from Piccadilly, windblown in front of the Ritz Hotel and the Royal Academy. About half the parade was American high school marching bands with uniformed color guards and majorettes, sprinkled with a few American or state flags:  Florida, Wisconsin, Virginia, Nevada—swirling one after another. (Was there a band from every state?) Brass instruments gleamed as daring kids high-stepped past us in nippy weather: pony tails and big smiles so distinguish them as uniquely American! American dentistry and orthodontia on display! What a wonderful fun way to fill hotels here, when a million Brits seek holiday sun and/or family while  fleeing the cold, and business lulls! Many aunties and siblings  in crowded streets bundled up against raw winds; I think wool scarves were invented for this weather.

A friend visited with her Virginia choir, so I attended St. Paul’s for their sung service, then met their comfy coach at Victoria Embankment Gardens and rode to Canterbury with a guide. We passed Tower Bridge, built in 1894 next to Tower Prison. The huge drawbridge opens in just one and a half minutes. (Many Americans mistake this for “London Bridge”of the song--long ago sold and relocated to Arizona!) 

England’s “Millennium Dome” across the river, largest anywhere, closed January 31 and ended as a national millenium embarrassment. The White Elephant has an uncertain future—and really is white, with slanted poles poking skyward through it, like a huge circus big top or pincushion. Still for sale, it lured 6, but not the expected 12 million miillenium  visitors. Bills needed paying. High visitor prices at year's end  were greatly reduced, and souvenir items likewise. But prior industrial tenants in the east end had contaminated the ground so badly that, although a foot of earth was removed to build the Dome, it’s deemed safe only for occasional visits. To build housing or safe daily workplaces, three feet of earth need removal. 

Finally in Canterbury, we learned that St.Thomas wasn’t ordained, but King Henry II wanted his election by the monks after the old archbishop died. The monks didn’t like Thomas, Henry's friend and chancellor, but the king  made him a priest, bishop, and archbishop. He was the king’s man -- until he became the Pope’s. Henry, in Normandy, (England ruled half of France then) was too late to stop his eager knights after his exasperated utterances of wishing to be rid of Thomas; they were already crossing the channel bent on murder of the stubborn Archbishop. It was sacrilege to bring a naked sword to church, but one swift blow removed the top of the martyr’s head. Another attacker lost the tip of his sword, later placed in an altar. Thomas was a big man, perhaps 6’4; he was found to wear a scratchy hairshirt under his monk’s habit and 3 sheepskin coats. The gory history was told by a surviving monk witness. Miracles began soon after, and Thomas à Becket was canonized in 1173. Pilgrims still come.

The cathedral has an enormous crypt (1096) below the restored Perpendicular-style nave with Romanesque and early Gothic stained glass windows. Dogtooth designs cut on some pillars are stylistic remnants from Sicily’s Arabic culture. The church suffered two major fires and rebuilding in various styles, and Cromwell’s horses were once stationed in the nave. Precious stained glass pictures of Christ’s ancestors were deemed popish and smashed. Bombs in 1942 were Germany’s answer to Cologne’s bombing; today the magnificent cathedral still awes visitors and holds liturgical rituals with historic ghosts. 

There was once an infirmary, school, and a library that produced famous illuminated manuscripts. Back-robed Benedictine monks prayed: unlike some orders, they did no manual labor, but prayed 7 or 8 times a day. Their cloister offers a beautiful stroll to visitors. In a refectory, silent monks ate simple meals as chapters of Benedict’s rule or the Bible were read. It's ninety feet long, with stained glass windows. You will find no bones or relics of Thomas: Henry VIII had them torn from their crypt shrine 350 years after Henry II’s murder plans, and relics removed, when he plundered churches in the 1530’s. Thomas Becket’s bones were burnt and his ashes scattered. An egg-sized ruby went missing, but 26 carts of jewels, gold, and silver thanksgiving offerings were transferred to the king. Some of the 50 monks were pensioned, and others stayed to run the cathedral, their successors in place today. The crypt holds tombs of the Black Prince and Henry IV. There is also a Huguenot chapel, still used on Sundays by descendants of French Protestants, who preferred to emigrate rather than face burning at the stake by Catholics. French schoolchildren come for day trips to practice their English, and the souvenir shops keep busy.

In the late 1300’s, due to miracles, Canterbury was visited by more pilgrims than any other site in England. One way to pass time on the lengthy pilgrim journey—four days travel from London--was to tell stories, and Geoffrey Chaucer wrote those in English, not Latin. He died in 1400, an ambassador, MP from Kent, soldier, clerk, son of a wine merchant and brother-in-law to the Black Prince. A museum has animatronic figures from those tales. The Wife of Bath, married five times, was clearly debauched: in those days, one knew that instantly by a telltale gap between her front teeth. Nearby the Knight rode with his squire. The genteel Prioress used a Chanticleer rooster and hen for her sweet love story. Smells of burning coal and sounds of annoyed complaints (“Bedbugs! Mud!”) fill the air. Birds sang, dawns dawned, and chamberpots nearly emptied overhead, all computer assisted. Time to reread Chaucer!

We also visited a Roman museum; there are many artifacts in the area. Long ago an arena, basilica, forum, baths, and many buildings stood nearby, with terra cotta tile roofs and mosaic floors like those in Italy. Glass, pottery, and building material fill a museum:  mannequins in sandals and rough tunics worked in reconstructed homes and shops. Children can don the museum’s woolen cloaks and reassemble pottery shards, and match seeds and tools to their proper uses.

At 5:30 that afternoon the choir in white surplices over black cassocks sang evensong in the dim cathedral quire where once only monks prayed. Victorian carved pews held needlepoint cushions. Choral harmonies and beautiful enunciation echoed and swelled in the huge space around us, and the organist alternated between thunder and serenity. Several psalms, a Magnificat, responses, and a closing hymn later, we braved wind and rain to the bus: choir members struggled with wildly blowing vestments. Nobody brought wine for the return trip, alas, but we made it anyway, with a bit more commentary from the guide!

The pope visited Canterbury a few years ago, meeting to pray with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who lives in London’s Lambeth Palace. Many beautiful historic vicarages are being sold these days, because C of E churches can’t be assisted by tax monies, yet are expensive to maintain. A recent proposal to lessen VAT on church repairs was vetoed by Brussels, which adds to the irksome list of disagreements in the European Union. Some British citizens wish to pull back from it; these arguments will go on for years. (Note: after Brexit, arguing never ceased.)

Enough of religion! In the vigorous church of Mammon, Mike and I attended a one-day Harrod’s cardholder sale. After-Christmas and June sales are the best ones here; items are seldom discouinted, as in American stores. Card holders get an extra ten percent off regular and sale items. Nordy’s uses real piano players, but Harrod’s uses electric pianos for real music in various parts of the store. Mike and I wandered around and bought a few things, and fought through dense crowds until we came to the exit, when our new duvets for the guest room set off loud bells. This was quickly noted by three uniformed policemen standing behind doorway metal detectors. They were pleasant, but firm! Although we had the receipt, a woman from bedding was finally summoned and we avoided the slammer. Don’t try a five-finger discount! And if you think Harrod’s is merely a store, you are quite wrong. Yet, as of January 1 of this year, all royal crests have been stripped off the front of the building, denoting that no royals use it. The Dodi and Di saga continues, and the Queen shuns the store that once stayed open one evening each year for her private Christmas shopping.

Oatmeal. Porridge. Whatever you call it, to cook it properly, you soak oats, water, and salt overnight before throwing more peat on the fire beneath it. A recent flurry of Letters to the Editor adds that one may continue to add fresh pinches of meal as it boils, to assure a complete gamut of textures. You can cook up a week’s worth if you like, and cut off some for each day. Proper traditional utensils are a birchwood bowl and horn spoon, but that writer adds that his wife prefers him to save his breath to cool his porridge, microwaved these days. Some think that it’s best enhanced by a treakle well:  while seated, you raise a fully charged spoonful of golden syrup as high as possible above the dish, and aim for the exact center. You might miss. Yet another aficionado suggests gilding the lily by adding slices of peach. Up to you! Quaker Oats deserves thanks for not making us cook breakfast for 45 minutes!

Britain’s National Health Service is in the news again, this time not about the doctor who killed nearly 300 patients, usually old ladies. No, it’s dust bunnies the size of real bunnies: of 700 hospitals, 250 received the lowest mark in basic cleanliness. One in three hospitals fail basic hygiene, and 5000 patients die annually from diseases picked up in hospital. Need you ask why I’m having hip surgery in the US? But a friend came back here to have her baby, since private care is excellent. I go to Physical Therapy for my hip, and the Queen pays the bill. I’ve learned to my horror that I’m failing Walking 101! With limited hip flexibility, I thrust my right pelvis forward, lift my heel early, don’t bend my big toe, and drop a shoulder. I noticed none of these things on my own! Quasimodo or Tinkerbell? 

We watched the eclipse of the moon from our cold rooftop. The gleaming gold ball, suspended on a clear night, changed to fuzzy darks at the base, slowly creeping to engulf the entire sphere with peach, pink, and red as the moon rose higher. For a long time, the top arc stayed a clean, icy blue-white. It was easy to feel insignificant and ponder religion and taboos associated with planets. Diana the virgin huntress must have been very pleased with the show; it’s not often she gets to outperform her sun twin, Apollo.

The British Museum is huge. Sutton Hoo treasures were there, from a ship burial in the Dark Ages, found on the east coast of England. Most of the items decayed in the damp wood of the ship, but shields, pots, swords, and a purse cover are there.  KCWC sponsored a tour of the collections that lasted three hours, less about a ten minute coffee break.

A friend and I saw the musical Witches of Eastwick while her husband was in Germany and Mike was in Paris. It’s Updike’s novel, same as the one as used in the US movie, and at one point three women swoop and fly all over our heads in the auditorium of the Royal Drury Lane theater! There is also a spectacular collapse of the town church, with white pillars falling, smoke rising, and lightening flashing. It’s dramatic staging, and at the very back of the auditorium, you can visit vast banks of computers used in the light and sound effects. One of the stars was Luci Arnaz, daughter of America’s I Love Lucy star.

Local stuff: the morning-after pill is dispensed here from the school nurse for kids as young as 11. They will be counseled first; Britain has the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe. Other children got their kicks by climbing into large clothes driers, forcing laundromats to use more closed circuit TV cameras. Britain already has CCTV cameras at apartments, roads, stores, offices, and parks: on a walk on any day, you’re photographed 200 times. The Times reports that it requires a salary of £100,000 to rent even a single bedroom flat in desirable areas of the city. 

Chelsea/Knightsbridge, Kensington, and South Ken require over £106,000 on average. There is concern that British workers are pushed out by foreigners who receive rent assistance from their employers—as we and many acquaintances do. The Navy and University augment Mike’s salary or we could never live here. The London tube, Underground, which will carry over a billion of us (a third of commuters, 90% of all tourists) breaks every 16 minutes, and 1 in 12 escalators is always out of service. Some trains run less frequently now than in 1940. The mayor called in a New York consultant, but fares have risen. A strike is scheduled soon.