Our four days in London was a military operation centred around our daughter, and all the places we had never been to before and likely never would again. It was planned to the last minute, but I hadn’t anticipated the walking: six miles or so a day. I enjoyed our end of day pints, believe me, even if the pub in Bethnal Green had a mouse gambolling between the pumps and the toasting machine.
Our second adventure was Westminster Abbey, and it was the most dismal day you can imagine, dull and grey, miserable in rain. With 90 minutes to kill before we could get into the Abbey, we found a damp Pret a Manger and stared from the window with our sandwich and coffee.
Before entering the Abbey itself we nipped into the adjoining St Margaret’s Church, because being an unashamed geek, I’d heard Sir Walter Raleigh was buried beneath the Altar. Why he wasn’t buried in the Abbey, I have no idea. Pique on the part of the King who executed him perhaps. Cancelled. At least, though, we had the church to ourselves and with it a great sense of peace.
Westminster Abbey was entirely different, an ornate mausoleum to the great and the good—and the not so good. A shrine to British history, and rich hunting grounds, no doubt, for those who would like to rewrite it.
Unlike St Margarets, it was packed and as we shuffled along I felt very much like the barbarians who sacked Rome might have felt, staring and craning in awe at the richness around us.
At this point, I’d champion the much-maligned iPhone snapper. It is a considerable achievement, choosing your moment and going in for the kill before a shoulder, head or whole body gets into the shot. You’ll notice I failed several times. The point is, of course, is that it allows you the time afterwards to study the tomb, carving, or inscription in more detail. There was no time for reflection amidst so many people. In an ideal world, I’d book a night to myself in Westminster Abbey surrounded by the living dead, and walk around it slowly at dawn, camera at rest. Then again, maybe I'd just stand there and let that great assembly of ghosts pay tribute to me, or in the case of Dickens and Trollope give me some writing tips.
There was the obvious thrill contemplating the tombs of the great Medieval Kings and warriors. I'd spent my childhood fighting the French with Edward III and the Black Prince, spent much of my career teaching students—not to fight the French, that's no longer allowed—but the intricacies and excitement of the Hundred Years War. And now here they were, their tombs at least, along with their bones.
The tombs of Edward III and his son, The Black Prince
It was equally moving to be standing before the tomb of Edward I (though perhaps less so for the Welsh or the Scots). Close by was the tomb of his wife, Eleanor of Castile, one of the great love stories of the C13th.
And the tomb of Henry III
Passing through the Lady Chapel, you are immediately struck by the windows and delicately ornate roof, as well as the 95 Tudor carvings of saints adorning the walls. Such beauty is merited by the presence of 'The Tudors,’ One can, perhaps, imagine the horror of Elizabeth, Mary, Mary Queen of Scots and Margaret Beaufort having their rest disturbed by the gawping of respectful tourists.
Credt BK
Above and below credit BK
Elizabeth I
But now we come to the main nave and High Altar, behind this ornately carved archway
And to end with some curiosities, the tomb of Sir Richard Vere, Elizabethan and Jacobean soldier.
Another soldier Robert Thomas Wilson. Incredible life. Incredible wife (13 children in 15 years)
And finally, Poet’s Corner
By this time my wife was losing patience as you must be, so despite a hundred more photos, I’ll stop before I exhaust myself and you.
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