Interestingly: the Victoria Memorial

Buckingham Palace is, well, yes. It is yet another stately building in a city full of stately buildings. Historians and architects alike may despair my plebeian ignorance and lack of appreciation, but apart from watching the guards stomp back and forth in an attempt not to lose their toes to frostbite, there really wasn't much to behold. The Queen wasn't in so it wasn't though we could pop inside for a cuppa either.

Out the front is, however, the Victoria Memorial, which is a very large ornate and ostentatious affair with statues and 'gifts' from various members of the Commonwealth which look surprisingly similar to communist propaganda monuments from the Soviet era. But with lions.

Presiding over all this is an angel of "unclear entitlement" (according to wikipedia) which could be both Peace and Victory. Wiki also claims that the statue is bronze, not the goldiest gold that ever golded, as I assumed.

The Original Bling, a photo by sirtessa on Flickr.

I mean, seriously, look at it. That's bloody gold, that is. No photo manipulation either. The winter sun did its thing.

Anyway, gold or bronze aside, you will agree that it is very, very shiny. And free of bird poop. 

London is obsessed with bird poop. I've never seen so many spikes placed upon surfaces to deter birds from perching. Spikes everywhere. Everywhere! On railings and fences and window sills and ledges and gutters and street lights and statues and signs and EV.ER.EE.WHERE.

This angel of "unclear entitlement" does not possess spikes. Nor does it wear birds or bird poop. 

We can only assume therefore that Her Majesty the Queen has appointed herself a sniper to sit atop the palace roof and take out the little buggers before they even make landing. If you look to the left wing you'll see a set of stairs on the roof, leading to a raised platform. Perfect position to preserve the splendour of Queen Vicky.

This is perhaps not the most illustrious position to hold, but it would be a sure sight better than being one of the guards standing watch by the front doors, with nothing to do but stomp back and forth in an attempt not to have their fleet fall asleep.  I suspect that the Royal Sniper may have had some practice in the gardens, as there are multiple signs about the place requesting that one does not feed the pelicans. One would be quite willing to oblige however one does find that actually, there are are no pelicans. One must make do feeding the swans, geese, ducks and squirrels instead.

I saw a White Horse on a White Hill

The giant chalk figures carved into the slopes of the Salisbury Plain were definitely on my list of Wonders to Behold, and so yesterday my native guide and I set off on a quest to view the Uffington White Horse, along with other neolithic marvels.

Now, as I said, these carvings are chalk, ergo, white.



Heh.

Field Notes of the Wondernaut Inaugural

1. Sir Tessa, first and only member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, roamed directionless through the vaults and cabinets of the British Empire's junk room. The vases and sculptures had never breathed. She sought something should could feel, and trusted her heart, a weary and much battered curl of whimsy, would tell her when she had found it.

2. In the Middle East there can be found colour, and in these carpets, oldest in the world and downtrodden by duty, there was once breath. Sir Tessa is not sure. Her heart is not sure. Both tremble in stillness. Light may come. Light may be certain. She waits.

3. The carpet is exhausted. The light falls upon and is locked in the warp and weft 400 years hungry. The longing is plaintive; give me your dust and footprints, give me the paths you follow in life. Invisible barriers keep the wondernaut from pressing her forehead to the carpet.

4. Colour brilliant and faded. All breathed once. The love of artisans and masters. And yet, Sir Tessa, the first, only and lonesome member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, is moved by none of these exquisite objects. She wonders, standing before the trophies of the Renaissance, if she has lost her hunter's instinct.

5. The wondernaut spins lost through treasures endless, and although she does not know what she is looking for, her heart pauses at the word 'glass'.

6. Glass catches light and throws it playfully. Perception and perspective curve nervous and uncertain. The colours have never breathed, and yet sing with the voice of all colours. Amid beauty transparent Sir Tessa hooks an inquisitive finger and when the tray of broken shards presents itself, there is a glimmer, a quiet unfurling in her heart.

7. Beautiful like breaking glass.

8. Still these objects leave the wondernaut barren.



(She wants a garden of stubborn little herbs and unfriendly flowers. She wants ordinary moths to sit motionless upon the wall. She wants mud on her boots and wind in her ears. She wants to be surprised.)

9. Sir Tessa, first, only and unchallenged member of the Society of Homeless Wondernauts, returns to her berth.

10. And wonders.

Monkeyless Cathedrals

"There's a monkey holding an orange," she said. "It's supposed to represent the Kingdom of Animals. At least, that's what I'm told."

Back and forth and around and around I searched the windows, paintings, carvings and statues of St Barbara in Kutna Hora in the Czech Republic. Others in my group searched with equal diligence. There was no monkey. Biblical scenes, saints, sinners and martyrs aplenty, but no monkey. I was disappointed.

Stepping inside the Salisbury Cathedral a neat little woman in a green sash honed in on me with a smile. "Would you like a leaflet? It's a little map with a suggested route. In-" her smile faltered. "English? Or...something...else?"

I smiled. "English will be fine."

"The monkey, if you can spot it," reads the pamphlet, "resides high up in the South Quire Aisle, poised to hurl a nut at those entering the Vestry."

Up and down the South Quire Aisle marched I, neck painfully bent and eyes straining to make out the gloomy arches above. Biblical scenes, saints, sinners, martyrs and tombs aplenty, but no monkey. I was disappointed.

There are no bears in America.

There are no monkeys in cathedrals.

Other Nutrition

I fell out of a doze and beyond the bus window were fields and slow hills that disappeared into hesitant rain. Green grasses, yellow grasses, lines of vulnerable trees. Fences of wooden beams surrounding barrows. A whole sky. Police tape tangled in a tree's fingers. Winter apples on leafless branches. Crows and pheasants picking at turned dirt. A bemused flock of seagulls sitting among the sheep. Moss and lichen on all walls. School uniforms at the bus stop. The wait staff laughed at my desperation for a cup of tea and beamed at my reaction to lunch. Pedestrians lacking urgency.

New eyes. New breath.

Walking up Milford Street I heard birds.