Across the Pond: Day 2
September 6, 2024
It took one good night of sleep to clear the jet lag. I woke up early on the sixth of September, a Friday, refreshed and ready to absorb as much Britishness as I could. I also woke up thinking about umbrellas and raincoats since the day (nay, the week) promised to be a wet one. First things first, however—breakfast. The hotel provided a complimentary buffet, from which I invariably (for the rest of my London stay) chose the chicken sausage, scrambled eggs, yogurt with muesli, some pineapple, and coffee. After breakfast, I walked to the shopping mall in Victoria Station, bought an umbrella (small enough to fit in my purse) and some orange juice for the room. I went back to the room and found to my amazement that the maid was at my room. She emptied the “rubbish,” gave me clean towels, and toilet paper. After taking my medicines, I left the orange juice in the fridge and went down to meet the group. We had a “local guide” that day, plus Natalia. The local guide was Duncan Duff—yes, the actor.1 He narrated the tour as we drove through Belgravia, the City of Westminster, Fleet Street, and the City of London. We drove around the incredible St. Paul’s Cathedral and got to admire the dome from several vantage points. We got off the bus at Westminster Abbey and walked over to Parliament Square.
At that point, I tuned out the guide’s words and just looked all around me, soaking it all in—the Millicent Garrett Fawcett statue, the Nelson Mandela and Gandhi statues. Across the square, there was Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. We went inside the Supreme Court building, which has a cafe, for a snack/coffee/WC break. After that, the bus took us back to the Pimlico area. I was a very inactive listener as we all got off the bus because I wanted to look around and recall as much detail as I could. (I remember vaguely, some ladies asking Duncan about the royal family, and if any one of them actually lived in one of the palaces, either Buckingham or St. James, and he said the most important people living there (one of them, I didn’t catch which palace he was referring to) were Princess Anne and “one of Prince Andrew’s daughters,” he couldn’t recall which one.2 I think the driver parked us on Palace Street near “the Other Palace.” I laughed a little about “the Other Palace” (a modern-looking hotel) across the street at an angle from where the bus parked. Duncan led us down Stafford Palace and through the blue passageway called Buckingham Gate. That makes it sound like something cool, but it’s really just a construction site. When we emerged onto the main road that runs alongside the south side of the palace, whatever it’s called—Buckingham Palace Road—and made our way around the scaffolding, Duncan directed us further along toward the Spur Road/Birdcage Walk junction. He kept going on about the misguided people who had camped out early to get spots right on the iron gates of the palace. Because the changing of the King’s Guard actually starts with the Old Guard formation at St. James’s Palace and there’s a whole tedious ceremony (meetup with the New Guard at Buckingham Palace, the changeover, the band) the real magnificence of the event is in the procession down the Mall, not so much the drills behind the gates. Duncan, therefore, led us to a spot in the park where we would have an unobstructed view of the Household Division band as it marched by. There had been some question that morning as to whether there would be a changing of the guard ceremony at all. They don’t do it if it rains, you see. It’s not because the soldiers don’t like getting wet. It is because of the musical instruments. Lucky for us, the rain let up and the drills were not cancelled. Duncan rattled off a lot of trivia about the Household Division and the various troops, and the insignia worn by each one, and how “changing the guard” is not especially a favorite activity among them. I can believe that, actually. When I was in the navy, I dreaded the call to be part of the color guard. (Color Guard was voluntary, so I never had to do it, but I always cringed at stories from my shipmates about doing Taps at funerals. Some of my shipmates really liked it, but I thought it had to be the most annoying thing ever, the pressure to have the perfect creases in the uniform and stand for hours at a time, and march in formation. No, thank you. I had enough of that in boot camp) That being said, I do appreciate that “changing the guard” is—as is Color Guard—an important public duty with the benefit of promoting the military and taking pride in public service, and I am glad that there are people—and by “people” I mean the troops too, not just the spectators—who enjoy it. The fact that I would find it so annoying only makes me appreciate those who take so much pride in it. As I stood there in St. James Park, watching the band march by, I fully recognized their awesome hard work and precision. I had to admire the beauty, the skill, the discipline, and the pride that goes into them. It might not be my thing, but, from my perspective, that makes it so impressive to behold in those whose “thing” it is.
Duncan took his leave of us after that and it was onwards with Natalia in charge again to Windsor Castle. Of course, in driving again through Knightsbridge on one’s way out of London, Harrods had to be remarked upon (again.) Natalia certainly had much to say about it. Remarking upon its infamous former owner (Mohammed al Fayed) and the current Qatari owner (sorry, I meant it when I said in the previous article that I don’t give a shit about Harrods, and I feel the same way about its ownership) she proceeded to regale us with a description of the “fragrance hall.” This piqued enough “ooo’s” and “ah’s” on the bus (needless to say, not from me) for Natalia to make a spur of the moment shift in the day’s plan. On the return journey, there would be an optional stop at Harrods; thankfully, this was just a pitstop—a drop-off—so those of us who had no interest in garishly over-priced leather suitcases or the perfume hall (choking, no thanks) could get back to the hotel, charge our phones, and do things more suited to our independent inclinations.3
The bus parked behind the Windsor Royal shopping arcade, which is also a train station. We had to walk up some stairs that put us on the pathway that runs along the tracks, through the station, and up in the direction of the castle. We were all very amused to see, amid all the elegant shops and pubs, a Five Guys. Natalia said the Five Guys was put there after President Obama’s visit to England. His predilection of Five Guys being well known, and the British media being so delighted with him, generated a surge in publicity for the fast food chain, and naturally, a Five Guys had to be put in Windsor in anticipation of Obama’s next visit.
We were given a 30-minute break to walk around independently, get something to eat, and/or shop. I walked around the neighborhood of Windsor for a bit. I would have liked to have gone over to Eton, one of the oldest educational institutions in the world, which inspired the general ethos of most New England prep schools, but it would have been too far to walk in the scant amount of free time available to me. (And, to be fair, I felt a bit like an alien intruder in those peaceful residential streets.) A pet store back up at the arcade caught my eye—A Dog’s Life—a beautiful store where I bought a raincoat for my Tucker. After that, I walked around the town a bit, but not too much because I knew there wasn’t much time to get some lunch before I had to meet the group again at the rendezvous point. I had a bowl at Tortilla, which is kind of like Chipotle, took the opportunity to use the WC, and made me way up to the opening of the arcade that faces the turrets of Windsor Castle. This is a spot I had explored on Google Street View many times and now I was there, right there…just a stone’s throw away from the fortress built for William the Conquerer. We walked around the bend and up Castle Hill, past those little stores that get international exposure whenever something big happens—like when, for example, an American TV actress/lifestyle blogger marries a prince—wink wink. There’s a little house by the gates of the castle, the Mary Delany House where, apparently, according to a sign on the wall, the novelist Fanny Burney was a frequent visitor. This little house now serves as the security checkpoint which we had to pass through prior to entering the castle walls. Once in the castle walls, Natalia set us loose to wander through St. George’s Chapel and/or the State Apartments as we liked. The people who work at Windsor Castle are very protective of the historical site in their charge; they aren’t shy about telling you in no uncertain terms, photography is forbidden in all interior spaces. Even if allowed, I doubt I would have taken pictures inside St. George’s Chapel. Inside that sacred space, I immediately felt an inner peace and was grateful for the respite from endemic iPhone addiction. I feel safe to assert that I was very likely the only reader of John van Der Kiste on this tour, and as such, I knew very well who were the personalities buried in the chapel—Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale; King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra; Queen Mary and King George V; Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany. The latter was Queen Victoria’s highly intellectual (and hemophiliac) son who died at the age of 30 before his daughter Alice could ever really get to know him. Princess Alice of Albany led a very long life. Born in 1883, she died in 1981, aged 97, a child in the age of candlelight who lived through two world wars, Beatlemania, and Women’s Liberation. Her memoir is one of my favorite books because it tells that story of an intellectually curious lady who lived from 1883 and for most of the 20th century. Princess Alice was a highly adventurous, independent person. As an old lady, she lived at Kensington Palace (the subject of my next article) and got around London the same way I was now learning to do—on the public transportation. Her funeral was held right there in St. George’s Chapel, but she is buried (not too far away) at the Royal Burial Ground at Frogmore.
It was very moving to see the tombs of ‘the Four’—King George VI, the Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, and Queen Elizabeth II—plus Prince Philip. To me, this is the royal family. These are the royals that I’ve read about since I was a teenager. For me, they were the last royals, and the last of the royal archetype.4 I appreciate the work of King Charles, challenged as he is to hold together the institution. He is a philosopher king with enlightened views. And the institution is bolstered by a lot of special interests dedicated to helping him. His son William will carry the torch, and I respect William too. Of course they are ‘royal’ in title, in name, and in the perception of the world. I just feel that the era of ‘royalty’ (the royal archetype) is really just a ghost of itself. Today we have ‘royals’ who wear suits and ties, and occasionally dress up in the regalia, and sometimes the tiaras and the crowns are brought out to be worn and shown, but mostly the personalities are just doing things like the rest of us—a small bit of gloss over the humdrum of life and the dull politics. Sure, they have to do the photo ops with world leaders and they have the same ceremonial duties that the last royals had, and I think the PR machine behind William and Kate and their children have tried to recapture the old sentiment about ‘the Four.’ On the bus ride back to London, Natalia pointed to a field, not far from the castle, and said, “Over that fence, over there, that’s the house, it’s called Adelaide Cottage, where the Prince and Princess of Wales live,” meaning William with Kate, and implicitly, their children. There was no seeing the house from the highway, of course, but I couldn’t help noticing how Natalia framed the information. “That’s the house where they moved to be closer to their children’s school.” They had been living at Kensington Palace, still be their ‘official’ residence, but really just the ‘office’. Their domestic life is at Adelaide Cottage, almost (but not quite) like the Little Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret surrounded by corgis in the 1930s, also seeming to live the ideal life in a so-called ‘cottage’ near Windsor…and then the war hit and they had to go in hiding in “a house in the country” (Windsor Castle, it was revealed after the war.) Those little princesses, the Last Royals, and Prince Philip, are laid to rest in that wonderful, quiet, unperturbed St. George’s Chapel, where even iPhones must be silenced. It’s not that their descendants (Charles, William, Kate, George, Charlotte, and Louis) aren’t royal too; it’s just that somehow we are past the time of regarding them as such. At the end of the day, we are all just people making the most of what we’ve inherited and trying to go forward as best we can. I think it’s better this way. With people not making such a big deal about Prince William and his family, it leaves them freer to just…be.
There is a gift shop next to the chapel where I bought a couple of items before walking up to the entrance to the State Apartments. Right inside the door I took a picture of myself in front of a window and I took one picture inside the first chamber off the entryway, but right away, a Royal Collection staffer very politely informed me that photography is forbidden in the castle just as it is in the chapel. As I walked through the rooms, I noticed a few people taking pictures. I guess they had not been told, nor did the staffers notice, or maybe they were just better at it than I? All the rooms, even the Waterloo Chamber and St. George’s Hall, felt somehow smaller than they appear on the Royal Collection website (rct.uk). I could feel the intimacy of the place in spite of the grandeur. It’s that feeling you have when you walk through a place that has been so carefully and compassionately preserved, the wood so skilled varnished. As I walked through St. George’s Hall, I tried to fully absorb and recall the passion that Prince Philip put into leading the project to restore the hall after the 1992 fire. The ceiling is truly the most magnificent feature of the room, detailed as it is with the coat of arms of each of the Knights of the Garter. It’s a monument to medieval Englishness. Being there, you can feel how Windsor truly is the fortress of England, defended by the national patron saint, George.
On the bus ride back to the hotel, we dropped off a few of the tour goers in front of Harrods. I tried to form a plan for the rest of the day and the next day. I needed to charge my phone, decide which British historical monument I would visit the following day, and make my reservation for the Louvre on Monday. I decided to do the tour at Kensington Palace on Saturday and then do a walking tour of the St. James area. I also had to pack my suitcase (minus an overnight bag) and leave it at the door; the tour itinerary had arranged for our suitcases to be collected at 7 am Saturday, put on the train to Paris, and put in the hotel rooms to be there waiting for us on Sunday.
Before I close this article in my London-Paris tour series, I want to say some words about my grandmother, the late Louise Coco Schneider. She traveled to London and Paris in 1970 with my grandfather and she too kept a journal of what they did. They left their seven children in the care of her mother, Nana Coco. Louise and Ira, my grandparents, took a cab from the airport to the Hotel Camellia only to discover that the travel agency had moved them to the “London Tourist Hotel,” which my grandmother wrote was “much nicer” anyway. They had dinner at the Blue Boar Pub, walked along the Thames, and strolled around Leicester Square. Another day, they saw Carol Channing perform at the Royal Drury Theatre. After the show, they had a beer at a pub and then “Ira and I went to a delicatessen and bought groceries for sandwiches for [the] room.”
“The people are very friendly,” she wrote. “And so talkative—I love their accent and they talk constantly.” The next day, my grandparents toured Westminster Abbey and attended a mass at Westminster Cathedral. (The Abbey is Anglican, the Cathedral is Catholic.) They went to Buckingham Palace, the Tate Gallery, and the Tower of London. They saw another show and had dinner at a Greek restaurant called the Elysee, at 13 Percy Street. My grandmother wrote that, during the show, they were seated next to a couple who got into an argument, and the lady tossed her wine on the man! Final words from Grandma Louise: “The history here is remarkable, and the English are so patriotic and well informed about their history.”
Duncan did not mention his being an actor to us. I looked it up later because I was curious about his very Scottish name. To meet a “Duncan Duff” from Scotland on my first visit to the British Isles was just too much, and I had to investigate. Just putting his name in google generated an instant “a-ha.” Yep, that’s him. 60 years old, making extra money as a tour guide. Actors have to make livings too; case in point, my friend John Mese. The people on the tour really took to him. I think the ladies were quite charmed by his accent, which reflected his technical training as an actor at the Royal Academy.
I thought maybe he meant St. James Palace because I remembered that Princess Beatrice did live there prior to her marriage. I think St. James is more used by the royals than BP just for the fact that BP is so very public. Even King Charles prefers to stay living at Clarence House, a mansion inside the walls of St. James, because he was so comfortable there when he was heir to the throne.) None of them seems to care much for Kensington Palace either. Prince William and Kate prefer their country homes (in Windsor and Sandringham) and I recall Prince Harry in Spare talking about how annoying his KP quarters were before he upgraded to a two-bedroom cottage in the grounds, his first marital home, Nottingham Cottage. I gathered that his second marital home, Frogmore (another cottage near Windsor) was more pleasing. It’s funny to think that none of those “palatial”/castle-adjacent places are remotely as luxurious as Harry and Meghan’s present-day Montecito, California mansion! Here is a perfect illustration of the stark difference between British and American lifestyles. In America, things are, in general bigger, and there is more abundance, but there is also more waste, in my opinion. Britain is way ahead of us in daily conservation of energy and reduction of the use of plastics.
I realize my disinterest in Harrods, a very British institution in spite of its Middle Eastern ownership, might be offensive, so I will say this: British people are welcome to tell me how disinterested they are in any of the quintessential “American” “institutions,” i.e. NASCAR, the NFL, Baseball Hall of Fame, American Idol, Taylor Swift, or whatever. Granted, as I’m listing these examples of things we might share indifference about, I’m realizing that most of these things were British, or at least European, before they were American: football, baseball, and most reality television originated, after all, on your side of the pond. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have very little interest or patience for most luxury goods, most sports, and massive, excessive consumption of mindless indulgences in general, whether those things be British, American, or Martian.
Caroline Myss considers that the “princess archetype” died with Diana, Princess of Wales. Her whole life epitomized that archetype and nowadays, even though there are people who bear the title, no one lives the archetype the way Diana and princesses before her did. I wrote about Caroline’s book, The Language of Archetypes, here:
