London, Sept. 17

I am so happy to be back in London, and I’ve been walking around chuckling and smiling like the village idiot — it’s just so great to be back in the World’s Most Wonderful City! There is an energy and a vitality to London that I have never experienced elsewhere else, and with warm autumn evenings still making it impossible not to wander around and soak it all in, I’ve put more miles on my shoe leather than I ever do at home.

After checking in to the Charing Cross — for years my favorite hotel, right in the middle of it and a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square — I went for a walk past the National Gallery, up Lower Regent Street and along Jermyn Street to St James’s and Berry Brothers, in search of a bottle of Sassicaia, which I had tried on the ship and been bowled over by. To my astonishment, Berry Bros, who Know All and have everything, didn’t have it! So up to Piccadilly and to Fortnam and Mason, who did have it — at ￡240 — far, far more than I am prepared to pay for any bottle of wine! (Gift certificates will be happily accepted!)

From Fortnam and Mason on back to the hotel – about and hour and a half of walking altogether, something of a record for me after two years of ankle operations. I could feel every step of it by the time I got back, but I simply can’t help walking and looking and walking some more in this glorious city.

At 6:30, William Chapman came around. We had a bottle of Veuve Cliquot to mark the occasion (thanks to Jeff Harris, who had it delivered to me on the ship), and then off to a very good Indian dinner. We said good night outside the hotel, and I headed directly for bed; all the traveling and walking (and let’s be honest, the real English beer!) ganged up on me. William is currently Private Secretary and Chief of Staff to the Lord Mayor of London, and was formerly Appointments Secretary to John Major, Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. We met a lifetime ago in Oxford, through a mutual friend, Robert, with whom I’ll be staying later in the month, in Newcastle.

Sept. 18

I slept 10 hours! A very lazy morning, then a stroll up St Martin’s Lane to my favorite bric-a-brac shop in Cecil Court, where I found a Dolland “Night & Day” telescope. Anyone who has read Patrick O’Brien will recognize John Dollond as the master telescope maker maker who patented the achromatic lense, which reduces color defects, in about 1750. His company still trades under the name Dolland and Aitchison. Quite a find, though this telescope is much later than John himself!

Next to the bric-a-brac shop is Daniel Bexfield’s wonderful silver shop, where I bought a George III salt cellar, to replace one lost when my house was burglarized last summer.

I’ve just had a pub dinner at The Chandos, my favorite pub (this is a week of favorites, after all), in the Opera Room on the second floor (the “first floor” in England, what we call the fist floor is the ground floor here — it always confuses me at first). The Chandos is a few hundred yards from the hotel, across from the National Portrait Gallery and just above Trafalgar Square, alive at this hour with music and crowds enjoying the evening. And now it’s time to climb into bed with a book. Tomorrow to Savile Row!

Sept 19

England has finally made it into the 20th century — maybe even the 21st! — in terms of plumbing! Just a side note, but for anyone who was here not that long ago and can remember enormous bathtubs in hotels, arctic bathroom temps, and toilets with a systern high up the wall, with a chain — this will come as a relief!

I enjoyed the Chandos last night. I wish we had pubs; the good ones have the feel of someone’s well-used home: clean, but humanly clean and nicely worn-in. More lighting than many U.S. bars, generally much quieter — you can usually actually talk, rather than shouting over the noise and straining to hear. Pubs are meant for conversation — that lost art in the American bar — and the feeling you could meet friends and stay for hours. I meet William at the Chandos this evening, and I’ll have a glass of real ale — off the pump — to My Edmonds News readers.

Now about Henry Poole in Savile Row: I ordered a three-piece suit, which should be ready for a try-on when I get back from The North in about ten days. It is a lovely, comfortable shop: you sit at a coffee table on a comfortable, leather-upholstered sofa, are offered a cup of something, and discuss what you have in mind, look at cloth samples and have a very friendly conversation with the gentleman who welcomed you. I admit that I was prepared to be intimidated — but wasn’t. It simply felt like friends talking about the perfect suit.

After the preliminaries, back to a cubicle to be measured: one man with the tape, another taking notes. I never knew you could be measured in so many places or at so many angles, and they even took note that my right shoulder is a fraction lower than the left. I joked that I was surprised that in this day and age they didn’t measure with some sort of laser device, and the answer was, “That wouldn’t be exact enough!” They then took several photos of me, just to be sure they could remember — and the experience was at an end until the first fitting. This suit should last the rest of my life, and be a very great pleasure to wear.

After Henry Poole, I walked down Sackville Street to Henry Sotheran’s, Ltd., an antique book store which always has something fascinating in the window, something always vastly beyond my budget, like a play from the First Quarto of Shakespeare. I had a nice talk with “the man who would know” about 18th century Pacific Exploration, which is a hobby of mine. They didn’t have any relevant books, but they did have a lovely early print of Dance’s portrait of Captain Cook – which I admired but didn’t buy.

Then to the Silver Vaults, in Chancery Lane (taxi, my feet having given out), one of London’s Must See places: deep underground, through several vault doors, and suddenly a warren of over 30 shops selling mostly silver, but also some jewelry and “object of vertu.” The vaults originally opened in 1876 as a set of “self storage” strong rooms where Londoners could store valuables and documents. Since 1953 they have been open in the present form, and are well worth visiting!

I had previously bought some silver at Bryan Douglas’ shop, and send them some pictures of the silver “in action” at Christmas. Since then we’ve been friends, and after last summer’s burglary, this was the place to go to replace some of the stolen items. Bryan himself was there, and welcomed me like an old friend; Vivien was in the Lake District with friends. I got a nice sugar bowl and a small teapot.

By this point is was time for lunch, so I tried a Pret a Manger in Chancery Lane – and had an inexpensive, marvelous, fresh salad and a cup of kiwi fruit, mango and blueberries — the first really healthy, Northwest-style lunch in two weeks. I’d never been in a Pret à Manger before – they’re all over – so note to self: go often! (A notice on the “Pret” napkin: “This napkin is 100% recyclable, but if Pret staff get all serviette-ish and hand you a huge bundle of napkins, which you won’t need or want, please give them the evil eye. Waste not, want not.”)

Tomorrow Ann and Karl arrive. Dinner at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street, and then off to The North. I’ll try to finish this off and email it before we leave, as I’m not at all sure we’ll have Internet in Corbridge. Now to the Chandos to meet William.

“Chi al par di me contenta?” Who could be as happy as I am? Or as my old friend Peter Hale used to say, “One guy shouldn’t have this much fun!”

Sept 20

I slept in after having “dined not wisely but too well” with William, and started the day, as I usually do, with reading My Edmonds News, and today with watching “Ask The Edmonds Cop” with Teresa and Sgt. Hawley. What a great way to keep in touch with home! I hope my house wasn’t washed away in the thunderstorm!

Sept 21

Karl and Ann arrived last night. We had drinks in the hotel bar, then took a cab down the Strand to Fleet Street and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, one of my guilty pleasures because it has the reputation of being a tourist trap. Be that as it may, the present Cheshire Cheese has been on the spot, largely unchanged, sind 1667, though there has been a tavern on the side much longer, and the underground rooms date to the Middle Ages. It’s a rather gloomy place, up a narrow, easy-to-miss passageway: small “coke bottle” windows, dark panelling, well-worn booths and benches, sawdust on the floor; dismal and unsanitary by American standards, but always a delight, with some of the best “pub grub” in London. (I had superlative bangers and mash, and Ann had pheasant).

And there was a new personage at the Cheshire Cheese! This is a two-year old gray parrot, who replaces her predecessor, who died two years ago, age 40. It seems that there has been a parrot named Polly at the Cheshire Cheese since the 1880s, the first known as “the rude parrot of Fleet Street,” who reportedly imitated so many corks popping on Armistice Day 1918 that he passed out. The present incumbent was silent while we were there, with the exception of one loud screech; the waiter said Polly (the inherited ancestral name) is free to fly around the pub after closing, and has a very large cage on each floor.

Time to pack; we catch the noon train from King’s Cross to Newcastle, where we rent a car and drive to Corbridge. Karl will drive – he claims to be able to drive on the left side – Ann and I will cower with shut eyes and crossed fingers.

— By Nathaniel Brown

Edmonds resident Nathaniel Brown taught and coached cross-country running and skiing for 16 years before joining the US Biathlon Team as wax technician, switching to the U.S. Cross-Country team in 1989. He coached at three Olympics and 14 World Championships, edited Nordic Update for nine years and Cross-Country Skier for two. He has written three books on skiing and training. He owned and operated Nordic UltraTune, an international freelance ski tuning service, until retirement six years ago