Yours truly in the roof of King’s College Chapel: there is almost standing room there
Cambridge/Kings College Monday 8 February 2010
Note from Thursday June 29, 2023: when we travelled overseas in February 2010 I kept commentary on our travels on a Netbook running Windows XP. This was wonderful, and I took it everywhere, but sadly, on our return, I lost most of the records. Now JD has found a memory stick with documents and photos, so here goes!
JD and I had a wonderful trip to England and Europe (France, Italy and Sicily) in February 2010. We travelled to Heathrow Airport via Hong Kong with Air New Zealand, and stayed in Camden in an apartment. Our eldest son was due to arrive in London a few days after us.
On the due day, our eldest son’s flight arrived shortly after 7 am. After some texting and phoning we agreed to meet him at Kings Cross/St Pancras. The Underground is very busy, trains are crowded. We wait for the second train to Kings Cross later realizing that we could have walked there. We are to travel to Cambridge with him, hence we have our luggage, and his.
When we meet JF we broach the idea of going to the Royal Academy to see the Van Gogh exhibition. And this we do. When we get there, JF suggests we go to the cloakroom to drop off our bags before queuing for tickets. Then there is a near melt-down. The cloak room refuses to take our bags, they are “oversize”. John suggests that he mind the bags while JD and I see the exhibition. JD is very angry but eventually agrees. Near melt-down #2 eventuates when an official tries to move son JF on. We explain the situation, and the official transforms. “I can see you have a problem, with your disability. Let me get your tickets and we’ll speed things up”, he says. £20 later, we have our tickets, JF is ensconced under two back packs and three suitcases and JD and I join the throngs seeing the exhibition.
Which is truly marvelous. Paintings by Vincent Van Gogh have been sourced from far and wide, several of which we recognize: the MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Phillips Collection (Washington), and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The exhibition has been well laid out with sketches and samples of the master’s letters, clearly written in a neat hand (rather like my late mother’s).
There are several highlights here: a Pieta, a copy of Delacroix; the postie and his wife (holding the cord to the cradle); a still life; a very ferocious cypress, but without the energy and aggression of the sky and fields that so moved me in New York in 2006; a painting from the Phillips collection, the entrance to some public gardens (greeny-blue leaves on palm trees); the frontispiece is Vincent’s own self-portrait.
We buy a catalogue for JF and exit, buying macaroons from the French shop in Piccadilly Arcade (pistachio – with almond; bitter chocolate, and caramel).
Then it’s back to Kings Cross for the train to Cambridge.
We arrive, seeing snow on the way, and get a taxi to King’s College. We go through the gate, and take our baggage to our eldest son’s draughty office (he is a Junior Research Fellow at King’s College). Then it’s back to the dining hall for lunch. We are served from the canteen: beef casserole with rice, mashed potato, red cabbage (yum – with licorice?) and mixed vegetables, including broad beans. There is hot pudding but we opt for fruit salad. There are salads, cold cuts, fresh bread rolls and soup. We are introduced to everyone at the table, including the art professor and Ken Moodie, who has been to New Zealand. He is off to Catania (Catanīa) in March.
After lunch we help ourselves to coffee from the machine, and take it through to the SCR. This room is dominated by portraits of Keynes and Rupert Brooke; there was a photo of Alan Turing on the way to the cloakrooms. The SCR has a range of magazines and newspapers, including the New Yorker, with an article about Salinger. It is insightful and beautifully written, but strangely no one mentions the Sappho epithalamion quotation used in one of his books (“Raise high the roof beam, Carpenters!”).
After a relaxed chat in the SCR we go to the porter’s office for the key. We are in room K206A, with a key to the gate! Cost is £56. We climb various rabbit-warren stairs to reach our room, which has an en suite bathroom with shower. We also turn the heater on. By now it is snowing outside. Snowflakes fall, in random shapes and sizes, just like the paper-weight ornaments we shook as children to watch the white stuff settle. I’m reminded of Benoit Mandelbrot and the beginning of fractal theory, and that every snowflake, like every human being, is unique.
Our room is simple and comfortable, with towels and soap, and a tray for making tea or coffee. There is a window onto a roofed area below, a desk and two armchairs, and some bookshelves.
The only disconcerting thing was the smell from the common room/kitchen/bar areas – a mixture of stale food and perhaps disinfectant, which would be off-putting if this were a hotel. But it isn’t. It resembles an expensive boarding school, or perhaps a private hospital.
Shall we have a look at the chapel now? On the basis of never putting off till tomorrow what you can do today (and again tomorrow, if necessary), we go to the chapel.
How beautiful it is. There is no transept. The ceiling is vaulted, stretching high above us. The stained-glass windows have some extraordinarily vivid reds. I notice, whereas the windows glimpsed at the far end or strongly blue. There is seating, and then you go through a wooden section to reach the choir stalls. The organ is above the wooden separation, although it’s not possible to see where the organist reaches the keyboard.
The choir stalls are a very intimate space, with individual candles, being lit as we pass through. At the far end is the altar. The space is “plain”, the altar simple, with a painting of the Adoration of the Magi behind it. It is as though one is squeezed through into this space of simplicity and sincerity.
Then we view the exhibition, which explains Henry VI, his Christianity, and his inspiration and dedication in founding King’s and Eton. We see the Charter of King’s College and a copy of the King’s Will.
His piety and devotion are well expressed in this space.
Our son is a Fellow, and thus he can take us up the stairs to the roof of King’s College. There is a funny moment when an older lady tells him that only Fellows can get a key to the stairs to the roof; he, of course, exclaims “But I am a Fellow!” Consequently he is given a key to the stairs to the roof, and up we climb. Eventually we reach the roof, and there is almost enough space there to stand up; there is also a wonderful view of Cambridge, and of the river am, although there’s very little protection for anyone brave enough to climb up there. What a treat!
We return to our room, to read and sleep, and await John’s call.
Dinner is at The Alimentum. This has been set up by a sidekick of the two-star Michelin restaurant in Cambridge. It is very good. I have salmon with lentils and beetroot, bream with kohlrabi, and a coffee dessert with chicory, marsala and dates, followed by very good coffee. JF has risotto, although his portion is smaller than my fish. There were delicious bread rolls and butter, as well. We have a bottle of NZ sauvignon blanc – Tin Hut(!). And petit fours with coffee (apple jelly cubes, white chocolate).
We have a lovely time with JF over dinner. It is so good to see him. As it is just after my birthday, this celebration dinner is extra special.
We alight from the taxi and go in through the gate. Wow! We’re inside, and what a contrast. Unfortunately the porter cannot help us with internet access. That will have to wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow:
- The Fitzwilliam
- Barton Rd
- Chapel (again)
- Evensong
- Dinner in Hall
- Plan for Wednesday.
It is very cold here, but we have a beautiful breakfast at King’s College. I must admit, that although it’s enjoyable, as a New Zealander I would find the formality irritating after a while.
JD insists on doing some laundry (it’s complicated!), and we visit the university book store. I always like to visit university book stores.
We visit our son’s apartment in Barton Road, Cambridge. JD’s grandmother used to live in Barton Road, Heretaunga! Then we go to visit the village of Grantchester (scene of the lovely series starring James Norton as an Anglican minister, and his sidekick who’s a police detective). We have tea and scones for afternoon tea, and visit the Rupert Brooke museum. Then it’s back to Cambridge to the wonderful Fitzwilliam Gallery. As it’s about to close, and we want to go to Evensong, it’s a rushed visit. Never mind, we get to see it on our next trip in 2016.
Before dinner in Hall we went to Evensong at King’s College Chapel. What a wonderful experience! Stephen (now Sir Stephen) Cleobury conducts the choir. When we’re introduced to him afterwards, I tell him that our eldest two sons were members of the New Zealand National Youth Choir. He didn’t know that JF was a singer, and told us about a Christchurch mother who dared to criticize his conducting! Actually, I much prefer the new conductor, but it was quite an experience to go to Evensong there.
Afterwards we had dinner, and then went through to a room where we sat at another long beautiful table and passed the decanter tray with port wine, a Bordeaux, and a third (which I forget); the Fellows drank and ate Stilton cheese and walnuts. Unfortunately I felt quite faint, and managed to get to the cloakroom to put my head down. These fellows certainly eat and drink superbly well.
The next day we were off again, to Paris. JD was very upset that we weren’t catching the Eurostar train (it had been closed several days lately for extreme weather); I had booked us a Round-the World trip, and a flight from Heathrow to Paris was part of that journey. Not taking the flight would have invalidated our return journey from Rome via Hong Kong.
JF had booked train tickets for us to London using a discount card granted him by Cambridge University, I think. But on the train a guard got very upset that we were travelling on price-reduced tickets when we shouldn’t be. When we reached London, we should present ourselves to some kind of railway officialdom. Suffice to say we did not, and instead got a train to Heathrow Airport. Once there, you have to know which terminal you’re heading for, and once you get there, the lift has a mind of its own, not allowing you to select a level. It seemed very Orwellian. The airport at Paris was closed, but a wonderful British Airways person managed to get us on a flight later that afternoon. And so we bade farewell to England, and travelled to France.
That’s it for now! Ngā mihi nui.
Classic Barbarian 