I booked my UK train tickets over the Internet from Scotrail, which got me a reduced price from Edinburgh to Durham and Durham to London. I stopped off in Durham to pick up a rental car for a weekend visit to Hadrian's Wall - easier to drive out of Durham than Newcastle, I thought, plus I wanted to visit the cathedral. I rented from Enterprise, which not only had an office in Durham and great rates, but picked me up and dropped me off at the train station. The car, a small, grey Vauxhall hatchback, was indeed the automatic I had requested, but unfortunately designed for someone with short legs and long arms. I was glad I wasn't driving far, especially as I had to think hard about which side of the road to use.
Durhamīs cathedral, planted high above the river Wear next to the castle, was every bit as Norman as I expected (a.k.a. Romanesque, think rounded arches and zigzag carving). I paid homage at the tomb of the Venerable Bede, but felt sorry for St. Cuthbert, whose shrine in the dreary crypt was a poor shadow of the original, which had attracted much wealth and many pilgrims when England was Catholic. Some exciting remnants of past glories remain in the Treasury: 10th century embroideries and 8th century books, for instance. After these, the 21 oak beams that support the roof in the Monks' Dormitory seem quite young, at a mere 600 years.
I drove from the echoes of episcopal power in Durham to the even fainter echoes of imperial power on the windswept hills between Scotland and England. Although the Antonine Wall briefly ran further north, Hadrian's Wall is accepted as the northern border of Roman power. Apparently historians now doubt that it was built to keep out the barbarian Scots (actually Picts back then) and suggest it may have been an expression of Hadrian's power and influence, a form of triumph. Another recent explanation is that, like the Rhine castles I visited last year, it served to control trade and enforce customs duties.
Whatever its true purpose, the wall assuredly defined the edge of the Roman Empire, but imperial comforts could still be found there, despite the weather. Heated bathhouses, for instance, with indoor latrines. Imported glass and pottery. Jewelry. Civilian settlements grew up on the "safe" south side of the forts for the families of soldiers, and for retired soldiers. Auxiliary troops, who manned the wall, became Roman citizens on their discharge (after 25 years), but few moved to Rome. A surprise - the wall was actually build by legionnaires, who were Roman citizens.
Although the classic picture of a Roman soldier has him in kilt and sandals, it seems up north they had the sense and license to wear trousers and boots. While it stayed dry for me, the weather was grey and windy, and I was glad of my rental car and snug B&B (the Brunton Water Mill, run by ex-IBMers who acquired a business along with their retirement home).
The energetic can now walk from coast to coast along the Hadrian's Wall Path National Trail, a mere 84 miles. I settled for a climb up the crags near the Roman Army Museum. Along with the museum I would recommend Chesters Fort, conveniently close to my B&B and sheltered down by the river whose crossing it guarded. Not only does it have substantial remains of the regimental bathhouse, I found it easier to take in the layout of the fort as a whole there than at Housesteads or Vindolanda. (All the forts were build to the same basic plan.)
I headed back to Durham via the Beamish Open Air Museum. With its recreation of an 1825 manor house and a 1913 farm, colliery, village and town street, the museum displays life in Britain at the height of Empire. While mining was hard, dirty and dangerous, the miners were well-paid, and the village houses were comfortable and well-kept, but definitely not in the same class as the town houses, home to bankers and lawyers.
One of the town houses is set up as a dentist's office, a place only the well-off could afford to visit in 1913. Apparently a common 21st birthday present for a woman back then was the removal of all her own teeth and the provision of false ones. A prospective husband might require this to avoid future expense.
A visit to the museum is itself expensive at 14 GBP, but I spent most of a day there, riding the double-decker tram or bus (both in period) from site to site. I even went down the drift mine, where I crouched in the dark at the pit face, profoundly thankful I didn't have to work there.
I had to compress the front end of this trip so I could escape Portugal ahead of the Eurocup soccer tournament, and therefore spent 10 days in London last year instead of this. I cut London to less than 24 hours, but to me any London is better than no London. I stayed in a sliver of a single with a minute bath close to Victoria station, where I found a Pret a Manger for takeaway lunch. I ate a good smoked salmon sandwich in St. James Park among daisies, dandelions and ducks, before strolling across a graceful bridge with Buckingham Palace to my left and the government buildings of Whitehall to my right. Heading into Green Park I discovered that its elaborate entry gates were dedicated to Canada, and showcased the coats of arms of the Canadian provinces. From Green Park I took the tube back to Kings Cross for the British Library and an exhibition of Aurel Stein's finds from the Silk Road in China in the early 1900s. I was particularly interested to see his careful notebooks, recording both his travels and his discoveries. An object lesson!
For my one evening in London I had bought (over the Internet, of course), a ticket for the Royal Ballet. I had also made a reservation for dinner at the Royal Opera House, but this proved a disappointment. The surroundings were not especially memorable, and while the duck confit was excellent and the Viognier good, the pedestrian pork chops were tough. Although convenient, the meal didn't justify the expense, unlike the ballet. I was delighted to finally see Le Spectre de la Rose, but the jet-lagged balletomaine seated next to me had the right idea when he left before Les Noces. However, the auditorium, all red velvet and gold trim, was perfection, as were the dancers.
It was quite a comedown to return to the somewhat seedy environs of Victoria station - I did not feel entirely safe walking back to my hotel at night, but nothing untoward happened. Next day I took a taxi to Waterloo station (avoiding a change of trains on the tube) to catch the Eurostar to Paris. It may have a sleek, drop-nosed engine - think Concorde - it may have its own, glassy new terminals at Waterloo and the Gare du Nord, but I really can't recommend this train. I took it because this is a train trip, but flying is much cheaper, doesn't take much longer, and comes with a better view. First class may be more luxurious, but second class was no different from any other train.
People who ride the Eurostar are apparently not supposed to ride buses. I had to walk out of the posh new terminal building at the Gare du Nord and back into the old one before I found signs for buses. When I did find them they were great - they pointed the way to specific buses rather than to buses in general. On the RATP web site I had found a wonderfully useful color map of the Paris bus routes, and plotted my ride to my hotel ahead of time. I bought a three day pass for the Paris transit system at Waterloo, and made good use of it. I love unlimited day passes, which give you the freedom to ride wherever and whenever you like.
With an eye on expenses I gave Paris three nights, but as in London I stayed busy. Following Rick Steves' advice I stayed on the pedestrian Rue Cler, near the Eiffel Tower. My hotel, the Grand Leveque, was fine, and the Rue Cler had plenty of interesting local shops, but I thought that the area was overpriced and overly touristy. It is convenient mostly for the Tower and the Invalides, both of which I visited my first afternoon.
The Eiffel Tower was mobbed, and expensive, but then the view of Paris it provides is excellent. I find that the tower itself now looks best by night, with lighting originally installed for the Millennium celebrations still sparkling.
At the Invalides you have to buy a ticket for the War Museums as well as Napoleon's tomb. I visited the WWII museum, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, has great deal of information about de Gaulle, a fair amount about the Resistance, and precious little about Vichy and the deportation of French Jews. The point of visiting the Invalides, however, is Napoleon's tomb. The red porphyry casket (it looks brown) sits beneath a golden dome, surrounded by marble statues and a reverential hush. I found the whole setting so over-the-top as to be laughable, although I was careful not to smile while I was there. Napoleon is revered even though he was ultimately a failure - I noted that among the battle honors engraved around his casket is the name of Moscow, a classic case of winning a battle and losing a war. Sure, he was an emperor, but in the mold of Alexander, whose empire barely outlived him. In Napoleon's case, his empire ended before he did. While it's true that he seems to have been a good domestic ruler for the French, almost anything would look good in comparison to the excesses of the Revolution, and the rest of Europe hardly saw him that way.
French imperial ambitions were more successful in Southeast Asia than in Europe, and I spent a day admiring the spoils at the Musee Guimet. Among the extensive Cambodian collection I was surprised to see an intact pediment from exquisite Banteay Srei. The Chinese collection started with Neolithic pots and jade and included two arresting Han horse heads and several items from the Mogoa caves at Dunhuang. I also spent time with three remarkable pieces from Burma, the Moghul drawings in the library rotunda and the Gandhara section (Afghan/Pakistan area). I found free toilets and pricey restaurant in the basement - I walked down Avenue President Wilson to Bertīs Contemporary Cafe instead for cheaper eats with lots of locals. Although I also visited Montmartre and Saint-Germaine (both overrun with tourists) and Notre Dame and the Deportation memorial, the other highlight of my Paris visit wasn't in Paris at all - it was Chartres with its magnificent gothic cathedral and captivating old houses. I went by train (how else?), and was surprised by how quickly Paris and its suburbs were left behind. La France Profonde, deep France, rural France, is so very close to the capital, and Chartres, despite its cathedral and many visitors, is part of it. Between two tours of the cathedral with English expert Malcolm Miller I wandered the streets of the old town, admiring its wood-framed houses and small bridges. The binoculars I bought while camera shopping justified their weight in Chartres, where they made a huge difference in my appreciation of the stained glass. The labyrinth in the floor of the nave, as old as the present 13th century building, was covered with chairs - I discovered that I should have visited on a Friday to be able to walk it, but on the Friday I was scheduled to take a TGV - Train a Grande Vitesse - south to Bayonne.
Sent from Coimbra, Portugal, 1 June 2004
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