Pilgrims

A pleasant surprise yestermorn when I explained my mission to my roommates, preparing for their day of sightseeing.

“Yeah, we’ve done most of them.” Clark said. “Hey Mark, we’ve done, what, three quarters of the Monopoly streets?”

I listen with interest. These two youngsters are part of a group who play Monopoly. “We get out the game, have a few beers. It’s all very competitive.”

“High finance,” grins Clark. “Here, we’ve taken photographs.”

He pulls out his digital camera and scrolls through a tourist montage. Changing the Guard, Tower Bridge. And the odd street sign. Oxford Street. The Strand. Whitehall. “Here’s another, no, sorry, it’s just Downing Street.”

Prime Minister Tony Blair has just called a general election, but he takes second place to a board game. Fair enough. Monopoly belongs to the ages, and if Tony Blair is unlikely to be tossed out by the voters on his triple nickel election date, he cannot last for decades.

“Old Kent Road.” I say. “It’s the only one on the south side of the river.”
I show them my map and they point out the streets they have “done”.

“Look, there’s Fenchurch Street!” Mark exclaims. I get the feeling that I am not the only pilgrim in this city.

(no subject)

0330 07 Apr 05
Up early again. The sound of wind or elephants shaking the shrouded scaffolding on the building site opposite is not conducive to slumber. Not for me, anyway. The chap in the bunk above mine is fast asleep. And emitting the most alarming groans and burbles.

Around me there are the noises of wild animals, restless wild animals, and I lie awake. Thinking. Then the bells of St Pauls ring out. Four times I hear that distinctive double knell. Obviously someone hasn’t adjusted the cathedral for daylight saving time.
My room-mate currently snoring his night away came home late last night. But this time I knew what time it was. One in the morning.

“Ah!” I said as he climbed into bed, “That must be the Bunk of England.”

“Huh?”

“You have to get up before you go to sleep,” I explained.

I waited for a guffaw, or even a quite chuckle. Two hours later, I gave up. The noise coming out were not indicating amusement but blissful indifference.

English flags were flying at half mast outside London’s churches for the Pope. Maybe it was just the Roman Catholic churches, but I didn’t think there were that many in London. The news reports that millions of people are crowding Rome for the Papal funeral and providing basic services for them is a logistical nightmare. It is a 24 hour wait to view the body.

Thank goodness the upcoming marriage of Prince Charles isn’t generating the same appeal. I don’t have the capital to myself, but it is not a traffic jam of tourists or pilgrims. They have all flown to Rome.

Evening walks

Towards the end of yesterarvo I was feeling drained. My feet were falling off, the lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with me, and my brain was starting to seize up. “Did you think there might be a link between your sleeplessness and the amount of coffee you are drinking?” Bookczuk asked.

I took a thoughtful pull on my Starbucks.

I walked back past St Pauls – an awesome building and people are just walking by it uncaringly – and gratefully reclined on my bunk, shoes and socks off.

But half past five is too early for sleep. I think back to CoffeeBron’s comment about St Paul’s in the last beam of sunlight, seen from the Tate Modern. Maybe I can catch the same image. And check out the OBCZ at the Stamford Arms, a few minutes walk further on. And there was the possibility of a wild catch under the Millenium Bridge, according to the “Go Hunting” pages on the Bookcrossing site.

So I piled my gear into my tote bag, threw in a few books from the temporary OBCZ beside my bunk and set off. At first I went to the wrong side of St Pauls. Heading north when I should have been going south. On the map it is quite clear, but out in the open and the sun is in the wrong bit of the sky. And going the wrong way.

Blame the sun. Not my idiotic mapreading skills.

Still, it’s another chance to admire Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, and I cut across the cathedral’s steps, lined by tourists and ignored by locals. Down to the Thames I go, and although the steps underneath the shiny footbridge over to the south bank are indeed a superb place to release a book, it is also a good place to catch one and I search in vain.

Out on the bridge I take in the riverscape. Downstream is the Tower Bridge, its bascules rising in unison. The rebuilt Globe Theatre is prominent, an odd contrast against the modern buildings on one side and the beautifully ugly Tate on the other.

And ahead of me, rising over the City, is the dome of St Pauls, airliners and seagulls wheeling above it. A few weak strains of sunlight illuminate the cathedral, but inspiration evades me. I enjoy the ambience of this pleasant outlook anyway.

Tourists and photographers linger, locals walk or jog past. Perhaps I do the same thing when I am home, striding down the grand avenues of Canberra while travellers pause in awe.

Eventually I turn from the river view, taking the walkway down to Southbank. A few pubs offer dining with these spectacular views but I am not keen to eat alone. Instead I keep walking to the Stamford Arms, where my Bookcrossing regalia shields me from pity.

I press through the throng of drinkers, looking for the official bookshelf. Upstairs and down on my mission, until at last I find it tucked away, just as I am about to give it up as a pleasant myth.

A pleasant bookshelf, full of good books ignored by the locals. I look through them, take a couple and leave a couple of my own. Mission accomplished!

Now that I know the way, my trip back over Blackfriars Bridge is speedy, spurred on by the knowledge that a burger and chips has my name on it back at the hostel. And the sight of vandalised telephone boxes hint at a certain lack of decorum amongst the locals after dark.

I am glad of my day of notional rest. I always intended that my first day here would be a chance for me to overcome jet lag before the main task. Perhaps my feet are hurting at the end of the day and I am shaking with fatigue as I settle in my lower bunk and read my book until the words fall apart and slumber claims me, but I have the beginnings of a feeling for this city, an appreciation of the problems I will face in trying to document and photograph my self-imposed task.

Trafalgar Square, at first glance a difficult proposition, provides me with an insight on how best to release a book about Nelson’s navy, when I consider the problem in the predawn watches.

Fleet Street, the Strand… I contemplate their different natures and come up with different release methods. A little thought, a little use of local resources. I think I can do this.