Chapter Two: In Which We Go on a Walkabout. For Nine Hours.

Before we left, Sara decided that she required a new pair of walking shoes for the trip. Sara often makes expensive decisons like this that have no bearing in reality, but in this case she was right. On Wednesday, we went on a nine hour walkabout through London, and her Keens were, well, keen. Get out yer maps and follow along!

The day began with bacon, eggs (poached and scambled), grilled tomatoes, toast, and tea. This would sustain us for the first leg of our journey from the hotel, which is near the British Museum, down Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square. It was an eventful jaunt, giving us a second miraculous sighting in as many days: the Holy Grail.

Classical music fans, take note. This is Saint-Martin-in-the-Fields. No sign of Sir Neville, and no sign of any fields, but still...


The church is right around the corner from Trafalgar Square, with its massive monument to Lord Nelson. This area is right on the flight path to Heathrow, and jets fly past Horatio every minute or so.

Before the statue of Nelson was placed on top of the column (which is 165 feet high), 14 stonemasons held a dinner on the plinth. The crumbs from this meal were probably responsible for the first of the thousands of pigeons that make their home in the square.

The lions that guard the column wait patiently for tourists to clamber over them and give them catnip. There's some good cat butt action in these photos. Can you tell we miss the kitties?

The lions are supposedly made from recycled cannon from the French fleet.

This is one of two huge fountains erected in memory of two British Admirals from the first world war, Beatty and Jellicoe.

After the square, we spent a good couple of hours in the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. The Portrait Gallery was spectacular; it guided you through English political and social history in a very effective way. We especially enjoyed the Tudors. A short jaunt north took us to Pret a Manger for sandwiches, parsnip crisps, and apple juice, and on to a public library:


From there, we headed west along Jermyn Street in Picadilly. This is the land of Bertie Wooster and bespoke shirts.


Also the home of a venerable cheese shop, Paxton and Whitfields, which has been around since 1797 and smells like it. According to Sir Winston Churchill, it is the gentlemen's cheese shop -- but if so, the gentlemen are all pretty dense because they're paying £30 for a set of cheese label plates that we bought in Montreal a few years ago for $10.


It's also where you can find Fortnum and Mason, whose food hall we had to check out for English delicacies.


It was not as over-the-top spectacular as Harrod's (which we have yet to visit), but it did have some verrrry interesting items on sale at bargain prices.

Lucky Charms cereal: £8.95. That's $18.00, people!


Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup: £6.95, or $14.00. Please God, do not let us hear anyone complain about the price of maple syrup ever again.

Unaccountably, we bought nothing at Fortnum and Mason, considering the experience rich enough. We headed up Regent Street, pausing to admire the semi-circular architecture.


Hamleys Toy Shop was a trip down memory lane (and apparently to Australia) for Kelly.

In 1976 she bought a favourite toy there. Now, unfortunately, it just seems like Toys R Us with an English accent.

Leaving Regent Street, we came across one of London's many architectural juxtapositions: Tudor plaster and beam meets Victorian brickwork, classic English pub, and 21st century crane.


Our main path was Carnaby Street, epicentre of the Swinging Sixties and location of the opening scene in the first Austin Powers movie. Historic stuff.


At this point, we were about 7 hours in and required a pint. Shakespeare's Head beckoned. Actually, Shakespeare himself beckoned from the window.


Apparently, the original pub was owned by Bill's distant cousins. We enjoyed a Bombadier Bitter and a Strongbow.


Then we headed home through Soho. After a few too many beers the scene below could turn loutish and rude, but there is something nice about people standing outside a pub enjoying an after-work beer on a warm autumn day.


From there, it was back home to Bloomsbury and a nice Italian meal at Carluccio's -- nothing fancy but very good all the same. The British are very good at Italian -- who'd a-thunk it.