Part One is here.
On August 12th, we went into London. We had to go to King’s Cross Railway Station to pick up the older kids’ Oyster Cards, official photo cards we had ordered ahead of time that allow kids to travel free or at a drastically reduced rate on all the London transport systems. It was an easy application process: upload a photo (I scanned and cropped their passport photos); pay a 5-pound deposit (credited as travel money on the card); and pick up the card two weeks later. Awesome.
So we got ourselves to King’s Cross, got the cards, and then of course had to go to Platform 9 ¾. Some savvy railway management type had put up a plaque and then stuck half a trolley to the bricks underneath. We waited in line for about 10 minutes so that everyone could take a photo with the trolley.
Then we took the underground to the Tower of London. Across the street was a kid-friendly chain restaurant; we went in and had fish and chips all around before going to the Tower. I was dreading the Tower a bit. I knew that it would be crowded no matter when we went; it is THE biggest tourist attraction in London. And I knew that once lunch was over, Anne would be jonesing for a nap, and would be difficult in her frustration.
My fears were completely founded. The Tower is way cool, and way more than a tower, but it WAS packed, and Anne wanted none of it. I sat on a bench with her for more than an hour, distracting her by pointing out the pigeons and other children passing by. Everyone else toured the rooms and sites. I was fine with that.
We did all go to see the Crown Jewels, which are inside a fortress-like structure within the walls of the Tower grounds. The line was at least 45 minutes long, and keeping Anne, Daniel, and Tess from going insane during the wait was quite a feat. But we got through, and the jewels really are spectacular. I’ve always wanted to see them, and it was worth it. The Bloody Tower and Traitors’ Gate were also cool, but after that, we were ready to head back to Twickenham.
Friday the 13th: Patrick’s birthday. After breakfast, I sent him to the grocery store to shop for the weekend (the Twickenham fridge only held enough for about three days’ worth of food for our crowd). Meanwhile, I ran up to the shops in the Twickenham high street to get a few additional presents. Waterstone’s is a chain of bookstores in the UK; it’s very well stocked and always has great deals. I got Patrick three books: the first Steig Larsson book; a Ken Follett WWII thriller; and a mystery set in 19th-century New York. There was a special offer, so I picked up Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors for myself at the same time. Oh, and a comic-style book about the kings and queens of England for Daniel. He loves it; all the kids do, actually.
I also picked up some birthday cards, then went home to get lunch ready before P got home from the store. Once he did, the kids had sandwiches and we sang "Happy Birthday." Our dear friend Carmen, who lives in London, had agreed to come hang out with our kids overnight, so we knew they'd be in excellent hands while we were away. We took our lunch to eat in the car and set off. Patrick had NO idea what we were doing. I LOVE to surprise him.
We drove to Blenheim Palace. It is a marvel; you should go there as soon as possible. Patrick is a huge Winston Churchill fan, and Winnie was born at Blenheim. We took in every detail of a big exhibit about the famous Prime Minister. The gardens were spectacular. We wandered around for hours, blissed out and agog at the beauty.
And here is the cool thing I didn't plan at all. As we toured Blenheim, we learned that Queen Anne had given John Churchill the land and funds to build the palace in gratitude for his victory at the Battle of Blenheim, which was fought on August 13, 1704--260 years to the date before Patrick was born! When the tour guide mentioned the date of the battle, Patrick looked at me in astonishment, positive that I had known this as I planned his birthday trip. I tried to look smug for about five seconds, but then had to cave and admit my ignorance. It was pure serendipity.
We spent far longer at Blenheim than I had predicted, which was totally fine—it was Patrick’s birthday, and I wanted him to be in his element. But it meant that we had to cut out the stop to Hillmorton to visit the grave of his 12th century ancestor, Thomas de Astley (story about that forthcoming). We’ll go back to England several more times over the course of our parenting of young children; we’ll get there eventually. So instead, we drove straight to Charingworth Manor, a 700-year-old estate that is now a fabulous hotel with a very well-regarded restaurant.
Oh. What. Joy. The bleating of the sheep in the neighboring fields; the sweet scents of hay and honeysuckle in the light drizzle. The sun setting over the gentle folds of the Cotswolds; the green and gold and grey.
Our room was marvelous—SO romantic, and SO comfortable. The hotel also has a gorgeous heated indoor pool; we had time for a quick but utterly relaxing swim before dinner. And dinner was divine. The chef, who has won numerous awards, prides himself on using local ingredients as much as possible. P had the scallops, then the lamb. I had the foie gras, then the fillet of Welsh beef—all was exquisitely prepared, including the lovely vegetable accompaniments. We had great conversation by candlelight in a pleasant room with ancient wood beams holding up the ceiling.
The only thing that was a bit jarring was the music. They had a CD of "The Blue Danube" and other Viennese waltzes—totally out of character with the surroundings—and the volume was very slightly too high. If I ran the restaurant, I would carefully choose some English Renaissance instrumentals: nothing too lively, just something soothing for the background. The waltzes kept cracking us up, especially when the waiters would start whistling along on their way back to the kitchen.
Everything on the dessert menu looked fine, but we decided to have the cheese course with petits fours and tea afterward instead. So. Glad. All five cheeses were local, including a Cotswolds Brie that was heavenly creamy and smooth. The petits fours were just the right touch of sweet. We drank our peppermint tea, then retired.
Next morning, we had a delicious breakfast. Patrick had scrambled eggs with smoked salmon: delish. I had Eggs Benedict, perfectly prepared. There are two ways to poach an egg: pan poaching, and boiled water poaching. The latter is the traditional method, and pretty tricky to pull off. When done well, however, the egg is indescribably tender. There was clearly a master chef in the kitchen, because these were the best Eggs Benedict of my life: lovely toasted, buttered crumpet; gorgeous little slice of smoky ham; boiled water poached egg; with velvety hollandaise sauce over all. My mouth is watering all over again as I type.
I do go on about my food, don’t I?
After breakfast, we checked out, took a few photos, and set off for home. We drove through Chipping Campden, which is mind-searingly beautiful. Rows of modest-but-stately houses built of that glorious yellow-gold limestone. It made adorable Cold Spring look like a pig sty.
I had one small detour in mind as we traveled home: a pilgrimage to Down Ampney, the birthplace of my cherished favorite composer, Ralph Vaughan Williams. It was only slightly out of the way; I decided we couldn’t miss it. Down Ampney, it turns out, is a tiny village. Vaughan Williams’s father was the vicar there, presiding over an exquisite 12th century church when Ralph was born in 1872.
Down Ampney did not disappoint. In the back of the church was a small but thorough exhibit on RVW’s life, and the church itself was well worth a wander.
Back home, Carmen was still hanging out with the kids. They had had a splendid time while we were gone. As my old boss at Morgan Stanley used to say, it was a "net-net win-win."