The Land of Private Footpaths

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Issy's been very tired the last few days. She tells me that my itinerary is wearing her out, and that she's suffering from lack of sleep. I very generously decide to give her the morning off to get some shuteye, while I head out on my own. The sun's peeking through occasionally, but it's still very cool.

I make my way along the river bank to the Tower Bridge Exhibition. I catch a lift up to the top of one of the two main towers, and then wander along an enclosed walkway to the tower on the opposite bank. The walkway has a long full width section of clear glass floor which provides views through to the roadway and river below. I'm glad Issy's still in bed; she hates walking on glass floors. The views along the Thames from up here are excellent.

I stroll past the Tower of London to the Monument. This is a slender round tower built in the late 1600s as a memorial to the Great Fire of London in 1666, and to celebrate the subsequent rebuilding of the city. It's apparently the same height as the distance from where the fire started in nearby Pudding Lane. I climb the narrow spiral staircase to the top. The views are good, but they'd be better if it wasn't enclosed in chicken wire. This also makes it a bit hard to take photos without getting bits of wire in the foreground. I don't think the Monument’s designers were camera buffs.

I try to take a photo down the middle of the staircase spiral. I've done this a few times. I'm not sure why; the photos never look any good. As I lean over my sunglasses fall out of my pocket over the hand-railing without me noticing. I hear something drop and smirk at the careless idiot responsible. A few minutes later I come across my shades perched precariously on a ledge halfway down and come to the unhappy realisation that the careless idiot was me.

A lady at the bottom hands me a certificate commemorating my successful 311 step climb. I wonder how she knows I actually did it. She saw me go in and come out, but I could have done anything in between times. I think that they need a better system to check that people are really deserving of these certificates. I'd be a bit disappointed if someone got one the same as mine and hadn't really made the climb.

I take some pictures of the Monument from its base, but as I walk on I panic. I can't find my sunglasses. I seem to be having a lot of trouble with sunglasses this morning. I assume I must have put them down when I took the pictures, so I rush back. They're not there. I'm just about to ask the lady at the Monument's entrance if any sunglasses have been handed in, when I find them. I'm wearing them. I think that maybe I should have had a coffee before I left the hotel.

Issy's up and looking rested, so we head off into central London and wander slowly down into Trafalgar Square. It's VJ Day, and there's a flyover in progress. There's a strong police presence and a lot of the roads are closed off. Issy overhears a policemen telling someone that the security is for a VJ Day ceremony at the Horseguards Parade, so we head down The Mall towards it. Issy tells me that I need to get a photo of a London Bobby. She says there are a lot of them around today, so this is my big chance. I tell her that I don't want to get arrested. She tells me she doesn't think this is against the law, but I'm not so sure. I sense however that she won't be very happy if I don't try. I pretend to be taking a picture of something else and then at the last minute point the camera at the Bobby when he's not looking. I don't think he saw me. I walk away quickly. Not too quickly, or he might get suspicious. I hope that I haven't just violated some strict British national security law.

We've arranged to meet our friends Mark and Mandy Thorn at the Stafford Hotel. I worked with Mark in Melbourne for about four years before he came back to England a few months ago. The Hotel's proving a bit hard to find. The map we looked at back at the hotel showed multiple pathways leading from Green Park to the street that the Hotel's in, but when we get there they're all signposted as being private, so we can't use them. I wonder why anyone would want to own a pathway that runs between a public park and a public street, and not let anyone else use it. Do they think that commoners might contaminate it with their filthy footwear. Perhaps they think that too much foot traffic will wear out the concrete. London seems to have a bit of a thing about private property. When we were on the bus a couple of days ago we passed some large gardens in squares surrounded by expensive looking houses. The guide told us that the gardens are private; you can only get into them with a key, and you can only get a key if you own one of the fancy houses. I assume that all this private real estate is probably owned by the Earls, Dukes and Lords who collectively own ninety percent of the Kingdom.

We find a way to the Stafford Hotel using streets deemed suitable for use by commoners, and enjoy a traditional English afternoon tea with the Thorns. They've driven four hours from their home in Shrewsbury near Manchester, and are going on to watch England play France in rugby at Twickenham tonight. They're in fine form, and the English weather doesn't appear to have dulled their senses of humour since we last saw them. They've just come back from a short holiday in Italy, and we swap alarmingly similar anecdotes about the failures of GPSs to provide adequate navigation.

We bid the Thorns farewell and head off through Green Park and St James's Park, and back up through Trafalgar Square towards Piccadilly Circus. It's the weekend, and it's not raining, so the crowds are out in force enjoying the entertainment on offer from a good array of street performers. We dine at a Japanese restaurant.

We decide to catch the Underground back to the hotel, and arrive at the platform as a train about to leave. We rush to get on it, at least I think we rush to get on it. The door closes behind me, and I then realise that Issy's still standing on the platform. We try to yell instructions to each other, but neither of us can hear, so we move onto hand signals which it seems neither of us can understand. I panic. Fortunately our minds seem to be in sync and we're reunited at the next station. Disaster averted.

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